MAYS (MADALYN MURRAY O’HAIR): Born in 1919 and raised on the East Coast, O’Hair garnered national attention for her 1963 Supreme Court case which banned prayer in schools. She later founded a group called the American Atheists to promote non-belief and separation of Church and State, headquartered in Austin, Texas. She disappeared suspiciously in 1995, along with her son and granddaughter. Their bodies were found in West Texas and positively identified in 2002.

TERESE (MOTHER TERESA): Born in 1910 in Albania, she became a nun in her teens through an Irish order, and was eventually named headmistress of a school in Calcutta. In 1946, on a train to Darjeeling, she had her second calling — to serve the poor. In 1950, she won Rome’s approval for the establishment of the Missionaries of Charity, a separate and independent order. In an unprecedented move, the order became papal, meaning that they answered only and directly to the Pope. She won the Nobel Peace prize in 1979, and passed away of heart disease in 1997.

TIME & PLACE

Act One: India, 1946

Act Two: Various, 1995 and beyond

PRODUCTION NOTES

The setting should be minimal but multi-leveled and allow for quick scene transitions using sound and light as primary elements. The actresses themselves should accomplish these transitions, going off and on stage as necessary. They can break their characters during “brown-outs” to help with the scene change, but it’s much preferred if no other physical person breaks the playing space. Sound, properties and costumes should be as detailed and realistic as possible under these constraints, while all furniture can be suggested with a unit block set: an overturned box for a boat, a pillow makes the box a bed, smaller boxes make the seating for transportation. A screen or series of screens would enhance the setting with projected visual images, both static and moving: but these should be subtle, not overpowering.

Developed in conjunction with the New Harmony Project and with the assistance of the City of Austin Arts Commission. First produced at Bloomington Playwrights Project.

ACT ONE

(Northern India. 1946. Sound of a train. Slow rise on a passenger car interior. Dawn. TERESE sits, looking out the window at the Indian landscape. She wears a traditional black and white Catholic habit. She picks up a LIFE magazine off the seat beside her. Tries to read a moment. A sensation of movement stays in her body at all times. Moving images of India fly by behind her.)

TERESE: War. Everywhere. War.

(She puts the magazine down and looks out the window for a moment. Then begins to pray.)

TERESE: O, Jesus, my holy savior. Thank you for keeping me safe and giving me a noble occupation. Thy will be done. (coughs) Please, help me find peace.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen.

(MAYS enters, rocking and stumbling down an imagined aisle from the rough train ride. She wears a military uniform. She is attractive, robust, a full head of dark hair, a little reminiscent of Ayn Rand. She pulls in a big knapsack, plops down opposite TERESE)

MAYS: Hello. (takes off hat, gets adjusted. A moment passes, TERESE keeps her eyes averted. MAYS takes off hat, gets adjusted, presses forward) Hello, I said. (pause) Do you speak English?

TERESE: Some.

MAYS: Good, good. I’m Madalyn. (reaches out to shake) From the States.

TERESE: I see. (does not return hand)

MAYS: You aren’t German, are you?

TERESE: No.

MAYS: Well, thank God for that. Catholic, right? (beat) That’s okay. Can’t help yourself, I suppose.

TERESE: Pardon?

MAYS: I mean, get serious. Would you be a nun, say, if you had been born in Tibet?

TERESE: Interesting question…

MAYS: You would have been a good Protestant housewife, if you came from my neck of the woods —

TERESE: No. (beat) I would be a Minister. (winks)

MAYS: Whoohoo! Well, how about that! More power to you, Sister. (she lights up a smoke, TERESE coughs, MAYS notices, waves off smoke, but doesn’t stop) You been traveling long?

TERESE: Not long. I come from Calcutta —

MAYS: I saw action in Rome, then the North coast of Africa. I’m making my way home, but the long way! Damn, I’m hungry…Last train didn’t have a dining car…

TERESE: There is famine here, in India.

MAYS: So what. I paid a pretty penny for this ride. I expect to get some victuals. (rings bell) They wanted to put me on a plane back home, but hell, how often do you have a chance to see the Great Wall of China?

TERESE: That’s very far away…

MAYS: I’m taking my chances. Freedom on the Orient Express. (pulls a rope to ring a bell) I want a drink. You want a drink? And a real one, too. (rings bell over and over) Yoo hoo! Cabin boy!

TERESE: It’s no use. I’ve tried all morning. I think they must have jumped boat.

MAYS: Ship. Jumped ship. God damn it. I haven’t eaten since New Delhi! (TERESE reacts to the swearing) Sorry. Just, ignore my mouth, okay? Bad habits. (puts out the cigarette, trying to make up) Hey, is that a LIFE magazine?

TERESE: They might as well call it WAR.

MAYS: Ha. Give it here — (TERESE nods, MAYS just grabs it. As she’s flipping though) Have you heard any news? Of the trials?

TERESE: I try to stay out of the politic. (she coughs again, into a kerchief)

MAYS: Well, Sister, you’re in the wrong place to be sitting on the fence, so they say. India was devastated by this whole fiasco —

TERESE: I have no need for war.

MAYS: Aren’t you responsible, like everyone else?

(putting down magazine)

I wish I knew what was up in Nuremberg. I hope they kill the rotten murderers.

TERESE: Isn’t it time for — mercy? Yes? Mercy? I have not spoken English for a long time.

MAYS: How can you say that? After what they’ve done, to the Jews and God knows who else…

TERESE: They’re doing it in Japan, too.

MAYS: What?

TERESE: What you say, trials for war criminals.

MAYS: I thought you were staying out of it.

TERESE: I’m not blind. Before they are convicted, they are doing suicide, the top dogs.

MAYS: Ha! Top dogs.

TERESE: Big men, right?

MAYS: Right. Suicide. Now that’s a cheap way out, isn’t it?

TERESE: It means much time in purgatory…and Jesus would be very sad.

MAYS: Oh lets not start —

TERESE: Start what?

MAYS: Look, I believe there may have been a man named Jesus who walked the earth, and even that he may have been a great man — but I don’t believe he died for my sins, okay?

TERESE: He died for love.

MAYS: Whatever.

TERESE: He loves you.

MAYS: Well, tell him it’s unrequited.

TERESE: Maybe we do better if we stay off the subject. Deal?

MAYS: Yes, deal.

TERESE: It’s a long way still to Darjeeling. I’ve always wanted to go. Never had the time. I’d like to see America, someday, too. (she reaches down and pulls a small flask out of her bag) Here. Quench your thirst.

MAYS: Well, well! Now you’re talking! The real thing?

TERESE: Try it —

MAYS: (unscrews cap, wipes with her sleeve) Hey, you haven’t got anything catching, have you? Don’t matter, the booze’ll kill it. Mmm… (sips) — it’s a beautiful flask, this —

TERESE: (coughs harder) Excuse me.

MAYS: You okay? (TERESE nods) And the engraving —

TERESE: It’s very old. It’s from my father. He was Macedonian.

MAYS: Like Alexander the Great.

TERESE: Exactly! And a good politician, too. And businessman. He was a trader. We had many very nice things. I learnt much from him. About how to organize. How to lead.

MAYS: Thanks. (gives back flask, TERESE puts away. Lovingly.) What exactly do nuns do all day, anyway? Sit around and pray?

TERESE: I am Headmistress of the Loretto School. I teach mathematics.

MAYS

Huh. I am— I was— a WAC, US Women’s Army Corps. (salutes) I’m a cryptographer. I break codes. (pauses, looks through her bag for something) Do you have any writing paper? I’m all out…

TERESE: No, I’m sorry.

MAYS: I haven’t written to my parents since my discharge. They’re probably crazy with worry. My mom, you know, I’m too hard on her. She did the best she could, with that louse of a husband…. (Muffled sound of a food peddler, off) Wait here, I hear deliverance —

(MAYS exits. Sound of train. After a moment)

TERESE: Please Father, I know you have some other plan for me. I can feel there is something more I should be doing to glorify your name, but I’m too stupid to know what it is. Please, I know one should not ask for such things, but give me a sign. I need to know I am doing your will —

(MAYS returns with two small turnovers wrapped in paper)

MAYS: Here, look what I got! And they’re still warm. (bites) Hmm. Here have one. (shoves one at TERESE, who picks at is as MAYS eats)

TERESE: Where is this from?

