Fury said to a mouse,
That he met in the
house, 'Let us
both go to law:
I will prosecute
you.-- Come, I'll
take no denial;
We must have
a trial: For
really this
morning I've
nothing to do.'
Said the mouse
to the cur,
'Such a trial,
dear Sir, With
no jury or
judge, would
be wasting
our breath.'
'I'll be
judge, I'll
be jury,'
Said cunning
old Fury:
'I'll try
the whole
cause, and
condemn
you
to
death.'
Friday, July 20, 2012
Lewis Carroll - The Mouse's Tale (From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)
William Saroyan - The Oyster and the Pearl
SCENE: Harry Van Dusen's barber shop in O.K.-by-the-Sea, California, population 909. The sign on the window says: HARRY VAN DUSEN, BARBER. It's an old-fashioned shop, crowded with stuff not usually found in the barber shops…Harry himself, for instance. He has never been known to put on a white barber's jacket or to work without a hat of some sort on his head: a stovepipe, a derby, a western, a homburg, a beret, or a straw, as if putting on these various hats somewhat expressed the quality of his soul, or suggested the range of it.
On the walls, on shelves, are many odd and ends, some apparently washed up by the sea, which is a block down the street: abalone and other shells, rocks, pieces of driftwood, a life jacket, rope, sea plants. There is one old-fashioned chair.
When the play begins, Harry is seated in the chair. A boy of nine or ten named Clay Larrabee is giving him a haircut. Harry's reading a book, one of many in the shop.
CLAY: Well, anyhow, thanks a lot. I guess I'll go down to the beach now and look for stuff.
HARRY: I'd go with you but I'm expecting a little Saturday business.
CLAY: This time I'm going to find something really good, I think.
HARRY: The sea washes up some pretty good things at that, doesn't it?
CLAY: It sure does, except money.
HARRY: What do you want with money?
CLAY: Things I need.
HARRY: What do you need?
CLAY: I want to get my father to come home again. I want to buy my Mother a present…
HARRY: Now, wait a minute, Clay, let me get this straight. Where is your father?
CLAY: I don't know. He went off a day after I got my last haircut about a month ago.
HARRY: What do you mean, he went off?
CLAY: He just picked up and went off.
HARRY: Did he say when he was coming back?
CLAY: No. All he said was, Enough's enough. He wrote it on the kitchen wall.
HARRY: Enough's enough?
CLAY: Yeah. We all thought he'd be back in a day or two, but now we know we've got to find him and bring him back.
HARRY: How do you expect to do that?
CLAY: Well, we put an ad in The O.K.-by-the-Sea Gull…that comes out every Saturday.
HARRY: (opening the paper) This paper? But your father's not in town. How will he see an ad in this newspaper?
CLAY: He might see it. Anyhow, we don't know what else to do. We're living off the money we saved from the summer we worked, but there ain't much left.
HARRY: The summer you worked?
CLAY: Yeah. Summer before last, just before we moved here, we picked cotton in Kern County. My father, my mother, and me.
HARRY: (indicating the paper) What do you say in your ad?
CLAY: (looking at it) Well, I say… Clark Larrabee. Come home. Your fishing tackle's in the closet safe – and sound. The fishing's good, plenty of cabazon, perch, and bass. Let bygones be bygones. We miss you. Mama, Clay, Roxanna, Rufus, Clara.
HARRY: That's good ad.
CLAY: Do you think if my father reads it, he'll come home?
HARRY: I don't know, Clay. I hope so.
(Clay goes out. Harry takes off a derby, lathers his face, and begins to shave with a straight-edge razor. A pretty girl in a swimming suit comes into the shop, clothing a colorful parasol. She has long blond hair.)
HARRY : Miss America, I presume.
THE GIRL: Miss McCutcheon.
HARRY: Harry Van Dusen.
THE GIRL: How do you do.
HARRY: (bowing) Miss McCutcheon.
THE GIRL: I'm new here.
HARRY: You'd be new anywhere – brand new, I might say. Surely you don't live here.
THE GIRL: As a matter of fact, I do. At any rate, I've been here since last Sunday. You see, I'm the new teacher at the school.
HARRY: You are?
THE GIRL: Yes, I am.
HARRY: How do you like it?
THE GIRL: One week at this school has knocked me for a loop. As a matter of fact, I want to quit and go home to San Francisco. At the same time I have a feeling I ought to stay. What do you think?
HARRY: Are you serious? I mean, in asking me?
