The Eighth Day

by Thornton Wilder

  Roger continued to stare at him. Finally he started to speak, but Mr. Bittner arrested him with raised hands.

  “You will not know the names of these committee members. They do not wish to be thanked. All but two are men of large means—very large means. They are Chicagoans. They love this city. They are resolved to do everything in their power to make Chicago the greatest, the most civilized, the most humane, the most beautiful city in the world. They have already extended parks, built fountains, and widened avenues. They contribute largely to the universities, the hospitals, the orphanages, to the rehabilitation of prisoners. You have written of your interest in the planting of trees. The committee has planted groves of oaks in the parks and has prevented others from being cut down.” He lowered his voice. A smile hovered about his lips—the smile of one sharing a secret with one who will understand its import. “They are thinking of some Jerusalem here in the future—a free Jerusalem. They are thinking of an Athens. . . . ? You, Mr. Frazier, are doing a work which you alone can do. You have written with sympathy of the foreign communities in the city. You have restored a measure of dignity to older men and women in the eyes of their own children. You have called the attention of your readers to deplorable things which it is in their power to alter—all this in your way. The committee has this fear: that you will leave Chicago, that you will carry on your valuable work in New York or in some other city.”

  He slowly put his watch and agate fob back into his pocket.

  The door of the editor’s office opened. Old Hickson appeared holding some yellow pages in his hand. He called angrily: “TRENT! TRENT! We can’t print this goddamned slop. Who the hell’s interested in an old tramhorse? Get on your toes! Get a bee under your tail!”

  Suddenly the editor saw that Roger was entertaining a dignified visitor. He returned to his desk, slamming the door behind him.

  Roger picked up the keys. “Thank you very much, Mr. Bittner, for what you’ve told me. Thank the members of the committee. But I . . . ? I . . . ? I’m uncomfortable when I’m given presents. I’m sorry, Mr. Bittner, but that’s the way I am.” He laid the keys down soundlessly on Mr. Bittner’s side of the table. “Thank you, I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Bittner rose. He smiled and put out his hand. “I shall call on you again in November.”

  Two nights later Roger walked to the address on Bowen Street. The windows on the fourth floor were dark. He compared the ground plan with that of the corresponding apartment on the first floor, where the windows were lighted and open. There would be a room for Sophia; his mother could come and visit him. He looked long at the lake. But he was just nineteen. Those rooms were for a full-grown man. He didn’t want to be a full-grown man yet. Mr. Bittner renewed his offer in November and was again refused. Ashleys don’t take presents. But it gave him a strange feeling, a hushed feeling: he was being watched by the good and the wise. Persons who did not give their names had unlocked his father’s handcuffs and given his father a horse.

  He tried to recall the words engraved on the stone . . . ? about a road . . . ? about deserts.

  The Archbishop of Chicago had written Mr. Frazier a letter of appreciation on “Trent’s” account of the inauguration of St. Casimir’s Home. He had sent a copy of “A Cap for Florence Nightingale” to his sister, who directed a hospital in Thuringia. When Roger printed a “pudding” about the midnight procession around a church on the eve of its patron’s day (“A Thousand Candles, A Thousand Singers”) he wrote again, inviting the author to lunch. Roger knew better than to accept invitations from the important and the well-to-do (as he put it to himself, he couldn’t stand “face talk”), but the Archbishop had said there would be no other guests. Roger accepted it.

  The door was opened by a young priest who stared at him in astonishment. The two had met frequently in the hospital.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello, Father Betz.”

  They shook hands.

  “Euh . . . ? Have you come from the hospital about something?”

  “No. Archbishop Krüger’s asked me to lunch.”

  “Oh! Come in. . . . ? Are you sure it’s today? He’s expecting a man who works on a newspaper.”

  “That’s me.”

  “A Mr. Frazier.”

  “Yes.”

  Roger was accustomed to this.