MAYS: Some vendor, hawking the aisles — Oh my it’s fantastic! The curry, the spice —

TERESE: Was he clean?

MAYS: I don’t know and at this point, I don’t care.

TERESE: Nnnn. This has meat. I do not eat it.

MAYS: It’s your loss. Hand it here then. (TERESE does, MAYS wraps it up and stuffs it away as she finishes hers) But the price was right — still, I’m down to my last two rupees —

TERESE: Oh, my. That is all you have? A woman, in India, traveling alone —

MAYS: Wait a minute. Earlier…Did you say Darjeeling?

TERESE: Yes, that’s where I am going. You know of it?

MAYS: Sure. It’s where they grow tea — I was thinking of checking it out myself, but — (pulling out time table, stuffing what’s left of food in pocket) — I hate to tell you, Sister, I don’t think this train is going to Darjeeling —

TERESE: But — the man at Howrah —

MAYS: No, no. Bhagalpur is the end of the line with this one. Did he tell you you’d have to transfer?

TERESE: No, no. Oh dear. Oh dear. I should have gone with Father Flannigan, like he offered —

MAYS: Flannigan?

TERESE: My order is based in Ireland, how I learnt English.

MAYS: Well isn’t it a small Catholic world. No wonder you got the whiskey with ya.

TERESE: They are sending me to Darjeeling, for — a retreat.

MAYS: Trying to get rid of you, eh? Been twisting those fragile young minds?

TERESE: I do not find that amusing.

MAYS: (pulls out a map, juggles it with time-table) So, is it serious?

TERESE: What?

MAYS: Your health. You’re going to the mountains. That’s quite a cough you’ve got.

TERESE: They do not know. Doctors…(shrugs)

MAYS: Well, Sister, I’m looking all over here, and I can see the train from Siliguri to Darjeeling, but I don’t see any directly from Bhagalpur to Siliguri —

TERESE: Well, how would you know? You are not even from this country…

MAYS: Neither are you.

TERESE: (looking at map, too)

It is a very big country.

MAYS: How did you end up here, anyway?

TERESE: I just followed God, and He brought me here. He brought you here, too, but you do not believe. (beat) It must be very hard to live, feeling that you are the only one responsible.

MAYS: I don’t see any other way. (beat) Nope, this train ends here, at the banks of the Ganges. You’ve got another 110, 120 miles to make your connection.

TERESE: (sighs & crosses)

Our Father, Who art in Heaven —

MAYS: Now, none of that, Sister. I’ll help you get there.

TERESE: But, I could not possibly…impose —

MAYS: Naw, please. It’d be my pleasure. Listen, my whole life is about maps and directions. I made my way alone from Africa, I can get you to Siliguri. Then, you can catch the train to Darjeeling.

TERESE: No, you mustn’t, I can find my way…

MAYS: Please. I want to help. My last unofficial duty as a WAC. Come on. It will be fun, sister. I promise. Okay?

TERESE: Okay?

MAYS: Okay?

TERESE: Okay.

MAYS: I’ll tell you one thing the war taught me. We have to live for the now. You either make the best or the worst of it. Might as well hug it. Build it. Laugh at it. Have it.

TERESE: Love it.

MAYS: Stick with me, Sister.

(MAYS pats TERESE’s hand, and sits back. TERESE looks out the window in the opposite direction. Lights fade to brown, train sounds fade. The chairs of the train become a series of steps. Blue light shimmers across the stage. Sounds of a river lapping. It is later that day. MAYS and TERESE now stand at the banks of the Ganges, on different steps—exhausted—an odd pair. MAYS knapsack is slumped beside her. Bleak landscape of an Indian industrial village is suggested behind: large cream buildings, brightly colored trucks. A small boat with two oars is beached nearby)

TERESE: This town, Bhagalpur. Such dirt and despair.

MAYS: Life on the silk road.

TERESE: This whole country. Such a mixture of the sacred and the profane. I forget this when I am always in the convent or the schoolhouse. (beat) I am glad we came down here, to the water. The street was so crowded.

MAYS: But how about that market. Quite a party!

TERESE: Those children were practically devouring us. (beat) But you scared them away — with that big noise —

MAYS: Yeah, I’m good, aren’t I? (Whistles with her fingers like a man. Then, sounds of gulls)

TERESE: Look, look at the birds —

MAYS: Hey, what’s that, over there?

TERESE: Oh, yes! It’s a dolphin…a whole school of dolphins —

MAYS: Go on!

TERESE: Yes, river dolphins. They are much beloved by the people. They are said to be good luck. (beat) Perhaps we should be going now —

MAYS: What’s your hurry, Sister? Relax, enjoy the view! This is the famous Ganges — gosh, I just want to put my feet in it —

TERESE: No — do not do that — over there, women washing, children urinating — this is where they put their dead —

MAYS

Isn’t there something important about the Ganges and Buddhism? I’ve always liked Buddhists. If I had to be anything, I would try that.

TERESE: Remember our deal, right?

MAYS: Right. (beat) Let’s get this all figured out — (goes to knapsack to pull out map) Oh, I almost forgot — Come here, come here — you know, this outfit doesn’t do a thing for you — (pulls silk scarf from her knapsack, puts it around TERESE’s waist) There we go — what a figure! Lovely, quite flattering!

TERESE: Your last rupees, on — luxury — (fingers the scarf around her waist, examines it closely. Meanwhile, MAYS pulls out an array of maps and navigational gadgets from her knapsack) When I was growing up, I had a silk scarf. It was hand painted, from Japan — full of little houses with red roofs, and people working the fields, and ladies hiding behind their fans, all pink and blue and reds. I always wanted to meet those people. They looked so happy and busy.

MAYS: Good for you. Now, let’s get to work. (holding up map) Well, this map is a few years old, but it says the nearest bridge is five miles that way. Heaven knows what shape it’s in. If we walk —

TERESE: Walk! But it’s so hot —

MAYS: Yes, it gets rather steep, too…I know. We’ll hire a boat! To here, at Katihar. Looks like a big enough place to get a ride to Siliguri…We’ll just wait a spell and look for someone friendly. (Looks out over the river. TERESE fans herself.) It will be cooler over the water, you know. (beat) Oh, there’s one now — (Whistles again, waves) Hello! Mister! Sirrah — You speak English?

TERESE: What is he saying?

MAYS: (To TERESE) Hold on — (calling) We need to get to Katihar!

TERESE: He looks unhappy —

MAYS: What’s that? (to TERESE) We have to make an offer, you know, barter, you got some money?

TERESE: Yes, some —

MAYS: Give it here — (counts quickly)

TERESE: Now, here now, that belongs to the church, it’s not my money —

MAYS: You want to get to Darjeeling, don’t you? 13, 14, 15. (Yelling again) 15! (Signing with fingers) 15 rupees!

TERESE: He is coming closer —

MAYS: (very friendly)

What do you say, Mister?!?

TERESE: He is looking very angry —

MAYS: Sh! I’m trying to negotiate…

TERESE: I could have gone back to Calcutta…started over —

MAYS: Uh huh! What? (gets it) Oh, no, oh, no. (begins to wave him away) That’s alright sir, forget it! Never mind, thank you very much now, have a good day — bye bye — go on down the river now — okay, now, okey dokey — okey dokey —

TERESE: What did he say?

MAYS: Nothing. We’ll just try someone else —

TERESE: I want to know —

MAYS: It doesn’t matter —

TERESE: Tell me.

MAYS: He said: “Die American whores.”

TERESE: He thought I was American? (obviously pleased) Goodness.

MAYS: And something about raping his land, and starving his children…seems like even when you win the war, somebody looses.