THE GIRL: Of course I'm serious. You've been here a long time. You know everybody in town. Shall I go, or shall I stay?
HARRY: Depends on what you are looking for. I stopped here twenty-four years ago because decided I wasn't looking for anything more. Well, I was mistaken. I was looking, and I've found exactly what I was looking for.
THE GIRL: What's that?
HARRY: A chance to take my time. That's why I'm still here. What are you looking for, Miss McCutcheon!
THE GIRL: Well…
HARRY: I mean, besides husband…
THE GIRL: I'm not looking for a husband. I expect a husband to look for me.
HARRY: That's fair.
THE GIRL: I'm looking for a chance to teach.
HARRY: That's fair too.
THE GIRL: But this town!.. The children just don't seem to care about anything – whether they get good grades or bad, whether they pass or fail, or anything else. On top of that, almost all of them are unruly. The only thing they seem to be interested in is games, and the sea. That's why I'm on my way to the beach now. I thought if I could watch them on a Saturday I could understand them better.
HARRY: Yes, that's a thought.
THE GIRL: Nobody seems to have any sensible ambition. It's all fun and play. How can I teach children like that? What can I teach them?
HARRY: English.
THE GIRL: Of course.
HARRY: (drying his face) Singing, dancing, cooking.
THE GIRL: Cooking?.. I must say I expected to see much older man.
HARRY: Well! Thank you!
THE GIRL: Not at all.
HARRY: The question is, shall you stay, or shall you go back to San Francisco?
THE GIRL: Yes.
HARRY: The answer is, go back while the going's good.
THE GIRL: Why? I mean, a moment ago I believed you were going to point out why I ought to stay, and then suddenly you say I ought to go back. Why?
HARRY: (after a pause) You're too good for a town like this.
THE GIRL: I am not!
HARRY: Too young and too intelligent. Youth and intelligence need excitement.
THE GIRL: There are kinds of excitement.
HARRY: Yes, there are. You need the big-city kind. There isn't an eligible bachelor in town.
THE GIRL: You seem to think all I want is to find a husband.
HARRY: But only to teach. You want to teach him to become a father, so you can have a lot of children of your own – to teach.
THE GIRL: (She sits almost angrily in the chair and speaks very softly) I'd like a poodle haircut if you don't mind, Mr. Van Dusen.
HARRY: You'll have to get that in San Francisco, I'm afraid.
THE GIRL: Why? Aren't you a barber?
HARRY: I am.
THE GIRL: Well, this is your shop. It's open for business. I'm a customer. I've got money. I want a poodle haircut.
HARRY: I don't know how to give a poodle haircut, but even if I knew how, I wouldn't do it.
THE GIRL: Why not?
HARRY: I don't give women's haircuts. The only women who visit this shop bring their small children for haircuts.
THE GIRL: I want a poodle haircut, Mr.Van Dusen.
HARRY: I'm sorry, Miss McCutcheon. In my sleep, in a nightmare, I would not cut your hair. (The sound of the truck stopping is heard from across the street)
THE GIRL: (softly, patiently, but firmly) Mr. Van Dusen, I've decided to stay, and the first thing I've got to do is change my appearance. I don't fit into the scenery around here.
HARRY: Oh, I don't know – if I were a small boy going to school, I'd just say you look just right.
THE GIRL: You're just like children. They don't take me seriously either: they think I'm nothing more than a pretty girl who is going to give up in despair and go home. If you give me a poodle haircut, I'll look more – well, plain and simple. I plan to dress differently, too. I'm determined to teach here. You've got to help me. Now, Mr. Van Dusen, the shears, please.
HARRY: I'm sorry, Miss McCutcheon. There is no need to change your appearance at all.
(Clark Larrabee comes into the shop)
HARRY: You're next, Clark. (Harry helps Miss McCutcheon out of the chair. She gives him an angry glance.)
THE GIRL: (whispering) I won't forget this rudeness, Mr. Van Dusen.
HARRY: (also whispering) Never whisper in O.K.-by-the-Sea. People misunderstand. (Loudly) Good day, Miss.
(Miss McCutcheon opens her parasol with anger and leaves the shop. Clark Larrabee has scarcely noticed her. He stands looking at Harry's junk on the shelves.)
HARRY: Well, Clark, I haven't seen you in a long time.
CLARK: I'm just passing through, Harry. Thought I might run into Clay here.
HARRY: He was here a little while ago.
CLARK: How is he?
HARRY: He's fine, Clark.
