11 Drama
Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Hamlet. New Haven:
Yale University Press, 2003. (1599) From Act III, Scene 3
KING CLAUDIUS
O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,
A brother’s murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were
thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what’s in prayer but this two-fold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder’? That cannot be; since I am still possess’d
Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s
gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ‘tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but ‘tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To
give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
All may be well.
Molière, Jean-Baptiste Poquelin. Tartuffe. The Project Gutenberg eBook of
Tartuffe. Translated by Jeffrey D. Hoeper. Release Date: April 3, 2009 [eBook
#28488] (1664)
From Act III, Scene VI
Orgon. What do I hear? Good God! Is it credible?
Tartuffe. Yes, brother, I’m wicked and culpable, A sorry sinner, full of iniquity,
As great a wretch as there ever could be. My entire life has been soiled with evil;
It’s nothing but a mass of sinful upheaval. And I see that God has, for my punishment, Chosen
to mortify me with this event.
Let them connect any crime with my name; I waive all defense and take all the blame. Believe
what they tell you, stoke up your wrath, And drive me like a felon from your path.
The shame that I bear cannot be too great, For I know I deserve a much worse fate.
Orgon [to his son]. Traitor! Do you dare, by your duplicity, To taint both his virtue and purity?
Damis. What? Can the false meekness of this hypocrite
Cause you to belie . . .
Orgon. Shut up, you misfit.
Tartuffe. Oh, let him go on.
You are wrong to scold,
And you’d be wise to
believe the story he’s told.
In light of his claims,
why should you favor
me? What do you know
of my culpability?
Why put your faith in my exterior?
Why should you
think that I’m
superior? No, no,
appearances are
fooling you,
I am the kind of man you should eschew.
The whole world thinks that I
have earned God’s blessing,
But the plain truth is . . . that
I’m worth nothing.
Wilde, Oscar. The Importance of Being Earnest. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999. (1895) From Act II, Part 2
Cecily [rather shy and confidingly]: Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why
I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is sure to
chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married.
Gwendolen [quite politely, rising]: My darling Cecily, I think there must be
some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement
will appear in the Morning Post on Saturday at the latest.
Cecily [very politely, rising]: I am afraid you must be under some
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows diary.]
Gwendolen [examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully]: It is certainly
very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If you
would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of her own.] I
never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational
to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to
you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.
Cecily: It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it
caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out that
since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.
Gwendolen [meditatively]: If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any
foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a
firm hand.
Cecily [thoughtfully and sadly]: Whatever unfortunate entanglement my
dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are
married.
Gwendolen: Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral
duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a pleasure.
Cecily: Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask of
manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
Gwendolen [satirically]: I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is
obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.
[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table cloth,
and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the servants
exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.]
Merriman: Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?
Cecily [sternly, in a calm voice]: Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to clear table and lay cloth. A
long pause. Cecily and
Gwendolen glare at each other.]
Gwendolen: Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss Cardew?
Cecily: Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills
quite close one can see five counties. Gwendolen: Five counties! I
don’t think I should like that; I hate crowds.
Cecily [sweetly]: I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen bites her
lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
Gwendolen: [Looking round.] Quite a wellkept garden this is, Miss Cardew. Cecily: So
glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
Gwendolen: I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.
Cecily: Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London.
Gwendolen: Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in
the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to
death.
Cecily: Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? I
believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. It is
almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I offer you some tea,
Miss Fairfax?
Gwendolen [with elaborate politeness]: Thank you. [Aside.]
Detestable girl! But I require tea! Cecily [sweetly]: Sugar?
Gwendolen [superciliously]: No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any
more. [Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of
sugar into the cup.]
Cecily [severely]: Cake or bread and butter?
Gwendolen [in a bored manner]: Bread and butter, please. Cake is
rarely seen at the best houses nowadays. Cecily [cuts a very large slice
of cake, and puts it on the tray]: Hand that to Miss Fairfax.
[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea
and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the
bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]
Gwendolen: You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked
most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for
the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my
nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.
Cecily [rising]: To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations
of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.
Gwendolen: From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were
false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first impressions of
people are invariably right.
Cecily: It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your valuable
time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in the
neighbourhood.