(MAYS sits on the edge of steps, puts her feet in the water. TERESE also sits, staying out of the river)

TERESE: I have never been in a war before, but I ask myself, ‘What do they feel when they do this?’ I do not understand it. They are all children of God. It’s like cutting off a part of your own self.

MAYS: It’s about power. It’s about money. That’s what it’s about.

TERESE: No, it can not be only about those things. Maybe for the people high up, the leaders — Not for the people. Not for those who fight.

MAYS: Yeah. I don’t even know why I enlisted, you know? It just seemed like the right thing to do. But I liked it, you know. Fighting. I was born to fight. It was easy, you know, to fight Hitler. I mean, you can’t just go and try to dominate everyone around you —

TERESE: Yes, this domination, it could ruin everything.

MAYS: You mean Germany?

TERESE: Actually, I was thinking more about America. And Russia. (beat) And the men who rule them.

MAYS: Yeah, they sure do have the upper hand, don’t they?

TERESE: Look at us. We agree to disagree, we do not bring the sword against each other.

MAYS: But America HAD to fight this war. Can you imagine what it would have been like if Hitler had won?

TERESE: I do not see how much different it would have been, at least, here in India.

MAYS: That’s crazy! He was killing Jews, exterminating an entire people, based on what — their RELIGION, for Gods sake — Forget that, never mind. But we couldn’t let that go on, could we — I mean, whether it’s democracy or communism, people got to have a certain amount of freedom, just to live, you know, in peace —

TERESE: You are a very angry woman.

MAYS: Haven’t I a right to be angry? People should be angry when their rights are violated, when injustice is done under the pretenses of faith.

TERESE: I think this is too close to our taboo.

MAYS: Right. Ha. Taboo. (beat) Come on, Sister. The quicker we go, the quicker we can part — I bet we still can catch the evening train.

(MAYS stands and pulls up the small boat)

TERESE: What are you doing?

MAYS: There’s a boat right here, I’m seeing if is seaworthy.

TERESE: But, surely, that belongs to somebody.

MAYS: Finders keepers.

TERESE: You can not take it, that would be stealing —

MAYS: Like what your church does, through guilt and manipulation to feed the gold coffers —

TERESE: (standing back)

Take me back to the station.

MAYS: What are you talking about.

TERESE: Take me back. You break your promise. I do not have to listen to you, you happy, you heretic!

MAYS: What did you say??? (laughs) That’s me. The happy heretic!

TERESE: I think for myself. I can walk on my two feet. I go by myself.

(TERESE starts to walk away, MAYS grabs her by the arm)

MAYS: Come on Sister, relax! I apologize. Truce, Okay? Okay?

TERESE: My church, my Pope. People bring up these faults, these are the faults of man. What we stand for is Heaven, is Peace.

MAYS: You believe whatever you want, I’m not telling you not to. Just don’t try to make me believe what you believe.

TERESE: It is my job. It’s a tremendous amount responsibility.

MAYS: All I am after is the real truth.

TERESE: As am I. Here. (taking out cross) I know what we shall do.

MAYS: Oh, great. Pray, pray, and let God part the waters —

TERESE: I’m going to say a little blessing for the fishes and the somebody who owns this boat. Then they can give it to us in payment.

MAYS: Oh, I like that. Salvation on credit.

TERESE: Lead you from death to life,

from lies to truth

Lead you from despair to hope

from fear to trust

Lead you from hatred to love

from war to peace

Let peace fill your heart, our world

our universe… peace, peace, peace.

MAYS: Happy now? (Throws her knapsack in)

TERESE: Happy.

MAYS: Get in.

TERESE: I did not even say Lord that time, did you notice? (she sits in the boat) Oh, my. It’s an awfully wide river —

MAYS: Time to work now, Rosie. (gives TERESE an oar) Row.

(TERESE pushes off and jumps in as lights fade again. The village image fades away. The steps become a high park wall. Exotic bird cries. It is many hours later. Dappled moonlight through trees pours down. Shadows play around them eerily in a gentle wind. A wooded area appears behind them, but out of the tops of the trees are the bright lights of a city with a somewhat modern skyline: like a rustic Manhattan above the rim of a sub-tropic Central Park. TERESE corners the wall briskly, still wearing the scarf around her waist. MAYS follows, drags her knapsack behind her, exhausted)

TERESE: I can not believe we missed the last train! And they will not even let us stay overnight in the station —

MAYS: Yeah, well, I’m sorry —

(MAYS flops, sits on the ground)

TERESE: Maybe if you had not lost your temper —

MAYS: I said I’m sorry, okay? Aren’t you supposed to forgive and forget?

TERESE: First the boat, then the rickshaw, are you sure you know what you are doing?

MAYS: We made it to Siliguri, didn’t we?

TERESE: Fifteen minutes late! And the next train is not until morning — (MAYS starts to unpack her sack) Why are we stopping here —

MAYS: Sleep. I still got my army issue bed roll. (pulls it out) You can have it, toots.

TERESE: Toots? (catching the roll MAYS throws)

MAYS: I thought the rickshaw ride would be romantic — Oh my aching ass!

TERESE: I could have crawled faster from Katihar.

MAYS: All right, all right! So I didn’t account for terrain. Slowed us down a little. I got us across the Ganges, didn’t I?

TERESE: Thanks to my blessing. And MY money got us that rickshaw. And now I have only enough for the train.

MAYS: We’ll just stay here, until the morning. Then, sister, we’ll be on our separate ways.

TERESE: We cannot really stay outside all night.

MAYS: I do it all the time. Beautiful view of the sunset from here —

TERESE: We’re in Bengal now. You know. Like the big circus cats?

MAYS: Sister, we’re in an established city, there’s no tigers —

(squeaking sounds nearby)

TERESE: What was that?

MAYS: Nothing, just some city life. (more squeaking) Monkeys.

TERESE: Where?

MAYS: Over there, aw, it’s nothing but a few little primates. Looky, aren’t they cute? (waves) Hello, fair brothers and sisters!

TERESE: (stopping her hand) Let’s not start that discussion, all right?

MAYS: Oooo Oooo Ahh Ahh Eee Eee — (acts like a monkey to annoy TERESE)

TERESE: Now look at what you’ve done. They’re coming closer —

MAYS: Hey, you’re right. Shit! There must be dozens of them —

TERESE: They look — hungry —

MAYS: Hmm. They would make strange bedfellows —

TERESE: (TERESE coughs)

MAYS: Okay, okay. (MAYS gets up, put blanket around TERESE, stuffs the rest of her stuff in her bag) Maybe there’s a better spot up ahead. Come on. Let’s go this way. (They travel a bit in a circle, looking all around, the monkey sounds fade) Maybe there’s a hotel —

TERESE: But we have no money —

MAYS: Look at this skyline — (stops) See, there’s one: Hotel Cinderella. Now, that’s a hoot! That’s the place for us!

TERESE: If we spend it on a room, I will not have enough for the train —

MAYS: (keeps walking) Let me worry about that, won’t you?

TERESE: What are you going to do —

MAYS: I don’t know, I’ll think of something. What about a Church? Couldn’t you get us in there for the night?

TERESE: I believe there is a Monastery — but it is Tibetan. This is the land of Krishna and Buddha — I know of no Christians here.

MAYS: For a Catholic nun, you know a lot about other religions.

TERESE: I could not be in this country 10 years and not come to respect it. People talk, you know. I hear about what they teach. Clearing your mind. Finding God within. These are all good things.

MAYS: Why Sister, how enlightened of you!

TERESE: But if you follow only this, it leaves you separate, I think, and alone. You have to reach out to people, love people, no matter what they believe. That’s what Jesus brings to the table. It is not enough to say, I love God. You must show your love, in the way you feed each other — with the wine and bread of empathy —

(The sound of Big Band music grows louder)

MAYS: Do you hear music?

TERESE: Why, I know I am poetic —

MAYS: No, silly — like — Duke Ellington? (Hums a bit of A-Train)

TERESE: What Duke?