CLARK: I been working in Salinas. Got a ride down in a truck. It's across the street now at a gasoline station.
HARRY: You've been home, of course?
CLARK: No, I haven't.
HARRY: Oh?
CLARK: (after a slight pause) I've left Fay, Harry.
HARRY: You got time for a haircut, Clark?
CLARK: No, thanks, Harry. I've got to go back to Salinas on that truck across the street.
HARRY: Clay's somewhere on the beach.
CLARK: (handing Harry three ten-dollar bills) Give him this, will you? Thirty dollars. Don't tell him I gave it to you.
HARRY: Why not?
CLARK: I'd rather he didn't know I was around. Is he all right?
HARRY: Sure, Clark. They're all O.K. I mean …
CLARK: Tell him to take the money home to his mother. (He picks up the newspaper 'The Gull'.)
HARRY: Sure, Clark. It came out this morning. Take it along.
CLARK: Thanks. (He puts the paper in his pocket.) How've things been going with you, Harry?
HARRY: Oh, I can't kick. Two or three haircuts a day. A lot of time to read. A few laughs. A few surprises. The sea. The fishing. It's a good life.
CLARK: Keep an eye on Clay, will you? I mean – well, I had to do it.
HARRY: Sure.
CLARK: Yeah, well … That's the first money I've been able to save. When I make some more, I'd like to send it here, so you can hand it to Clay, to take home.
HARRY: Anything you say, Clark. (There is the sound of the truck's horn blowing.)
CLARK: Well … (He goes to the door.) Thanks, Harry, thanks a lot.
HARRY: Good seeing you, Clark.
(Clark Larrabee goes out. Harry watches him. The truck shifting gears is heard, then the sound of the truck driving off. Harry picks up a book, changes hats, sits down in the chair and begins to read. A man of forty or so, well-dressed, rather swift, comes in.)
THE MAN: Where's the barber?
HARRY: I'm the barber.
THE MAN: Can I get a haircut, real quick?
HARRY: (getting out of the chair) Depends on what you mean by real quick.
THE MAN: (sitting down) Well, just a haircut then.
HARRY: (putting an apron around the man) O.K. I don't believe I've seen you before.
THE MAN: No. They're changing the oil in my car across the street. Thought I'd step in here and get a haircut. Get it out of the way before I get to Hollywood. How many miles is it?
HARRY: About two hundred straight down the highway. You can't miss it.
THE MAN: What town is this?
HARRY: O.K.-by-the-Sea.
THE MAN: What do people do here?
HARRY: Well, I cut hair. Friend of mine named Wozzeck repairs watches, radios, alarm clocks, and sells jewelry.
THE MAN: Who does he sell it to?
HARRY: The people here. It's imitation stuff mainly.
THE MAN: Factory here? Farms? Fishing?
HARRY: No. Just the few stores on the highway, the houses further back in the hills, the church, and the school. You a salesman?
THE MAN: No, I'm a writer.
HARRY: What do you write?
THE MAN: A little bit of everything. How about the haircut?
HARRY: You got to be in Hollywood tonight?
THE MAN: I don't have to be anywhere tonight, but that was the idea. Why?
HARRY: Well, I've always said a writer could step into a place like this, watch things a little while, and get a whole book out of it, or a play.
THE MAN: Or if he is a poet, a sonnet.
HARRY: Do you like Shakespeare's?
THE MAN: They're just about the best in English.
HARRY: It's not often I get a writer in here. As a matter of fact you're the only writer I've had in here in twenty years, not counting Fenton.
THE MAN: Who's he?
HARRY: Fenton Lockhart.
THE MAN: What's he write?
HARRY: He gets out the weekly paper. Writes the whole thing himself.
THE MAN: Yeah. Well… How about the haircut?
HARRY: O.K.
(Harry puts a hot towel around the man's head. Miss McCutcheon, carrying a cane chair without one leg and without a seat, comes in. With her is Clay with something in his hand, a smaller boy named Greeley with a bottle of sea water, and Roxanna with an assortment of shells.)
CLAY: I got an oyster here, Mr. Van Dusen.
Greeley: Miss McCutcheon claims there ain't a big pearl in it.
HARRY: (looking at Miss McCutcheon) Is she willing to admit there's a little one in it?
GREELEY: I don't know. I know I got sea water in this bottle.
Miss McCutcheon: Mr. Van Dusen, Clay Larrabee seems to believe there's a pearl in this oyster he happens to have found on the beach.
