SELECTIONS FROM
SPOON RIVER
ANTHOLOGY
By Edgar Lee
Masters
CAST OF
CHARACTERS
Aner Clute – Rachel Anderson
Barney Hainsfeather – Dan
Zangerl
Chase Henry – Brian Paris
The Circuit Judge –Rodney
Woodworth
Dorcus Gustine – Syndi Eller
Enoch Dunlap – Andrew Thomas
Deacon Taylor – Andrew Thomas
Griffy the Cooper – Bryan
Kieft
Judge Somers – James Dobbs
Mrs. Charles Bliss –
Mrs. George Reece– Jen Weber
Mrs. Sibley –
Nancy Knapp – Brittany Ann
Whalen
Pauline Burnett – Morgan
Thomas
Rev. Lemuel Riley – Chris
Stasheff
Russian Sonia – Rachel
Zoralee
Tom Betty – Eric Ross
Patrick
Ensemble Poems
The Hill
Edith Conant
Aner Clute (Rachel Anderson)
OVER and over they used to ask me,
While buying the wine or the beer,
In
Peoria first, and later in Chicago,
Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived
How
I happened to lead the life,
And
what was the start of it.
Well, I told them a silk dress,
And
a promise of marriage from a rich man--
(It
was Lucius Atherton).
But
that was not really it at all.
Suppose a boy steals an apple
From the tray at the grocery store,
And
they all begin to call him a thief,
The
editor, minister, judge, and all the people--
"A thief," "a thief," "a thief," wherever
he goes
And
he can't get work, and he can't get bread
Without stealing it, why the boy will steal.
It's the way the people regard the theft of the apple
That makes the boy what he is.
Barney Hainsfeather (Dan Zangerl)
IF
the excursion train to Peoria
Had
just been wrecked, I might have escaped with my life--
Certainly I should have escaped this place.
But
as it was burned as well, they mistook me
For
John Allen who was sent to the Hebrew Cemetery
At
Chicago,
And
John for me, so I lie here.
It
was bad enough to run a clothing store in this town,
But
to be buried here--ach!
Chase Henry (Brian Paris)
IN
life I was the town drunkard;
When I died the priest denied me burial
In
holy ground.
The
which redounded to my good fortune.
For
the Protestants bought this lot,
And
buried my body here,
Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas,
And
of his wife Priscilla.
Take note, ye prudent and pious souls,
Of
the cross--currents in life
Which bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame
The Circuit Judge (Rodney Woodworth)
TAKE note, passers-by, of the sharp erosions
Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain--
Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred
Were marking scores against me,
But
to destroy, and not preserve, my memory.
I
in life was the Circuit judge, a maker of notches,
Deciding cases on the points the lawyers scored,
Not
on the right of the matter.
O
wind and rain, leave my head-stone alone
For
worse than the anger of the wronged,
The
curses of the poor,
Was
to lie speechless, yet with vision clear,
Seeing that even Hod Putt, the murderer,
Hanged by my sentence,
Was
innocent in soul compared with me.
Dorcas Gustine (Syndi Eller)
I
WAS not beloved of the villagers,
But
all because I spoke my mind,
And
met those who transgressed against me
With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing
Nor
secret griefs nor grudges.
That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised,
Who
hid the wolf under his cloak,
Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly.
It
is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth
And
fight him openly, even in the street,
Amid dust and howls of pain.
The
tongue may be an unruly member--
But
silence poisons the soul.
Enoch Dunlap (Andrew Thomas)
How
many times, during the twenty years
I
was your leader, friends of Spoon River,
Did
you neglect the convention and caucus,
And
leave the burden on my hands
Of
guarding and saving the people's cause?--
Sometimes because you were ill;
Or
your grandmother was ill;
Or
you drank too much and fell asleep;
Or
else you said: "He is our leader,
All
will be well; he fights for us;
We
have nothing to do but follow."