MAYS: Of course, of course! Didn’t it say at the gates this park was built by the Indian Army? The Indian Army’s on OUR side!

TERESE: You mean, the Allies?

MAYS: Right, right! Most of the officers are still British. Hell, if this is an Army outpost, we just have to find the Officer’s Club. I’m a Second Lieutenant, for God’s sake, that has to be worth something!

TERESE: And then what?

MAYS: I don’t, know, Sister — whatever comes naturally!

TERESE: What is this — club?

MAYS: You know, like in the movies. You seen movies?

TERESE: Like Ginger Rogers? They have dinner?

MAYS: Sure. My treat.

TERESE: And drinks? And dancing?

MAYS: Well, most likely — now, don’t tell me you’re against dancing!

TERESE: What, what am I supposed to do in a place like that. Sit on the wall like a flower?

MAYS: Why don’t you just let go, let out all that repressed bull crapola, and have yourself a little fun — Sister — Come on, sister Dance! (spins TERESE around: Music has shifted: it’s a waltz or box step, something slow, simple, familiar) You can dance! That’s good sister. Hey, I’m leading, for a change! Sister…hey. I keep calling you Sister. I don’t even know your name.

TERESE: Teresa. But my real name is Agnes.

MAYS: Let’s stick with Terese.

TERESE: I have thought sometimes, of what is the ideal spiritual journey…where does it start, and where does it end. And of the history of faith, from the times when there were only false Gods, from before when Jesus came…and what is our purpose, we people, on this planet…what is the purpose of man.

MAYS: What if the only purpose is to enjoy ourselves.

TERESE: I could believe that, if we were good enough to know what true joy is —

MAYS: I know what joy is. A good cigarette, and a shot of rum —

TERESE: No, I think true happiness is feeling like we are a valuable part of the world, that what we do is meaningful, and that it is understood by others — good for others —

(THEY stop dancing)

MAYS: Are you okay? You look pale. (MAYS rubs TERESE’s cheeks)

TERESE: No, I’ll be fine. It’s nothing — let me sit.

TERESE: (taking off habit, her hair is up in a twist) I’m too hot…

MAYS: You can take that off?

TERESE: It has been a long time, since my head was bear, in public…

MAYS: We’re not in public. Yet. (sits next to TERESE)

TERESE: I wonder what the sisters would think of me now. They don’t like me very much, I think.

MAYS: Now, I can’t believe that, you’re just an old softie. (beat) You ever wear lipstick?

TERESE: Me? Oh, no. No. Why, I have no need —

MAYS: (quickly pulling out a tube and dotting her lips) See? That wasn’t so bad.

TERESE: Mmm…coconut —

MAYS: Yes, it’s the moisturizer. Max Factor. Only the best for me. (beat) You want to take a look? (gives her a compact)

TERESE: Oh! Oh. Oh…my. (touches her lips, her cheeks) My…

MAYS: What’s the matter, don’t you like it?

TERESE: No, it’s just — just…wrinkles. Look at these wrinkles. And these dark circles, under my eyes…

MAYS: Don’t they have mirrors at your convent? (beat) Stupid question. Listen. You look great. Very trim. Let’s, let’s put this up here (unties scarf), around your neck…

TERESE: I’m so old. When did I get so old?

MAYS: Oh, come on now. You can’t be over 40.

TERESE: I’m thirty-seven.

MAYS: See, you’re not over 40! You still got plenty of life ahead of you — And take, down your hair — can we take down — ? (TERESE quietly does so — her hair flows down — it is long, brown).

TERESE: It’s so — gray…

MAYS: It’s beautiful.

TERESE: Oh, I feel, feel naked — (She goes to put back on her habit)

MAYS: Okay. Okay. Too much. Let me pin it back up. (She gathers it into a looser bun, putting volume up near the front, but this takes some time, she is messing with it during the following)

TERESE: So. You’ve been with a man.

MAYS: What do you think? (beat) Have you ever felt attracted —

TERESE: Once. Perhaps. (beat) Not for many years, though.

MAYS: See, I don’t understand that! You must feel dead inside, cut off from your own womanhood — living only in your head —

TERESE: On the contrary. I feel very healthy and alive. I feel, I feel as if there is always joy within my body, as long as I am true to God, and worshipping life. Every breeze, every fold of clothes, it is like a caress —

MAYS: There’s nothing like a big old dick up inside you, I can vouch for that.

TERESE: Dick? Oh, oh. (beat) Does it hurt?

MAYS: What? No, Hell no. Maybe the first time, maybe —

TERESE: Is not the man heavy? I worry I would suffocate —

MAYS: Sometimes. That’s when you get on top.

TERESE: It all seems so silly to me.

MAYS: It is, kind of. But it’s also wonderful.

TERESE: But there is much sex that is not about love, it seems —

MAYS: Well, yes, that’s true. But I don’t call that sex. That’s violence. What men do when they force women — or when they just use us…

TERESE: Has that ever happened to you?

MAYS: A lady doesn’t talk about such things.

TERESE: I do not think I would like sex very much. But, you have to do it, if you want to have a baby —

MAYS: For now, at least — Maybe, science, someday—

TERESE: I would have liked to have had a baby.

MAYS: Why?

TERESE: I do not know. To have someone to carry on my family. For my parents, maybe.

MAYS: Wouldn’t have gone over very well at the convent, I imagine…

TERESE: No, no.

MAYS: There. (finishes with hair) You look beguiling, sister! We are going to knock those Red Coats dead! You know, I’ve always had a thing for guys with a British accent —

TERESE: (pulling self together, wiping off lipstick, etc.) No. This is not right. I am wed to Jesus, Jesus would not like me showing off like this. (beat) I can not go.

MAYS: For Christ’s Sake!

TERESE: Yes, yes. For his sake. Please. (puts the scarf away in the folds of her skirt) You…you go on. I will stay here. Under this tree.

MAYS: No, Terese. I can’t let you do that.

TERESE: No, I insist. I will wait for you, here —

MAYS: Listen, Terese, I may not be back until morning.

TERESE: Well. It is a beautiful night. Warm. Dry. (coughs) I will go. Find the Monastery. I think I saw it from the station. They should receive me. They are generally friendly toward people of the cloth.

MAYS: I’ll go with you —

TERESE: No! They may not take you in military dress.

MAYS: Are you sure about this?

TERESE: It will be…an adventure! (beat) You better go ahead. It’s getting late. (beat)

MAYS: All right then — Lone wolves travel faster. (starts to go) Damn, be careful, will you?

TERESE: God is with us both. Madalyn —

MAYS: Mays, that’s what people call me for short.

TERESE: Mays. I do not know why I came with you, but I am glad. Please, come meet me tomorrow at the bridge we saw, the one with all the flowers. And then you can take me to the train, okay?

MAYS: Wild monkeys couldn’t keep me away.

(MAYS disappears behind the wall. TERESE ties the scarf around her head, readies herself and disappears in the opposite direction as the lights go to brown. The wall becomes a small bridge, and scattered building corners and landmarks on a winding path through the city. There are lots of obstacles all over the stage, lots of highs and lows. Bright clean sunlight of early morning. Din of an Indian street. Images of doors, windows, storefronts, even Indian people move with and against them as they walk in a disorienting fashion. MAYS carries her knapsack over her shoulder, has her jacket off and her shirt untucked, and four or five small change purses hanging diagonally across her frame. TERESE looks well rested, with her habit still off but the scarf tied around her head)

MAYS: Let’s stop here a second, let me grab a smoke…

(She puts her foot up to tie her shoe, pulls out a cigarette)

TERESE: How much time do we have?

MAYS: Plenty! Don’t worry…

TERESE: It’s a miracle how much better I feel today. As if I was never sick at all…How did you sleep?

MAYS: Good. (snickers) Great. And you?

TERESE: Oh, fine. What happened, at the club?

MAYS: Oh, I met someone, you know…

TERESE: Was he a nice gentleman?

MAYS: Oh, I don’t know, uptight, snobby, British, what do you expect?

TERESE: Well, what were his features?