Wilder, Thornton. Our Town: A Play in Three Acts. New York: Perennial, 2003. (1938)
Emily: (softly, more in wonder than in grief)
I can’t bear it. They’re so
young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m
grown up. I love you all, everything.— I cant look at everything hard enough.
(pause, talking to her mother who does not hear her. She speaks with mounting
urgency) Oh, Mama, just look at me one min- ute as though you really saw me.
Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I
mar- ried George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on
a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don’t you
remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a
moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another. (pause, looking desperate
because she has received no answer. She speaks in
a loud voice, forcing herself to not look at her mother) I can’t. I can’t go on. It
goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. (she breaks down
sobbing, she looks around) I didn’t realize. All that was going on in life and we
never noticed. Take me back - up the hill - to my grave. But first: Wait! One
more look. Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners? Mama and
Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking? and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee.
And new-ironed dresses and hot baths? and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth,
you’re too wonderful for anybody to real- ize you. (she asks abruptly through her
tears) Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? - every, every
minute? (she sighs) I’m ready to go back. I should have listened to you. That’s all
human beings are! Just blind people.
Miller, Arthur. Death of a Salesman.
New York: Viking, 1996. (1949) From
Act II
Willy: Oh, yeah, my father lived many years in Alaska. He was an adventurous
man. We’ve got quite a little streak of self-reliance in our family. I thought I’d
go out with my older brother and try to locate him, and maybe settle in the
North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go, when I met a
salesman in the Parker House. His name was Dave Singleman. And he was
eighty-four years old, and he’d drummed merchandise in thirty-one states. And
old Dave, he’d go up to his room, y’understand, put on his green velvet
slippers—I’ll never forget—and pick up his phone and call the buyers, and
without ever leaving is room, at the age of eighty-four, he made his living.
And when I saw
that, I realized that selling was the greatest career a man could want. ‘Cause
what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty-four,
into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up a phone, and be remembered
and loved and helped by so many different people? Do you know? When he
died—and by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet
slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into
Bos- ton—when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral.
Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that. He stands up. Howard
has not looked at him. In those days there was personality in it, Howard. There
was respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in it. Today, it’s all cut and dried,
and there’s no chance for bringing friend- ship to bear—or personality. You see
what I mean? They don’t know me anymore.
Hansberry, Lorraine. A Raisin in the Sun.
New York: Vintage, 1994. (1959) From Act III
BENEATHA:
He’s no
brother of
mine. MAMA:
What you say?
BENEATHA: I said that that individual is that room is no brother of mine.
MAMA: That’s what I thought you said. You feeling like you better than he is
today? [BENEATHA does not answer.] Yes? What you tell him a minute ago?
That he wasn’t a man? Yes? You give him up for me? You done wrote his epitaph too—like the rest of the world? Well who give you the privilege?
BENEATHA: Be on my side for once! You say what he just did, Mama! You saw
him—down on his knees. Wasn’t it you who taught me—to despise any man
who would do that. Do what he’s going to do.
MAMA: Yes—I taught you that. Me and your daddy. But I thought I taught you
something else too…I thought I taught you to love him.
BENEATHA: Love him? There is nothing left to love.
MAMA: There is always something left to love. And if you ain’t learned that
you ain’t learned nothing. [Looking at her.] Have you cried for that boy today? I
don’t mean for yourself and for the family ‘cause we lost the money. I mean for
him; what he been through and what it done to him. Child, when do you think is
the time to love somebody the most; when they done good and made things
easy for everybody? Well then, you ain’t through learning—because that ain’t
the time at all. It’s when he’s at him lowest and can’t believe in hisself ‘cause
the world done whipped him so. When you starts measuring somebody,
measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into
account what hills and valleys he come through before he got to wherever he
is.
Soyinka, Wole. Death and the King’s Horseman: A Play. New
York: W. W. Norton, 2002. (1976) From Act I, Scene 1
ELESIN:
Where the storm pleases, and when, it directs
The giants of the forest. When friendship summons
Is when the true comrade goes.
WOMEN:
Nothing will hold you back?
ELESIN:
Nothing. What! Has no one told you yet?
I go to keep my friend and master company. Who says the mouth does not believe in
‘No, I have chewed all that before?’ I say I have. The world is not a constant honey-pot.