But
oh, how you cursed me when I fell,
And
cursed me, saying I had betrayed you,
In
leaving the caucus room for a moment,
When the people's enemies, there assembled,
Waited and watched for a chance to destroy
The
Sacred Rights of the People.
You
common rabble! I left the caucus
To
go to the urinal.
Deacon Taylor (Andrew Thomas alternate)
I
BELONGED to the church,
And
to the party of prohibition;
And
the villagers thought I died of eating watermelon.
In
truth I had cirrhosis of the liver,
For
every noon for thirty years,
I
slipped behind the prescription partition
In
Trainor's drug store
And
poured a generous drink
From the bottle marked "Spiritus frumenti."
Griffy the Cooper (Bryan Kieft)
THE
cooper should know about tubs.
But
I learned about life as well,
And
you who loiter around these graves
Think you know life.
You
think your eye sweeps about a wide horizon, perhaps,
In
truth you are only looking around the interior of your tub.
You
cannot lift yourself to its rim
And
see the outer world of things,
And
at the same time see yourself.
You
are submerged in the tub of yourself--
Taboos and rules and appearances,
Are
the staves of your tub.
Break them and dispel the witchcraft
Of
thinking your tub is life
And
that you know life.
Judge Somers (James Dobbs)
How
does it happen, tell me,
That I who was most erudite of lawyers,
Who
knew Blackstone and Coke
Almost by heart, who made the greatest speech
The
court-house ever heard, and wrote
A
brief that won the praise of Justice Breese
How
does it happen, tell me,
That I lie here unmarked, forgotten,
While Chase Henry, the town drunkard,
Has
a marble block, topped by an urn
Wherein Nature, in a mood ironical,
Has
sown a flowering weed?
Mrs. Charles Bliss (TBA)
REVEREND WILEY advised me not to divorce him
For
the sake of the children,
And
Judge Somers advised him the same.
So
we stuck to the end of the path.
But
two of the children thought he was right,
And
two of the children thought I was right.
And
the two who sided with him blamed me,
And
the two who sided with me blamed him,
And
they grieved for the one they sided with.
And
all were torn with the guilt of judging,
And
tortured in soul because they could not admire
Equally him and me.
Now
every gardener knows that plants grown in cellars
Or
under stones are twisted and yellow and weak.
And
no mother would let her baby suck
Diseased milk from her breast.
Yet
preachers and judges advise the raising of souls
Where there is no sunlight, but only twilight,
No
warmth, but only dampness and cold--
Preachers and judges!
Mrs. George Reece (Jen Weber)
To
this generation I would say:
Memorize some bit of verse of truth or beauty.
It
may serve a turn in your life.
My
husband had nothing to do
With the fall of the bank--he was only cashier.
The
wreck was due to the president, Thomas Rhodes,
And
his vain, unscrupulous son.
Yet
my husband was sent to prison,
And
I was left with the children,
To
feed and clothe and school them.
And
I did it, and sent them forth
Into the world all clean and strong,
And
all through the wisdom of Pope, the poet:
"Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
Mrs. Sibley (TBA)
THE
secret of the stars--gravitation.
The
secret of the earth--layers of rock.
The
secret of the soil--to receive seed.
The
secret of the seed--the germ.
The
secret of man--the sower.
The
secret of woman--the soil.
My
secret: Under a mound that you shall never find.
Nancy Knapp (Brittany Ann Whalen)
WELL, don't you see this was the way of it:
We
bought the farm with what he inherited,
And
his brothers and sisters accused him of poisoning
His
fathers mind against the rest of them.
And
we never had any peace with our treasure.
The
murrain took the cattle, and the crops failed.
And
lightning struck the granary.
So
we mortgaged the farm to keep going.
And
he grew silent and was worried all the time.
Then some of the neighbors refused to speak to us,
And
took sides with his brothers and sisters.
And
I had no place to turn, as one may say to himself,
At
an earlier time in life;
"No matter, So and so is my friend, or I can shake this off
With a little trip to Decatur."