MAYS: Light hair, blue eyes — come to think of it, he may have been Irish — Must have been, with the amount he drank. And me too, got a peach of a headache —

TERESE: Will you see him again?

MAYS: Listen. I’m headed back to America before too long. I mean, I’m just sowing some wild oats here, can you understand that, sister? Men — they kind of cramp my style, you know?

TERESE: (beat) The Monks were very surprised to see me. I told them that God had sent me, to clean up all their dishes after dinner. They were very pleased and let me stay for free.

MAYS: Why you little trickster! Naw. Seriously. I’m glad.

TERESE: It is very interesting, the similarities, I think, between their worship and ours. So much ritual…

MAYS: So. You think I got a good price back there for these change purses?

TERESE: Excellent. Nearly half of what you would pay in Calcutta —

MAYS: I’m glad you like them. (takes them off her neck and puts them on TERESE’s) Take them.

TERESE: What?

MAYS: You said you’d like to give them to the Sisters…

TERESE: You do not have to —

MAYS: It was nothing.

TERESE: I will pay you back —

MAYS: Naw, to make up for my half of the rickshaw, okay? (Starts to move, restless) Tell me more about this Kali we are seeing.

TERESE: (staying put)

Why would I take you to a false idol?

MAYS: I don’t know, because you want to see it?

TERESE: Pish.

MAYS: It’s okay, it’s our secret. I won’t tell anyone —

TERESE: I think, I think you are a good person. I think you truly want good for the world.

MAYS: Why of course I do. I love mankind. I love being alive. I love being a woman.

TERESE: I do not see why you cannot include God on your list.

MAYS: Listen, we only have another couple of hours left, okay? Maybe someday, I’ll prove it to you. But for today, life’s too short. (beat) And we’re going to see the Temple of Kali, right?

TERESE: Right.

MAYS: Come on then.

(TERESE reluctantly stands, starts to walk. The next section moves very quickly, lots of overlapping, louder voices as they hit the middle of the city. TERESE struggles to keep up, her energy and health apparently failing as she goes)

MAYS (cont.)

You realize, we’re not going to see the tea gardens — or the wildlife sanctuary —

TERESE: I’ll see plenty of those in Darjeeling. Where are you going next, do you even know?

MAYS: Not exactly —

TERESE: Then, what are all those maps —

MAYS: Just looking for signs. Codes. When something in your life just doesn’t quite add up, chances are, it stands for something else.

TERESE: You are sad, because you will not be going back to war?

MAYS: What? (laughs) Maybe. I went right from college into the army. Don’t know what I’ll do next.

TERESE: Do you have any gifts, any special talents?

MAYS: Like what?

TERESE: Are there things that you do particularly well, better than other people?

MAYS: Argue. I’m a good arguer.

TERESE: Is that a useable skill?

MAYS: I should be a lawyer. I’ve thought about that. They make a lot of money. But I’d probably piss off the judge.

TERESE: You could be a teacher —

MAYS: No, I don’t think I have the patience for it.

TERESE: Neither do I.

MAYS: I’ve been thinking about studying psychiatry. Maybe social work. Something that helps people. Changes things.

TERESE: What else?

MAYS: I like to write.

TERESE: What would you like to write?

MAYS: Oh, I don’t know — books. A mystery novel, but I haven’t a shred of an idea —

TERESE: What about a reporter, a journalist?

MAYS: Editorials, maybe. I would like to write down my theories about how people loose their

freedom in America due to the corporate structure. America, it’s my biggest cynicism. Land of promise but no fulfillment of that promise. A critic. A critic of society.

TERESE: Stop, please. Let me rest a moment. (They do) Let me ask you a question. What is it that you love so much that you will fight for?

MAYS: Truth.

TERESE: And you know what that is?

MAYS: No. Not always.

TERESE: So what else is there?

MAYS: Freedom. Freedom is the most important thing — Come on, we have to keep going.

(MAYS starts again, TERESE pushes on)

TERESE: I sometimes think you Americans have too much freedom. It makes you confused.

MAYS: The world is full of contradictions. It’s a lie to believe that there is every going to be any single unified truth out of it.

TERESE: This is difficult. (TERESE stops again)

MAYS: What? (MAYS stops, backs around to TERESE)

TERESE: I am trying to understand what makes people have faith, and what makes people not have faith.

MAYS: Reason.

TERESE: We say faith is an act of Grace, it finds you —

MAYS: Well, then, you can’t do anything about it, can you? You either have it, or you don’t.

TERESE: Come with me. To Darjeeling.

MAYS: What? Don’t you have, Sisters, waiting for you, up there —

TERESE: There is plenty to see, you can see Mount Everest from Darjeeling! (beat) Do not say anything. Just think about it. Okay? I have not had this much fun in years!

MAYS: Yes. Me too.

TERESE: Look, look — there it is — the Temple of Kali.

MAYS: Why, it’s a just a little building — I thought it was supposed to be big —

TERESE: That was the 100 foot stupa. You missed that part, sleepyhead.

MAYS: Oh well.

TERESE: This is a little neighborhood temple. They are all over India —

MAYS: Looks like someone’s house. Where is the Kali?

TERESE: It’s inside. We have to pay. (beat) I mean, you have to. I cannot do it. I should not even be here.

MAYS: Remind me who she is again?

TERESE: There was a very bad demon named Raktabija who was at war with the Hindus. Every drop of his blood that touched the ground grew into another Raktabija. The Hindus cut at the devil with their sharp swords, and soon, the entire battlefield was covered with millions of bulging Raktabijas. In despair, they turned to Shiva. Shiva was lost in meditation, so they turned to his lover, Parvati.

MAYS: That’s a woman, right?

TERESE: Yes, yes. Parvati immediately set out to do battle, and transformed herself into the warrior Kali.

MAYS: All right!

TERESE: Her eyes turned red, her complexion became dark, her teeth became sharp, like fangs. She rode into the battleground on her lion, and Raktabija experienced fear for the first time in his demonic heart. Kali ordered the Hindus to attack Raktabija. She then spread her tongue across the entire battlefield, preventing even a single drop of Raktabija’s blood from falling on the ground.

MAYS: Good Lord! Imagine what I could do with a tongue like that —

TERESE: Thus, she prevented Raktabija from reproducing himself.

MAYS: Brilliant, brilliant, my sentiments exactly. So Parvati and Kali are really the same.

TERESE: It seems to be. (beat) False gods, it’s rather hard to tell them all apart.

MAYS: Fabulous, fabulous. She saved the world from evil.

TERESE: And we have to bring her an offering, too — a flower, a bit of candy or fruit, and a prayer. (beat) I mean, YOU have to —

MAYS: You’re not going in?

TERESE: Oh, no. No. This right here is enough.

MAYS: The scarf. Why don’t we give her the scarf —

TERESE: This?

MAYS: Yes, give it here — (MAYS tries to takes it from off TERESE’s head)

TERESE: But —

MAYS: We don’t have any fruits or flowers or candies. Do you think she wants cigarettes?

TERESE: Fine, fine. Here you go. (TERESE undoes the knot, gives it to MAYS) Take it.

MAYS: This will be great! (Digging in pockets) And how much does it cost?

TERESE: Not much. I, I do not know for sure, ask at the door, they’ll know.

MAYS: Golly, this is pretty interesting, even for an old skeptic like me! You’re going to wait for me, right? (leaves the knapsack at TERESE’s feet) Right?

TERESE: What time is it?

MAYS: We have plenty of time. I’ll be right back — I promise…

(MAYS exits. TERESE pulls out her habit, and replaces it on her head during the following)

TERESE: The fruit…

The fruit of silence is prayer

The fruit of faith is love

The fruit of service is peace.

(MAYS enters again)

MAYS: Terese. Terese!

TERESE: No, I told you, I cannot!

MAYS: Forget the Kali — come over here —

TERESE: What, what is it?

MAYS: Look, look. Is that a woman, over there, in the gutter?

TERESE: What?

MAYS: Look at that poor girl, she’s crying.