  The Archbishop had been told that “Trent” was young. He expected to meet a man of forty. Roger expected to meet an imposing prelate. Both were astonished. The Archbishop was very old and bent; he spoke with what Roger described to himself as a “cricket’s voice,” for he had had an operation on his throat. Both had beautiful manners—Roger’s particularly toward the old, the Archbishop’s particularly toward the young. The latter was delighted, amused, and moved; Roger was delighted and moved.

  “You and Father Betz have met before? Did I hear you exchange greetings at the door, Mr. Frazier?”

  “Yes, Father. I met him often in the South Side Hospital. I worked as an orderly there.”

  “Ah, did you?” The Archbishop’s conversation was interspersed—when he was pleased—with a continuous murmur of faint interjections: “Well, well,” and “Truly?” and “You don’t say!”

  Muttering gently, his face almost below the level of his shoulders, he led his guest into the dining room. He spoke some words in Latin, crossed himself, and pointed with both hands to Roger’s chair.

  “It is very kind of you . . . ? hm, yes . . . ? from your busy day to give me this opportunity to express my pleasure . . . ? oh, a great pleasure . . . ? at your most sympathetic, most understanding accounts of . . . ? the dear sisters at St. Elizabeth’s were delighted . . . ? were delighted . . . ? oh, yes, oh, yes . . . ? at your story about the capping exercises of young nurses. You see things . . . ? you see things in a way that others do not see them. You not only instruct us, you enlarge us. Yes, I can say that.”

  Roger laughed. He seldom laughed and only then where there was nothing to laugh about. He laughed now because of a certain sparkling gaiety that appeared and disappeared on his host’s face. The thought occurred to him that it must be a great pleasure to have a thing he had never known: a grandfather.

  It was a Friday in early Lent. They were served a little cup of soup made from greens, a trout, some potatoes, a glass of wine, and a bread pudding. Another unusual thing took place in Roger. In reply to his host’s questions, he replied at length. He talked. He was asked about his early years.

  “My real name is Roger Ashley. I was born in Coaltown in the southern part of the state.”

  He waited. The Archbishop drew in his breath. He gazed into Roger’s eyes in silence.

  “Did you ever hear the story of my father’s trial and escape, Father?”

  “I did. . . . ? Would you wish to refresh my memory about it?”

  Roger talked for ten minutes. The Archbishop interrupted him only once. He rang a small handbell. “Mrs. Kegan, be so kind as to give Mr. Frazier that other trout. . . . ? You young men have a good appetite. I remember that. And do kindly finish those creamed potatoes.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Roger.

  “Kindly continue, Mr. Frazier.”

  When Roger had finished his story, his host looked for a moment at a picture on the wall behind his guest’s back. The murmured interjections had long ceased. Finally he said softly: “Those are very unusual events, Mr. Frazier.—And you do not know who your father’s rescuers were?”

  “No, Father.”

  “You have no idea who they were?”

  “No, Father.”

  “What is your dear mother doing now?”

  “She’s running a boardinghouse in Coaltown.”

  Silence.

  “You have received no news of your father . . . ? of any kind . . . ? in . . . ? almost two years?”

  “No, Father.”

  Silence.

  “Both your father and mother are Protestants?”

  “Yes. Father took us every Sunday to the Methodist church.
We went to Sunday school, too.”

  “Were there . . . ?? Forgive me, did you have prayers in the home?”

  “No, Father. My father and mother never talked about things like that.”

  “You plan to be a writer? You will be a writer all your life?”

  “No, Father. I only write these things to make money.”

  “What will your life’s work be, Mr. Frazier?”

  “I don’t see that very clearly yet.” Slowly Roger raised his eyes to those of the old man. In a low voice he said, “Father, I think you have something to say about those things that happened in Coaltown.”

  “Do I? . . . ? Do I? . . . ? Mr. Frazier, those events are unusual. Your way of telling them is unusual. Your father’s behavior was unusual. Let me say that to my eyes there are some unusual aspects that perhaps you do not see.”

  Roger waited.