CLAY: I didn't happen to find it. I went looking for it. You know Black Rock, Mr. Van Dusen? Well, the tide hardly ever gets low enough for a fellow to get around to the ocean side of Black Rock, but a little while ago it did, so I went around there to that side. I got to poking around and I found this oyster.
HARRY: I've been here twenty-four years, Clay, and this is the first time I've ever heard of anybody finding an oyster on our beach – at Black Rock, or anywhere else.
CLAY: Well, I did, Mr. Van Dusen. It's shut tight, it's alive, and there's a pearl in it, worth at least three hundred dollars.
GREELEY: A big pearl.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Now, you children listen to me. It's never too soon for any of us to face the truth, which is supposed to set us free, not imprison us. The truth is, Clay, you want money because you need money. The truth is also that you have found an oyster. The truth is also that there is no pearl in the oyster.
GREELEY: How do you know? Did you look?
MISS McCUTCHEON: No, but neither did Clay, and inasmuch as only one oyster in a million has a pearl in it, truth favors the probability that this is not the millionth oyster… the oyster with the pearl in it.
CLAY: There's a big pearl in the oyster.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Mr. Van Dusen, shall we open the oyster and show Clay and his sister Roxanna and their friend Greeley that there is no pearl in it?
HARRY: In a moment, Miss McCutcheon. And what is that you have?
MISS McCUTCHEON: A chair, as you see.
HARRY: How many legs does it have?
MISS McCUTCHEON: Three of course. I can count to three, I hope.
HARRY: What do you want to do with a chair with only three legs?
MISS McCUTCHEON: I'm going to bring things from the sea the same way as everybody else in the town.
HARRY: But not everybody else in town bring things from the sea – just the children, Judge Applegarth, Fenton Lockhart, and myself.
MISS McCUTCHEON: In any case, the same as the children, Judge Applegarth, Fenton Lockhart, and you. Judge Applegarth? Who's he?
HARRY: He judge swine at a county fair one time, so we call him Judge.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Pigs?
HARRY: Swine's a little old-fashioned but I prefer it to pigs, and since both words mean the same thing - Well, I wouldn't care to call a man like Arthur Applegarth a pig judge.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Did he actually judge swine, as you put it, at a county fair – one time? Did he even do that?
HARRY: Nobody checked up. He said he did.
MISS McCUTCHEON: So that entitled him to be called Judge Applegarth?
HARRY: It certainly did.
MISS McCUTCHEON: On that basis, Clay's oyster has a big pearl in it because he says so, is that it?
HARRY: I didn't say that.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Are we living in the Middle Ages, Mr. Van Dusen?
GREELEY: No, this is 1953, Miss McCutcheon.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Yes, Greeley, and to illustrate what I mean that's water you have in that bottle. Nothing else.
GREELEY: Sea water.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Yes, but there's nothing else in the bottle.
GREELEY: No, but there's little things in the water. You can't see them now, but they'll show up later. The water of the sea is full of things.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Salt, perhaps.
GREELEY: No. Living things. If I look hard I can see some of them now.
MISS McCUTCHEON: You can imagine seeing them. Mr. Van Dusen, are you going to help me or not?
HARRY: What do you want me to do?
MISS McCUTCHEON: Open the oyster, of course, so Clay will see for himself that there's no pearl in it. So he'll begin to face reality, as he should, as each of us should.
HARRY: Clay, do you mind if I look at the oyster a minute?
CLAY: (handing the oyster to Harry) There's a big pearl in it, Mr. Van Dusen.
HARRY: (examining the oyster) Clay … Roxanna … Greeley … I wonder if you'd go down the street to Wozzeck's. Tell him to come here the first chance he gets. I'd rather he opened this oyster. I might damage the pearl.
CLAY, GREELEY, and ROXANNA: O.K., Mr. Van Dusen. (They go out.)
MISS McCUTCHEON: What pearl? What in the world do you think you're trying to do to the minds of these children? How am I ever going to teach them the principles of the truth with an influence like yours to fight against?