TERESE: I cannot see —

MAYS: It is, it’s a girl. A teen, maybe. She’s hardly got a scrap of clothes on. What’s wrong with her — she looks burned!

TERESE: You cannot help her. Beggars like that. They are everywhere —

MAYS: How can you say that, she’s right there, in front of you —

TERESE: She’s probably a prostitute — the authorities should…

MAYS: Prostitute? Authorities? She’s hurt. She’s desperate. We can’t just turn our backs—

TERESE: I’m sorry, I should not, I cannot go near her —

MAYS: I can’t stand this. We have to do something —

TERESE: I have nothing to give her. God will have to help her —

MAYS: Here. Here’s 50 rupees. That ought to get her something —

TERESE: 50 rupees! That’s too much…How…

MAYS: None of your damn business. (beat) Go over there and give it to her.

TERESE: No. No.

MAYS: Go over there and give it to her, God damn it!

TERESE: Why me? It’s your idea —

MAYS: Come on, Sister. (puts the rupees in her hand) Put your words into action!

TERESE: I cannot — I…

MAYS: LISTEN YOU! (Like a drill sergeant) YOU GO OVER THERE AND GIVE THAT BITCH THE MONEY OR I’M GONNA KNOCK YOUR BLOCK OFF! YOU’RE A JOKE! YOU’RE A LYING CUNT! COME ON, SISTER, SHOW ME WHAT YOU’RE REALLY MADE OF!

(TERESE, speechless, gathers courage, and then walks off powerfully to give the money to the girl. MAYS makes a battle cry, sticking out her tongue, and waving the scarf in the air. She catches her breath, hands on knees, watches)

MAYS (cont.)

Well. Yes. Put the money in her hand. Bless her, that’s okay. What’s she doing — giving her those change purses? Okay, okay — (calls out to TERESE) That’s the way, Sister Soldier! (under her breath) Who ever saw a nun so nervous to do good work? (to temple) All in a good day’s work, wouldn’t you say, Kali dear?

(MAYS wraps the scarf around her own neck, as the lights go to brown. The obstacle course becomes a café table and two chairs. An open window inside a small Indian restaurant, billowing curtains, soft arch of adobe architecture in the background. It is now a little later that morning. Some soft Indian music plays. MAYS and TERESE sit across the table from each other, with nearly empty plates and used cloth napkins in front of them. The mood is significantly cooler.)

MAYS: Fabulous. Delectable. (silence) As the waiter said, the guest is God. (beat) That’s all you’re gonna eat? Bread pudding?

TERESE: Do not try to make fun with me anymore.

MAYS: Are you sure you don’t want to try some curried prawn? It’s truly out of this world —

TERESE: I told you. I do not eat meat.

MAYS: It’s fish, you people eat fish, don’t you? (beat) Aw, come on now. I’ve said I’m sorry a thousand times. I don’t know what came over me, the spirit of Kali or something —

TERESE: It’s not right to joke about these things, you know. They are very serious. If you open that door, the bad will come in —

MAYS: Bad? What was bad about what you did?

TERESE: I do not even know some of those words you used. But they sounded very bad.

MAYS: I — I just get impatient. I just, I see a problem, and I see a way to fix it, and I can’t explain it —

TERESE: And the problem here was the girl —

MAYS: No, Terese. The problem was you.

TERESE: Last night. It was wrong for me to lead you into temptation so —

MAYS: Sweetheart, you couldn’t have been more of an obstacle. You know the whole time, while we’re banging away over at the Hotel Cinderella —

TERESE: Ach, please —

MAYS: I was thinking about you, worried about you —

TERESE: I take care of myself. But I have done a very bad thing encouraging you. It is a big enough sin to let your body go before marriage —

MAYS: Save it, Sister. We were off to a good start this morning, let’s not get into it already —

TERESE: Please tell me. Where did you get the money —

MAYS: Oh, no. No no no. I know what you’re thinking. It’s a loan. I signed a note. Okay? (beat) There’s a barrel of things I’d do for money, but that’s not one of them. No, that, I do for pleasure.

TERESE: This is not the direction I wanted our friendship to go —

MAYS: And how did you think it would go?

TERESE: I thought, that if we got to know each other better, we might be able to find some — common ground —

MAYS: Look, maybe I don’t want to find any common ground with you.

TERESE: But you keep talking with me, staying with me. There must be a reason for it —

MAYS: I find you pathetic and needy. It’s a charity case, sister —

TERESE: Charity — from a woman who believes only in herself…

MAYS: I like to fight. I’d like to knock you off your high horse.

TERESE: You’d like to see my faith waiver?

MAYS: Your damn right…

TERESE: You’d like to see me be human.

MAYS: That’s right.

TERESE: Look at me. I am human. 100 percent. I get scared. I get mad. I am just like you. (beat) Does that make you feel better?

MAYS: No, actually. It makes me feel worse.

TERESE: Do you want to feel bad? Sometimes, people want to feel bad, because they are afraid if they are happy, something terrible will happen to take that happiness away —

MAYS: Look, you can keep your beauty shop psychology to yourself, right along with the glorious myth of Christian salvation.

TERESE: It is not a myth. It is truth. (beat) What time is it?

MAYS: We can see the station from here. We’ll know if the train pulls up.

TERESE: Please. Let’s go now. I don’t want to again be late.

MAYS: Go ahead. I’ll take care of the check.

TERESE: You’ll come to say goodbye, won’t you? (pause) Won’t you?

MAYS: What does it matter. You don’t need me anymore. Go on, I said.

(TERESE hesitates, then leaves. MAYS pulls out some money, throws it on the table. She sighs, and softly begins to cry. She takes a napkin from the table and dries her eyes. The lights go to brown again. The table and chairs become the edge of a train platform, and a step up to the train. It is only a few minutes later. TERESE stands alone on the platform, pacing, reading from a travel book)

TERESE: “There are many endearing stories about the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, one of the only narrow gauge railways in the world. Once, a small green locomotive was furiously pulling a number of carriages up the mountains. Suddenly, a herd of great elephants came out of a clearing and blocked the tracks. The great bull, as if challenged, made ready to charge. Faced with this tremendous obstacle, the driver of the tiny locomotive jammed his charge in reverse, and rushed back to the station from whence he came.”

(MAYS has entered. TERESE smiles at her)

TERESE: I wasn’t sure if you were coming.

MAYS: It is small. Like a toy. One of those sights you just don’t want to miss.

TERESE: It couldn’t be because you’re coming with me…

MAYS: Sister, I’ve kinda been on my best behavior with you —

TERESE: This is your best behavior?

MAYS: I don’t know how long I’d last at some convent —

TERESE: Sanatorium. They think I have TB.

MAYS: Tuberculosis?

TERESE: Maybe. (beat)

MAYS: TB. Jesus. People die from that — and it’s pretty damn infectious, too…I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that, all this time? (starts looking in her bag)

TERESE: I was thinking, you know. About the scarf —

MAYS: What. (throwing away her lipstick) So much for the Max Factor…

TERESE: I did not want you to give the scarf to Kali.

MAYS: Why?

TERESE: I liked the scarf. I thought you were giving it to me.

MAYS: Oh — OH…you know what we call that in the States? We call that Indian giving. HA isn’t that a laugh? India, Indian giving — I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize —

TERESE: No. See, this is a very good thing you’ve done. This whole trip, I have been searching and praying. Hoping for a sign. See, I am not happy teaching school. I have no patience with the children. I know, they are the future. But if this is true, then Lord forgive me, I am terrified. In this country, there is so much poverty. These children, they do not have enough food to think. I would say, even in the best classes, there is one in four who knows how to read, how to write. The attendance is bad. A child will be missing for weeks at a time, and then I find she has been making shoes in some factory.

MAYS: Or walking the streets—the oldest profession —

TERESE: I have been looking for signs about what I am doing wrong. Because, I must be doing something wrong to be so unhappy. God made us all to be happy, I think — and being unhappy is really no fault of His, it just means that we are trying to go against what He wants for us.