Then the dreadfulest smells infested the rooms.
So
I set fire to the beds and the old witch-house
Went up in a roar of flame,
As
I danced in the yard with waving arms,
While he wept like a freezing steer.
Pauline Barrett (Morgan Thomas)
ALMOST the shell of a woman after the surgeon's knife
And
almost a year to creep back into strength,
Till the dawn of our wedding decennial
Found me my seeming self again.
We
walked the forest together,
By
a path of soundless moss and turf.
But
I could not look in your eyes,
And
you could not look in my eyes,
For
such sorrow was ours--the beginning of gray in your hair.
And
I but a shell of myself.
And
what did we talk of?--sky and water,
Anything,
'most, to hide our thoughts.
And
then your gift of wild roses,
Set
on the table to grace our dinner.
Poor heart, how bravely you struggled
To
imagine and live a remembered rapture!
Then my spirit drooped as the night came on,
And
you left me alone in my room for a while,
As
you did when I was a bride, poor heart.
And
I looked in the mirror and something said:
"One should be all dead when one is half-dead--"
Nor
ever mock life, nor ever cheat love."
And
I did it looking there in the mirror--
Dear, have you ever understood?
Rev. Lemuel Wiley (Chris Stasheff)
I
PREACHED four thousand sermons,
I
conducted forty revivals,
And
baptized many converts.
Yet
no deed of mine
Shines brighter in the memory of the world,
And
none is treasured more by me:
Look how I saved the Blisses from divorce,
And
kept the children free from that disgrace,
To
grow up into moral men and women,
Happy themselves, a credit to the village.
Russian Sonia (Rachel Zoralee)
I,
BORN in Weimar
Of
a mother who was French
And
German father, a most learned professor,
Orphaned at fourteen years,
Became a dancer, known as Russian Sonia,
All
up and down the boulevards of Paris,
Mistress betimes of sundry dukes and counts,
And
later of poor artists and of poets.
At
forty years, passe, I sought New York
And
met old Patrick Hummer on the boat,
Red-faced and hale, though turned his sixtieth year,
Returning after having sold a ship-load
Of
cattle in the German city, Hamburg.
He
brought me to Spoon River and we lived here
For
twenty years--they thought that we were married
This oak tree near me is the favorite haunt
Of
blue jays chattering, chattering all the day.
And
why not? for my very dust is laughing
For
thinking of the humorous thing called life.
Tom Beatty (Eric Ross Patrick)
I
WAS a lawyer like Harmon Whitney
Or
Kinsey Keene or Garrison Standard,
For
I tried the rights of property,
Although by lamp-light, for thirty years,
In
that poker room in the opera house.
And
I say to you that Life's a gambler
Head and shoulders above us all.
No
mayor alive can close the house.
And
if you lose, you can squeal as you will;
You'll not get back your money.
He
makes the percentage hard to conquer;
He
stacks the cards to catch your weakness
And
not to meet your strength.
And
he gives you seventy years to play:
For
if you cannot win in seventy
You
cannot win at all.
So,
if you lose, get out of the room--
Get
out of the room when your time is up.
It's mean to sit and fumble the cards
And
curse your losses, leaden-eyed,
Whining to try and try.
The Ensemble
Poems
(These will be
divided up into separate lines
for different actors)
The Hill
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife-
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?--
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire;
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag--
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution?--
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying--
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
Edith Conant
WE STAND ABOUT this place—we, the memories;
And shade our eyes because we dread to read:
“June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days.”
And all things are changed.
And we—we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone,
For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here.
Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away,
Your father is bent with age;
He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house
Any more.
No one remembers your exquisite face,
Your lyric voice!
How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken,
With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow,
Before the advent of the child which died with you.
It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories,
Who are forgotten by the world.
All is changed, save the river and the hill—
Even they are changed.
Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same.
And we—we, the memories, stand here in awe,
Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears—
In immeasurable weariness!
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