HARRY: Miss McCutcheon. The people of O.K.-by-the-Sea are all poor. Most of them can't afford to pay for the haircuts I give them. There's no excuse for this town at all, but the sea is here, and so are the hills. A few people find jobs a couple of months every year North or South, come back half dead of homesickness, and live next to nothing the rest of the year. A few get pensions. Every family has a garden and a few chickens, and they make few dollars selling vegetables and eggs. In a town of almost a thousand people there isn't one rich man. Not even one who is well-off. And yet these people are the richest I have ever known. Clay doesn't really want money, as you seem to think. He wants his father to come home, and he thinks money will help get his father home. As a matter of fact his father is the man who stepped in here just as you were leaving. He left thirty dollars for me to give Clay, to take home. His father and his mother haven't been getting along. Clark Larrabee's a fine man. He's not the town drunk or anything like that, but having four kids to provide for he gets to feeling ashamed of the showing he's making, and he starts drinking. He wants his kids live in a good house of their own, wear good clothes, and all other things fathers have always wanted for their kids. His wife wants these things for the kids, too. They don't have these things, so they fight. They had one too many fights about a month ago, so Clark went off – he's working in Salinas. He's either going to keep moving away from his family, or he's going to come back. It all depends on – well, I don't know what. This oyster maybe. Clay maybe. (Softly) You and me maybe. (There is a pause. He looks at the oyster. Miss McCutcheon looks at it, too.) Clay believes there's a pearl in this oyster for the same reason you and I believe whatever we believe to keep us going.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Are you suggesting we play a trick on Clay, in order to carry out your mumbo-jumbo ideas?
HARRY: Well, maybe it is a trick. I know Wozzeck's got a few pretty good-sized cultivated pearls.
MISS McCUTCHEON: You plan to have Wozzeck pretend he has found a pearl in the oyster when he opens it, is that it?
HARRY: I plan to get three hundred dollars to Clay.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Do you have three hundred dollars?
HARRY: Not quite.
MISS McCUTCHEON: What about the other children who need money? Do you plan to put pearls in oysters for them too? Not just here in O.K.-by-the-Sea. Everywhere. This isn't the only town in the world where people are poor, where fathers and mothers fight, where families break up.
HARRY: No, it isn't, but it's the only town where I live.
MISS MCCUTCHEON: I give up. What do you want me to do?
HARRY: Well, could you find it in your heart to be just a little less sure about things when you talk to the kids - I mean, the troubled ones? You can get Clay around to the truth easy enough just as soon as he gets his father home.
(Arthur Applegarth comes in.)
HARRY: Judge Applegarth, may I present Miss McCutcheon?
THE JUDGE: (removing his hat and bowing low) An honor, Miss.
MISS McCUTCHEON: How do you do, Judge.
HARRY: Miss McCutcheon's a new teacher at school.
THE JUDGE: We are honored to have you. The children, the parents, and – the rest of us.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Thank you, Judge. (To Harry, whispering) I'll be back sooon as I change my clothes.
HARRY: (whispering) I told you not to whisper.
MISS McCUTCHEON: (whispering) I shall expect you to give me a poodle haircut.
HARRY: (whispering) Are you out of your mind?
MISS McCUTCHEON: (aloud) Good bye, Judge.
THE JUDGE: (bowing) Good day, Miss. (While he is bent over he takes a good look at her knees, calves, ankles, and bowtied sandals. Miss McCutcheon goes out. Judge Applegarth looks from the door to Harry.)
THE JUDGE: She won't last a month.
HARRY: Why not?
THE JUDGE: Too pretty. Our school needs an old battle-ax, like the teachers we had when we went to school, not a bathing beauty. Well, Harry, what's new?
HARRY: Just the teacher I guess.
THE JUDGE: You know, Harry, the beach isn't what it used to be – not at all. I don't mind the competition we're getting from the kids. It's just that the quality of the stuff the sea's washing up isn't good any more. (He goes to the door.)
HARRY: I don't know, Clay Larrabee found an oyster this morning.
THE JUDGE: He did? Well, one oyster don't make a stew, Harry. On my way home I'll drop in and let you see what I find.
HARRY: O.K., Judge. (The Judge goes out. Harry comes to life suddenly and becomes businesslike.) Now, for the haircut! (He removes the towel he had wrapped around the writer's head.)
THE JUDGE: Take your time.
HARRY: (He examines the shears, clippers, and combs.) Let's see now. (The writer turns and watches. A gasoline station attendant comes to the door.)
THE ATTENDANT: (to the writer) Just wanted to say your car's ready now.
THE WRITER: Thanks. (The attendant goes out.) Look. I'll tell you what. How much is a haircut?
HARRY: Well, the regular price is a dollar. It's too much for a haircut, though, so I generally take a half or a quarter.
THE WRITER: (getting out of the chair) I've changed my mind. I don't want a haircut after all, but here's the dollar just the same. (He hands Harry a dollar, and he himself removes the apron.)
HARRY: It won't take a minute.