MAYS: You have been unhappy?

TERESE: I am saying, that I think God worked through you —

MAYS: Oh, come on…

TERESE: — to show me that I am getting far to attached to the things of this world — the scarf. This did not belong to me. I did not own it —

MAYS: It was stupid, I wasn’t thinking — I did sort of mean for you to have it — Wait. (pulls the scarf out of her knapsack) Here.

TERESE: You, you keep it. Those silly change purses. My father’s silver flask. My life. I do not want to own things. I do not want to be attached to books, or lessons, or attendance rolls. Or pencils or chalkboards or even students.

MAYS: What if — what if it wasn’t you that was messing up God’s plan. What if it were all the stupid people in the world that can’t figure out a way to pay the mother enough wages to make the shoes

so that the kid will have enough to eat, and the kid can stay in school. I mean, people make these situations, don’t you understand? If you leave it all up to God, you’re always going to be the victim —

TERESE: You think it’s easy to leave things up to God? No, my friend, you have to work to understand God’s will. You have to study, and pray, and listen, listen, with all your heart, all your soul —

MAYS: Yes, I want to help my fellow man. I’ll fight for my country, come to places like this rat infested hell hole and see my friends with their legs blown off and their sanity ripped from them ’cause of the horrors they’ve seen. We’ve got enough work to do here on earth, Sister, don’t you think? The Heavens will have to take care of themselves. (pause) Ogh, God. I think I’m going to be sick — (turns away and bends over) excuse —

TERESE: You eat too much —

MAYS: No, stupid, it’s morning sickness —

TERESE: Oh my, so soon? I had no idea —

MAYS: (recovering slightly)

It wasn’t from Lucky at the Cinderella, Christ! Why the hell do you think I’ve been roaming around India, anyway? I have a husband, okay? Back home in Baltimore. He’s a steel worker. I married him when I was 19. He’s not the father, okay? Get the picture? (beat) I’m okay, I’m okay. I think it’s going to pass —

TERESE: You will make a wonderful mother —

MAYS: Oh, please —

TERESE: You will, you will, like the way you took care me…and, of that girl, you have great love in you.

MAYS: That was different, that was urgent —

TERESE: But now, now, you are going to have a baby of your own. But how are you going to take care of that baby, so she does not end up like that pathetic prostitute —

MAYS: Who says I’m going to take care of any baby?

TERESE: What, you are going to give it up for adoption?

MAYS: Stop talking about the damn baby!

TERESE: You want to have the baby, do you not?

MAYS: I told you, I don’t know. I don’t know! I’m so stupid, too impulsive! That money that was supposed to be, supposed to be —

TERESE: For what?

(A train whistle blows, the train begins to approach the platform)

MAYS: For the pregnancy. To take care of the pregnancy.

TERESE: Oh, my. Oh, my —

MAYS: Yeah, I don’t know why I told you any of this. I’m perfectly aware of where the church stands on this particular issue —

TERESE: You think that with sexuality, you should have full freedom and no limits should be there? Sexuality is a lust and a need like food. But if I eat pastry everyday I get fat.

MAYS: Listen, it’s my body. I’ll do what I damn well please. Women have been doing it for ages. They don’t even use surgery here, it’s all medicinal, herbal or something —

TERESE: You do not want to do this thing. Look in your heart —

MAYS: You’re not making this any easier. This, this feeling, of being pregnant, it’s something else

entirely. To be full, full of life. But I have to be free to make a choice. There is still so much I want to do with my life —

TERESE: That is a life, too. Inside of you. It is a blessing. This, now, this truly is a mortal sin. You, you give it away, if you have to…but you cannot kill —

(Steam rushes in, surrounding them, and the rhythmic engine at rest still roars)

MAYS: I think this is where we part —

TERESE: I will pray for you. Pray for you to do the right thing —

MAYS: Please, for God’s sake, don’t pray for me, Sister. Pray for yourself. You think I’ve got wild ideas? Just you wait, until you’re a dried-up old women lying there yearning for Christ to come to you in a vision some night and take your maidenhead! Shit! (beat) You are an intelligent, lively, attractive woman. If you don’t want to be a teacher, don’t be a teacher. If you don’t want to be a nun, don’t be a nun. (beat) Look, I don’t know if you can understand this. But I don’t get any comfort out of the idea of some all powerful God controlling things. If I needed God, that would put me at his mercy, and that would make me weak. I can’t stand to be weak —

TERESE

I will always owe you for what you have done.

MAYS: Nice to meet you Sister. Have a great life.

(MAYS angrily salutes, and walks away. TERESE bows her head)

TERESE (cont.)

O most gracious Virgin Mary. Inspired with confidence I pray to you. O Mother of the word incarnate, despise not my petition, but in your clemency, hear and answer me. Help that woman. Amen.

(She takes a big breath, looks up, steps up for the train. Suddenly, she stops:)

TERESE (cont.)

Hello, sweet Jesus, is it you?

(TERESE looks up, in awe and wonder. There is the sound of heavenly music, and a bright white light envelops TERESE)

END ACT ONE

ACT TWO

(A bathroom in the Beijing International Conference Center, September, 1995. Artificial lighting and a row of bathroom stalls behind. A small stand represents a sink. TERESE enters in her signature white and blue habit, with an unassuming men’s sweater over top. She is now the iconic picture that we are all familiar with. She glances in the mirror for a moment: tired, still surprised by her age, but satisfied. She bends down and washes her hands in the unseen sink. MAYS enters, very slowly, now much heavier, white-haired, as in the final photos, in some kind of frumpy polyester outfit, save the Indian silk scarf from their first meeting, and a huge purse, big dark sunglasses, and walks with a cane. She savors the moment a bit, then speaks)

MAYS: Well, hello, Sister.

TERESE: Oh! You scared me…

MAYS: Think you’re the only gal who has to take a piss around here?

TERESE: Were there — guards outside?

MAYS: You think they could resist a little old lady? Especially one with a medical condition…

TERESE: (suddenly scared)

What do you want?

MAYS: Relax. I’m not here to hurt you, Sister…or, should I say — Mother?

TERESE: Do I know you?

MAYS: Don’t act like you don’t remember. (pause, as they stare each other down) ‘46. Darjeeling.

TERESE: For Heavens sake. Is it you?

MAYS: Who else?

TERESE: All these years… What are you doing here, in China?

MAYS: This is the place to be, isn’t it? A Conference on Women. The UN’s really un-done itself.

TERESE: Yes, it is, remarkable…all these women, sheesh. They cannot agree on anything.

MAYS: Some speech you made: Overpopulation, but no abortion — peace, but no freedom…Still toting the party line, after all these years.

TERESE: Well. It’s been very nice to see you —

MAYS: Not so fast. (cutting in front of her) All these years. I have followed your career…

TERESE: That’s very kind…

MAYS: Quite a hoopla you’ve got going…with these Missionaries of Charity —

TERESE: And what have you been up to?

MAYS: Come now. You’re not afraid of a little Atheist, are you? Don’t worry, we don’t bite —

TERESE: They call you the most hated woman in America.

MAYS: Yes. And proud of it. (beat) Do you hate me, too?

TERESE: Of course not. I love you. And so does Jesus.

MAYS: Poor deluded Terese.

TERESE: I am not deluded, I am blessed. Is that my scarf you are wearing?

MAYS: What?

TERESE: Is that it? The one from our big adventure —

MAYS: No!

TERESE: Yes, it is, the one with all the little busy people…

MAYS: My Gawd, how bizarre. I must have grabbed it. Subconsciously. I hardly ever wear it, you know. (beat) You want it back?

TERESE: No, no — it is for you. A gift. A — momento.

MAYS: Well aren’t you fucking noble.

TERESE: No need for such language. (beat) Tell me. Why did you take prayer away from children? They need it to be comforted, to have hope…

MAYS: I’m not against prayer! I’m for action! (beat) Shit. Take the Goddamn scarf, will you? Makes me sick —

(She rips the scarf from her neck. TERESE does not take it)

MAYS (cont.)