  “I think I may be able to make clear what I mean by telling you a story. A story. A number of years ago in one of the southern provinces of China there was a wave of hatred against all foreigners. A considerable number were killed. All the members of one of our missions were taken prisoner—a bishop, four priests, six sisters, and two Chinese servants. All but the servants were German. Each was placed in a small cell in a long low building made of clay and pebbles. They were allowed no communication with one another. From time to time one or another of them would be led out to be tortured. They expected that at any moment they would be beheaded. However, their execution was delayed and after a few years they were released. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “The Bishop was placed in the central cell of thirteen. What do you think he did, Mr. Frazier?”

  Roger thought a moment. “He . . . ? he started tapping on the walls. He counted the letters of the alphabet.”

  The Archbishop was delighted. He rose and went to the wall. He rapidly tapped a group of five, then another group of five, then twice.

  Again Roger thought a moment. “L,” he said.

  “In German we think of I and J as one letter.”

  “M,” said Roger.

  The Archbishop returned to his seat.

  “This could only be done very late at night and the tapping could only be heard through one wall. So, in the depth of the night messages of love and courage and faith were passed back and forth. Now the jailers had placed the two Chinese servants in the two end cells. They had been blinded by the guards so that they would not attempt to escape from those outer cells. They were Christians and they knew German, but they did not know how to read or write. The Chinese languages cannot be reduced to any pattern of tapping. How did the Bishop communicate with them?”

  “I don’t see how he could, Father.”

  “The Chinese are very musical. He directed their neighbors to tap out the rhythms of the hymns they knew and the rhythms of the spoken prayers—of what you call the ‘Lord’s Prayer.’ They tapped back in joyous response. They had been rescued from their abandonment. Now in time several of these prisoners died. The cells were empty and the chain of communication was broken, wasn’t it? But the Chinese put some other prisoners into those cells—an English silk merchant and an American businessman and his wife. They knew no German. The Bishop knew some French and some English. He sent messages from cell to cell in those languages and finally received a reply in English. He asked these prisoners kindly to transmit some messages in German to the cells beyond their own, explaining that they were words of religious comfort. Time was allotted to the newcomers. The Americans made it clear that they had no wish to partake of any religious messages, but across eight cells the husband comforted the wife and the wife the husband. How many were now transmitting patterns that were unintelligible to them?”

  “All but the Bishop.”

  “During the early months—because of starvation, loss of consciousness, and other things—the German prisoners had lost count of the calendar. It was from the English merchant that they learned the day and the week and the month. They got back their Sundays and their Easter and their feast days—that other calendar that strengthens our steps and confirms our joy. In time another cell became vacant. It was filled by a Portuguese, a shopkeeper from Macao. He knew only Portuguese, Spanish, and Cantonese. Apparently he was an intelligent and well-disposed man. Throughout the night he tapped out messages from the right wall to the left wall and from the left wall to the right wall. Perhaps he thought his fellow prisoners were planning some escape—some attempt to murder a guard and to set the watchhouse on fire. Do you think so?”

  Roger thought. “I think that, if he’d believed that, he would have got tired of it after a few weeks.”

  “Why did I tell you this story, Mr. Frazier?”

  “You were telling me that my father and mother were like the Portuguese man.”

  “We all are. You are, Mr. Frazier. I hope I am. Life is surrounded by mysteries beyond the comprehension of our limited minds. Your dear parents have seen them; you and I have seen them. We transmit (we hope) fairer things than we can fully grasp.”

  Silence.

  “Is this story true, Father?”

  “Oh, yes. I have talked with one of the sisters.”

  “What was she like, Father?”

  “What was she like? . . . ? Well . . . ? The greatest joys are those that come to us upon some confirmation of our faith—even in small fragments of faith, faith in St. Casimir’s Home, in a friendship, in the survival of a family. Sister Benedikta was joyous.”

  To himself Roger said, “I hope Papa is joyous.”

  At the door, taking his leave, Roger asked and received permission to print the story for his readers. It appeared four weeks later as “A Tapping on Your Wall.” At the close of it there was a pattern of vertical strokes, looking somewhat like a broken picket fence. Thousands of Chicagoans worked at it. They found: “API ESTR T E AL.” The story was reprinted far and wide. It crossed the seas.