THE WRITER: I know.
HARRY: You don't have to pay me a dollar for a hot towel. My compliments.
THE WRITER: That's O.K. (He goes to the door.)
HARRY: Well, take it easy now.
THE WRITER: Thanks. (He stands a moment, thinking, then turns.) Do you mind if I have a look at that oyster?
HARRY: Not at all.
(The writer goes to the shelf where Harry has placed the oyster, picks it up, looks at it thoughtfully, puts it back without comment, but instead of leaving the shop he looks around at the stuff in it. He then sits down on the whicker chair in the corner, and lights a cigarette.)
THE WRITER: You know, they've got a gadget in New York now like a safety razor that anybody can give anybody else a haircut with.
HARRY: They have?
THE WRITER: Yeah, there was a full-page ad about it in last Sunday's Times.
HARRY: Is that where you were last Sunday?
THE WRITER: Yeah.
HARRY: You been doing a lot of driving.
THE WRITER: I like to drive. I don't know, though – those gadgets don't always work. They're asking two-ninety-five for it. You take a big family. The father could save a lot of money giving his kids a haircut.
HARRY: Sounds like a great idea.
THE WRITER: Question of effectiveness. If the father gives the boy a haircut the boy's ashamed of, well, that's not so good.
HARRY: You got a big family?
THE WRITER: I mean for myself. But I don't know – there's something to be said for going to a barber shop once in a while. No use putting the barbers out of business.
HARRY: Sounds like a pretty good article, though.
THE WRITER: (getting up lazily) Well, it's been nice talking to you.
(Wozzeck, carrying a satchel, comes in, followed by Clay, Roxanna, and Greeley.)
WOZZECK: What's this all about, Harry?
HARRY: I've got an oyster I want you to open.
WOZZECK: That's what the kids have been telling me.
ROXANNA: He doesn't believe there's a pearl in the oyster, either.
WOZZECK: Of course not! What foolishness!
CLAY: There's a big pearl in it.
WOZZECK: O.K., give me the oyster. I'll open it. Expert watch repairer, to open the oyster!
HARRY: How much is the big pearl, Louie?
WOZZECK: Oh, a hundred. Two hundred, maybe.
HARRY: A very big one?
WOZZECK: Three, maybe.
THE WRITER: I've looked at that oyster, and I like to buy it. (To Clay) How much do you want for it?
CLAY: I don't know.
THE WRITER: How about three hundred?
GREELEY: Three hundred dollars?
CLAY: Is it all right, Mr. Van Dusen?
HARRY: (He looks at the writer, who nods.) Sure it's all right.
(The writer gives Clay the money.)
CLAY: (looking at the money and then to the writer) But suppose there ain't a pearl in it?
THE WRITER: There is, though.
WOZZECK: Don't you want to open it first?
THE WRITER: No, I want the whole thing. I don't think the pearls stopped growing.
CLAY: He says there is a pearl in the oyster, Mr. Van Dusen.
HARRY: I think there is, too, Clay; so why don't you just go on home and give the money to your mother?
CLAY: Well… I knew I was going to find something good today!
(The children go out. Wozzeck is bewildered.)
WOZZECK: Three hundred dollars! How do you know there's a pearl in it?
THE WRITER: As far as I'm concerned, the whole thing's a pearl.
WOZZECK: (a little confused) Well, I got to get to the shop, Harry.
HARRY: Thanks for coming by.
(Wozzeck goes out. The writer holds the oyster in front of him as if it were an egg, and looks at it carefully, turning it in his fingers. As he is doing so, Clark Larrabee comes into the shop. He is holding the copy of the newspaper that Harry gave him.)
CLARK: We were ten miles up the highway when I happened to see this classified ad in the paper. (He hands the paper to Harry and sits down in the chair.) I'm going out to the house, after all. Just for the weekend of course, then back to work in Salinas again. Two or three months, I think I'll have enough to come back for a long time. Clay come by?
HARRY: No, I've got the money here.
CLARK: O.K. I'll take it out myself, but first let me have the works – shave, haircut, shampoo, massage.
HARRY: (putting the apron on Clark) Sure thing, Clark. (He bends the chair back, and begins to lather Clark's face. Miss McCutcheon, dressed neatly, looking like another person almost, comes in.)
MISS McCUTCHEON: Well?
HARRY: You look fine, Miss McCutcheon.
MISS McCUTCHEON: I don't mean that. I mean the oyster.
HARRY: Oh, that! There was a pearl in it.
