Plays by Susan Glaspell Part 20

CLAIRE: Then why do we never--go it?

TOM: If we went it, it would not be there.

CLAIRE: Is that true? How terrible, if that is true.

TOM: Not terrible, wonderful--that it should--of itself--be there.

CLAIRE: (_with the simplicity that can say anything_) I want to go it, Tom, I'm lonely up on top here. Is it that I have more faith than you, or is it only that I'm greedier? You see, you don't know (_her reckless laugh_) what you're missing. You don't know how I could love you.

TOM: Don't, Claire; that isn't--how it is--between you and me.

CLAIRE: But why can't it be--every way--between you and me?

TOM: Because we'd lose--the open way. (_the quality of his denial shows how strong is his feeling for her_) With anyone else--not with you.

CLAIRE: But you are the only one I want. The only one--all of me wants.

TOM: I know; but that's the way it is.

CLAIRE: You're cruel.

TOM: Oh, Claire, I'm trying so hard to--save it for us. Isn't it our beauty and our safeguard that underneath our separate lives, no matter where we may be, with what other, there is this open way between us?

That's so much more than anything we could bring to being.

CLAIRE: Perhaps. But--it's different with me. I'm not--all spirit.

TOM: (_his hand on her_) Dear!

CLAIRE: No, don't touch me--since (_moving_) you're going away to-morrow? (_he nods_) For--always? (_his head just moves a.s.sent_) India is just another country. But there are undiscovered countries.

TOM: Yes, but we are so feeble we have to reach our country through the actual country lying nearest. Don't you do that yourself, Claire? Reach your country through the plants' country?

CLAIRE: My country? You mean--outside?

TOM: No, I don't think it that way.

CLAIRE: Oh, yes, you do.

TOM: Your country is the inside, Claire. The innermost. You are disturbed because you lie too close upon the heart of life.

CLAIRE: (_restlessly_) I don't know; you can think it one way--or another. No way says it, and that's good--at least it's not shut up in saying. (_she is looking at her enclosing hand, as if something is shut up there_)

TOM: But also, you know, things may be freed by expression. Come from the unrealized into the fabric of life.

CLAIRE: Yes, but why does the fabric of life have to--freeze into its pattern? It should (_doing it with her hands_) flow, (_then turning like an unsatisfied child to him_) But I wanted to talk to you.

TOM: You are talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never was before--your Breath of Life.

CLAIRE: I'll know to-morrow. You'll not go until I know?

TOM: I'll try to stay.

CLAIRE: It seems to me, if it has--then I have, integrity in--(_smiles, it is as if the smile lets her say it_) otherness. I don't want to die on the edge!

TOM: Not you!

CLAIRE: Many do. It's what makes them too smug in allness--those dead things on the edge, died, distorted--trying to get through. Oh--don't think I don't see--The Edge Vine! (_a pause, then swiftly_) Do you know what I mean? Or do you think I'm just a fool, or crazy?

TOM: I think I know what you mean, and you know I don't think you are a fool, or crazy.

CLAIRE: Stabbed to awareness--no matter where it takes you, isn't that more than a safe place to stay? (_telling him very simply despite the pattern of pain in her voice_) Anguish may be a thread--making patterns that haven't been. A thread--blue and burning.

TOM: (_to take her from what even he fears for her_) But you were telling me about the flower you breathed to life. What is your Breath of Life?

CLAIRE: (_an instant playing_) It's a secret. A secret?--it's a trick.

Distilled from the most fragile flowers there are. It's only air--pausing--playing; except, far in, one stab of red, its quivering heart--that asks a question. But here's the trick--I bred the air-form to strength. The strength shut up behind us I've sent--far out.

(_troubled_) I'll know tomorrow. And I have another gift for Breath of Life; some day--though days of work lie in between--some day I'll give it reminiscence. Fragrance that is--no one thing in here but--reminiscent. (_silence, she raises wet eyes_) We need the haunting beauty from the life we've left. I need that, (_he takes her hands and breathes her name_) Let me reach my country with you. I'm not a plant.

After all, they don't--accept me. Who does--accept me? Will you?

TOM: My dear--dear, dear, Claire--you move me so! You stand alone in a clearness that breaks my heart, (_her hands move up his arms. He takes them to hold them from where they would go--though he can hardly do it_) But you've asked what you yourself could answer best. We'd only stop in the country where everyone stops.

CLAIRE: We might come through--to radiance.

TOM: Radiance is an enclosing place.

CLAIRE: Perhaps radiance lighting forms undreamed, (_her reckless laugh_) I'd be willing to--take a chance, I'd rather lose than never know.

TOM: No, Claire. Knowing you from underneath, I know you couldn't bear to lose.

CLAIRE: Wouldn't men say you were a fool!

TOM: They would.

CLAIRE: And perhaps you are. (_he smiles a little_) I feel so desperate, because if only I could--show you what I am, you might see I could have without losing. But I'm a stammering thing with you.

TOM: You do show me what you are.

CLAIRE: I've known a few moments that were life. Why don't they help me now? One was in the air. I was up with Harry--flying--high. It was about four months before David was born--the doctor was furious--pregnant women are supposed to keep to earth. We were going fast--I _was_ flying--I had left the earth. And then--within me, movement, for the first time--stirred to life far in air--movement within. The man unborn, he too, would fly. And so--I always loved him. He was movement--and wonder. In his short life were many flights. I never told anyone about the last one. His little bed was by the window--he wasn't four years old. It was night, but him not asleep. He saw the morning star--you know--the morning star. Brighter--stranger--reminiscent--and a promise.

He pointed--'Mother', he asked me, 'what is there--beyond the stars?' A baby, a sick baby--the morning star. Next night--the finger that pointed was--(_suddenly bites her own finger_) But, yes, I am glad. He would always have tried to move and too much would hold him. Wonder would die--and he'd laugh at soaring, (_looking down, sidewise_) Though I liked his voice. So I wish you'd stay near me--for I like your voice, too.

TOM: Claire! That's (_choked_) almost too much.

CLAIRE: (_one of her swift glances--canny, almost practical_) Well, I'm glad if it is. How can I make it more? (_but what she sees brings its own change_) I know what it is you're afraid of. It's because I have so much--yes, why shouldn't I say it?--pa.s.sion. You feel that in me, don't you? You think it would swamp everything. But that isn't all there is to me.

TOM: Oh, I know it! My dearest--why, it's because I know it! You think I _am_--a fool?

CLAIRE: It's a thing that's--sometimes more than I am. And yet I--I am more than it is.