  The layers of ice about Roger’s heart were beginning to melt or—shall we say?—the plates of armor to fall to the ground. His freedom from isolation was accelerated by his encounters with a number of young women.

  The Ashley children were widely regarded as “precocious.” Three of them had gained a certain notoriety by twenty-four. The truth is they were slow to mature in mind and body; they met the appointments of growth, however, soundly though late.

  Roger’s work required his crossing and recrossing Chicago daily—“like a skeeter bug on a pond,” said T.G. At banquets, entertainments, athletic events he was coming to recognize and know a large number of young women. He particularly singled out those of other nations, colors, and backgrounds. These were all slightly older than himself, self-supporting, and employers of others. There were not many of this latter category at the beginning of the century. They were pioneers and were viewed askance by respectable women. Roger prolonged his conversations with them. They did most of the talking, but so intent a listener was he that they received the impression of having heard a great deal from him. They were not like other young women; he was not like other young men. It was only several years later that Roger became aware of all that he had learned from Demetria, Ruby, and the rest. Only later, too, did he realize that these associations had released him from a dangerous constraint. Mysterious are the processes of sexual selection. All the young women were vivacious, enterprising, and above all independent; only one was tall, only one was light-haired. He was expunging from his imagination—by urgent necessity—the compelling presence of the woman whom he had loved so passionately and whose failure to respond to him had come close to convincing him that he would never be loved, that he could never love. None of these women resembled his mother.

  Demetria was Greek but with Turkish and Lebanese blood, twenty-six, big hipped, joyous, excitable, and ruthless in business. Like Roger, she was making her way in Chicago fast. She had begun the climb at fourteen, sewing flowers on hats for twelve hours a day in a sweatshop—foreman at sixteen, a purch
aser of materials and a scout for market outlets at twenty. At twenty-one she had opened a sweatshop of her own. There was an expanding market for ugly house dresses. Every Sunday she visited her baby on a farm near Joliet. Roger first met her at the farm. (Hence Trent’s article “Kennels for Babies.”)

  Madame Anne-Marie Blanc, from the Province of Quebec, rose and gold, short and plump, avowedly twenty-nine, was a caterer for weddings and wakes, for patriotic societies and conventions. At the conclusion of a dinner, Roger—that experienced restaurant man—would go into the kitchen and help pack up, filling the great hampers with crockery and silver. He watched Madame Blanc pay her army of cooks and waiters. He knew a genius for organization when he saw it; she knew he knew it. She asked him to stay and have a cup of coffee; she could take off her shoes and rest. She suffered from insomnia and dreaded returning to her rooms. He ventured to tell her that the food she served was less than appetizing. She burst out laughing. “Yes, yes—but they like it. All I want, Mr. Frazier, is money. If you will stop and think for five minutes—only five minutes, Mr. Frazier—about the life of a woman, you will understand that the first thing she wants is money. Girl, wife, or widow. Of course, I mean a sensible woman.” She knew that Roger was the “writer man Trent”; she collected his pieces. She suffered from insomnia and from a despairing need to tell her story, but no one in this world listens. At first slowly, then with alarming rapidity, Roger came to learn that there were two Anne-Maries—the trenchant able businesswoman, rose and gold, given to quick short laughter; and a frightened girl barely seventeen, terrified of death and hell, haunted by memories of her childhood, athirst for a humane word, a humane ear, a humane touch. He discovered that she fortified herself in the evening with crème de menthe which she drank by the half pint. Before long she hurled herself at him in a storm of fear, dependence, and gratitude. Roger did not know enough to be afraid; besides, we came into this world to learn and to be useful. Lauradel, Negro, was twenty-seven, a singer and part owner of the “Old Dixie Ballroom, a Refined Dance Floor for Ladies and Gentlemen.” From time to time Roger visited the establishment toward two in the morning to hear Lauradel sing “Jaybird, don’t you sing that song at me” and “I walk on the water and I’m not afraid.”