MISS McCUTCHEON: I don't believe it.
HARRY: A big pearl.
MISS McCUTCHEON: You might have done me a courtesy of waiting until I had come back before opening it.
HARRY: Couldn't wait.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Well, I don't believe you, but I've come for my haircut. I'll sit down and wait my turn.
HARRY: Mr. Larrabee wants the work.
MISS McCUTCHEON: Mr. Larrabee? Clay's father? Roxanna's father? (Clark sits up.)
HARRY: Clark, I'd like you to meet our new teacher, Miss McCutcheon.
CLARK: How do you do?
MISS McCUTCHEON: How do you do, Mr. Larrabee. (She looks bewildered.) Well, perhaps some other time, then, Mr. Van Dusen. (She goes out. Clark sits back. Judge Applegarth stops at the doorway of the shop.)
THE JUDGE: Not one thing on the beach, Harry. Not a blessed thing worth picking up and taking home. (Judge Applegarth goes on . The writer looks at Harry.)
HARRY: See what I mean?
THE WRITER: Yeah, well … so long. (He puts the oyster in his coat pocket.)
HARRY: Drop in again any time you're driving to Hollywood.
THE WRITER: Or away. (He goes out.)
CLARK: (after a moment) You know, Harry, that boy of mine, Clay … well, a fellow like that, you can't just go off and leave him.
HARRY: Of course you can't, Clark.
CLARK: I'm taking him fishing tomorrow morning. How about going along, Harry?
HARRY: Sure, Clark. Be like old times again. (There is a pause.)
CLARK: What's all this about an oyster and a pearl?
HARRY: Oh, just having a little fun with the new teacher. You know, she came in here and asked me to give her a poodle haircut? A poodle haircut! I don't remember what a poodle dog looks like, even.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Liam O'Flaherty - The Sniper
The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness, but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically like dogs barking on the lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.
On a roof-top near O’Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders were slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student - thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to look at death.
He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.
Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.
He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen - just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.
Just then an armoured car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the grey monster. Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car.
She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.
The turret opened. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, looking towards the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter. Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stopped to pick the rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. ’Christ,’ he muttered, ‘I’m hit’. Dropping flat on to the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain - just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.
Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. The arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.
Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound.
A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the end with his teeth.
Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.
In the street beneath all was still. The armoured car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunners head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman’s corpse lay still in the gutter.
The sniper lay for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do It. Then he thought of a plan.
Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the centre of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap slipped down into the street. Then, catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.
Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.
The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards - a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.
Then, when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward, as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on to the pavement.
Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.
The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust for battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered. He began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.
He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his brain and he laughed.
He decided to leave the roof and look for his company commander to report.
Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the sky-light to the house underneath.
When the sniper reached the lane-way on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had liked. He decided that he was a good shot whoever he was. He wondered if he knew him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered round the corner into O’Connell Street. In the upper part of the street was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.
The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped He threw himself face downwards beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.
Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother’s face.
On a roof-top near O’Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders were slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student - thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to look at death.
He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.
Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.
He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen - just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.
Just then an armoured car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the grey monster. Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car.
She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.
The turret opened. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, looking towards the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter. Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stopped to pick the rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. ’Christ,’ he muttered, ‘I’m hit’. Dropping flat on to the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain - just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.
Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. The arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.
Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound.
A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the end with his teeth.
Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.
In the street beneath all was still. The armoured car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunners head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman’s corpse lay still in the gutter.
The sniper lay for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do It. Then he thought of a plan.
Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the centre of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap slipped down into the street. Then, catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.
Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.
The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards - a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.
Then, when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward, as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on to the pavement.
Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.
The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust for battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered. He began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.
He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his brain and he laughed.
He decided to leave the roof and look for his company commander to report.
Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the sky-light to the house underneath.
When the sniper reached the lane-way on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had liked. He decided that he was a good shot whoever he was. He wondered if he knew him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered round the corner into O’Connell Street. In the upper part of the street was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.
The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped He threw himself face downwards beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.
Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother’s face.
Labels:
O'Flaherty,
Short Story
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
ऋग्वेद - हिरण्यगर्भः सूक्त (Hymn of the Universal Womb)
हिरण्यगर्भः समवर्तताग्रे भूतस्य जातः पतिरेकासीत ।
स दाधार पृथ्वीं ध्यामुतेमां कस्मै देवायहविषा विधेम ॥१॥
य आत्मदा बलदा यस्य विश्व उपासते प्रशिषं यस्यदेवाः ।
यस्य छायामृतं यस्य मर्त्युः कस्मै देवायहविषा विधेम ॥२॥
यः प्राणतो निमिषतो महित्वैक इद्राजा जगतो बभूव ।
य ईशे अस्य द्विपदश्चतुष्पदः कस्मै देवाय हविषाविधेम ॥३॥
यस्येमे हिमवन्तो महित्वा यस्य समुद्रं रसया सहाहुः ।
यस्येमाः परदिशो यस्य बाहू कस्मै देवाय हविषाविधेम ॥४॥
येन दयौरुग्रा पर्थिवी च दर्ळ्हा येन सव सतभितं येननाकः ।
यो अन्तरिक्षे रजसो विमानः कस्मै देवायहविषा विधेम ॥५॥
यं करन्दसी अवसा तस्तभाने अभ्यैक्षेतां मनसारेजमाने ।
यत्राधि सूर उदितो विभाति कस्मै देवायहविषा विधेम ॥६॥
आपो ह यद बर्हतीर्विश्वमायन गर्भं दधानाजनयन्तीरग्निम ।
ततो देवानां समवर्ततासुरेकःकस्मै देवाय हविषा विधेम ॥७॥
यश्चिदापो महिना पर्यपश्यद दक्षं दधानाजनयन्तीर्यज्ञम ।
यो देवेष्वधि देव एक आसीत कस्मैदेवाय हविषा विधेम ॥८॥
मा नो हिंसीज्जनिता यः पर्थिव्या यो वा दिवंसत्यधर्मा जजान ।
यश्चापश्चन्द्रा बर्हतीर्जजानकस्मै देवाय हविषा विधेम ॥९॥
परजापते न तवदेतान्यन्यो विश्वा जातानि परि ताबभूव ।
यत्कामास्ते जुहुमस्तन नो अस्तु वयं सयाम पतयोरयीणाम ॥१०॥
वह था ह्रन्यगर्भ सृष्टि से पहले विद्यमान
वही तो सारे भूतजगत का स्वामी महान
जो है अस्तित्वमान धरती आसमान धारण कर
ऐसे किस देवता की उपासना करें हम अवि देकर
जिस के बल पर तेजोमय है अम्बर
पृथ्वी हरी भरी स्थापित स्थिर
स्वर्ग और सूरज भी स्थिर
ऐसे किस देवता की उपासना करें हम अवि देकर
गर्भ में अपने अग्नि धारण कर पैदा कर
व्यापा था जल इधर उधर नीचे ऊपर
जगात देवो का ऐकमेव प्राण बनकर
ऐसे किस देवता की उपासना करें हम अवि देकर
ओम! सृष्टि निर्माता स्वर्ग रचियता पुर्वज रक्षा कर
स्तय धर्म पालक अतुल जल नियामक रक्षा कर
फैली हैं दिशाए बाहू जैसी उसकी सब में सब पर
ऐसे ही देवता की उपासना करें हम अवि देकर
ऐसे ही देवता की उपासना करें हम अवि देकर
In the beginning was the Divinity in his splendour, manifested as the sole Lord of land, skies, water, space and that beneath and He upheld the earth and the heavens.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
It is that who bestows soul-force and vigor, whose guidance all men invoke, the Devas invoke whose shadow is immortal life and death.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
It is that who by His greatness became the One King of the breathing and the seeing, who is the Lord of man and bird and beast.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
It is that through whose glory the snow-clad mountains rose, and the ocean spread with the river, they say. His arms are the quarters of the sky.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings ?
It is that through whom the heaven is strong and the earth firm, who has steadied the light and the sky's vault, and measured out the sphere of clouds in the mid-region.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offering?
It is that to whom heaven and earth, placed in the light by his grace, look up, radiant with the mind while over them the sun, rising, brightly shines.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
When the mighty waters came, carrying the universal germ, producing the flame of life, then dwelt there in harmony the One Spirit of the Devas.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
It is that who in its might surveyed the waters, conferring skill and creating worship - That, the God of gods, the One and only One.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
Mother of the world - may that not destroy us who with Truth as his Law made the heavens and produced waters, vast and beautiful.
Who is the deity we shall worship with our offerings?
Lord of creation! No one other than thee pervades all these that have come into being.
May that be ours, for which our prayers rise, may we be masters of many treasures!
Hiraṇyagarbha Sūkta (Hymn of the Universal Womb) from the 121st sukta of the 10th mandala of Rigveda
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