Or don’t. I don’t care. I really don’t care. (she stuffs it in her purse) You still owe me a favor.

TERESE: This is true. I would not have made it to Darjeeling with out you.

MAYS: You’re darn tootin.’

TERESE: I probably would have been found dead, if not for you…I was very sick. You put yourself at great risk…

MAYS: I know that, don’t you think I know that? There are a lot of things I am, but a murderer, I’m not. Although I have to say that I’ve questioned the decision many times, watching you inspire this insidious new age Christianity…

TERESE: If you have nothing good to say, than I’m afraid I must…

MAYS: Please! Wait. I’m sorry, truce, okay? Truce. Please. (beat) I’ve come to ask — I need — your help.

TERESE: What help could a Christian possibly be…

MAYS: I’m — in trouble. Big trouble. The police…they’re after me.

TERESE: What did you do?

MAYS: Nothing!

TERESE: How can I help?

MAYS: I — I don’t know, exactly. What I need, what I need is time. Safety. To figure out my next step.

TERESE: You are serious?

MAYS: I’ve been, well, framed, I guess is how you might put it. (beat) I didn’t know what else to do. I knew about this conference, I figured they wouldn’t be looking for me in China. I knew you would be here. I thought that maybe…you and I could…Never mind. This is crazy. Too much time. I’ll, just, be on my way. Sorry to bother you…

TERESE: No, wait. I’m interested. Please, go ahead.

MAYS: I didn’t come to you because you are Mother Teresa. I come to you as my only female friend. (long pause, the verge of tears). I don’t know why it is I’ve never been able to make good friends with people, particularly women. I’ve had some good relationships with men, that lasted, oh, maybe a few years…but women? Honestly, that time we spent in India, they were the only time I can remember, being happy together, with a woman. Feeling comfortable, understanding, having fun. We did have fun, didn’t we?

TERESE: Yes. It was fun.

MAYS: We really truly had a meeting of the minds…

TERESE: Of the soul…

MAYS: Oh, fuck soul…

TERESE: Don’t do that. Think of soul as all that you are, all the parts of you that are more than your mind, more than your emotions, more than your body…you do not have to be religious about it.

MAYS: What I’m trying to say, is, I think knowing you made me a better person. What happened out there in India, it changed me.

TERESE: It changed me, too.

MAYS: You made me feel…responsible. Responsible for something other than myself.

TERESE: Thank you. Thank you for what you say. It is very powerful. I have been around small women so much, I get sick of them. Stupid, many of them. Lazy. But you, you were something else. You made me try things. New things. Different things. Good things for me to know.

MAYS: You’ll be happy to know I had the baby.

TERESE: Praise Jesus!

MAYS: My son. Bill. And I have another son, Jon, and a daughter…Robin…

TERESE: Oh, that’s nice.

MAYS: Actually, she’s my granddaughter, Bill’s daughter. It’s complicated…

TERESE: Why can’t they help you?

MAYS: It’s, it’s a very long story…(swoons)…oh, my…I’ve got to sit down, I’m feeling faint…I left in such a rush, I seem to have misplaced my heart medication…

TERESE: Do you want me to call for someone?

MAYS: No, no, I don’t want to draw attention…seriously, there are Federal agents after me…and gawd knows who else… I can’t get caught, until I straighten this out…It’s alright. I’ll be alright.

TERESE: You really, truly, want my help?

MAYS: Yes. Please.

TERESE: Come with me.

MAYS: Right now?

TERESE: Yes. I was leaving, anyway.

MAYS: Forget it. What if I’m seen with you? I couldn’t bear those damn fundamentalists thinking I’ve converted…

TERESE: We go the back way, with my guards. Then to the airport.

MAYS: What about the others?

TERESE: We will tell them you are an old friend of mine, from, let’s say, the United Kingdom…can you speak with a British accent?

MAYS: They will believe that?

TERESE: They believe whatever I tell them. I am their Mother Superior.

MAYS: Well then, Cheerie-o! (testing out accent) So good to see you, Mother —

TERESE: It’s been a long time, old friend.

MAYS: We’ll have some bangers and mash, wot?

TERESE: Just like the Tower of London. Hmm. Take off your glasses. They are too much like the public image of you.

MAYS: I won’t be able to see…

(TERESE takes off MAYS glasses, takes off her sweater)

TERESE: Put this on.

MAYS: You’ve become a regular Jane Bond, haven’t you?

TERESE: Do you want my help or not? I am making great exception to my schedule for you. Put our scarf over your head.

(MAYS digs out the scarf out of her purse, puts it on her head, and ties it around her neck, awkwardly)

MAYS: Like this?

TERESE: Good enough. Now. Put your arm in mine, I will lead you…

MAYS: Slowly, slowly!

TERESE: Don’t forget, your accent.

MAYS: For crying out loud. What next?

TERESE: All God’s children need help sometime. This is nothing to be ashamed.

MAYS: So, where are off to?

TERESE: My dear friend. I am so happy to show you my work! To show you what good work I’ve been doing…

(TERESE leads out MAYS as the lights go brown. Up again on an airplane. Hum of engines, the tops of clouds hang below pristine blue outside. TERESE sits quietly, with her hands folded. MAYS, with regular glasses now, looks out the window, a drink in her hand. They sit across the aisle from each other)

MAYS: I can’t believe you have your own private jet.

TERESE: It was a gift. From the faithful. The money people say it is more cost effective. (pause) I like flying. It makes me feel closer to Heaven. Would you like another drink?

MAYS: I’m still nursing this one. So. I didn’t realize how comfortable you had become. We have this image of you in poor Calcutta, we don’t think of chauffeurs and security guards and Crown Royal.

TERESE: Ach, it’s all quite trying.

MAYS: Thank you. For doing this.

TERESE: I am simply paying you back.

MAYS: So. You made quite a change in your life, after our meeting. Left the school teaching.

TERESE: Yes. Right after you left, I had a miracle. A second calling.

MAYS: You mean, if I stayed, I could have met God, too?

TERESE: Who knows? (beat) Seriously. He came to me, and the whole station filled with white light. And I heard his voice: you must serve the poor, the destitute. You must dedicate your life to their well-being…

MAYS: Are you sure it didn’t have anything to do with the TB?

TERESE: What do you mean?

MAYS: You know, sometimes, people with fevers — hallucinate…

TERESE: Ah…he was there, I felt him…maybe the fever just helped me to see —

MAYS: You saw his face?

TERESE: No, God is, light…we cannot see him directly, we would be blinded…

MAYS: You heard of Freud? Jung?

TERESE: Of course. They do not really interest me.

MAYS: See, they might say that image of that girl we saw worked its way into your subconscious. That she might have had something to do with your calling…

TERESE: I don’t remember…

MAYS: You don’t remember the one you gave the change purses to?

TERESE: Oh…that girl…outside the Kali…

MAYS: Yes, the one I made you go and face. The burnt prostitute. One could say that she gave you your calling.

TERESE: Or you did, by making me face her, so. But could you not have been sent by God as well?

MAYS: Gawd knows how I wanted to spill that story…but I promised you, I never would…and I never did. But you and I both know what happened…

TERESE: And God…He knows, too…It is common practice, still, when a girl, she is raped, or violated…the fathers, the brothers…they burn her, because she is dishonored. And then they leave her there, in the street, no hope, no kindness. I thought then all it meant was she had sold herself. So naive. (pause) Tell me about the trial. The one you’re famous for.

MAYS: I was shamed into it by my son, Bill — he was 14 then — and said: “Mother, you’ve said you’re an Atheist for a long time. Well, I don’t believe in God either, but every day I go to school and have to say prayers, and I feel like a hypocrite.” I couldn’t answer him.

TERESE: So you took the issue all the way to the Supreme Court.

MAYS: I sure as hell didn’t anticipate the tidal wave of hatred that thundered down on me.

TERESE: Tell me about it.

MAYS: God, where should I begin? I was fired from my job at the welfare department. I tried to find work, but the moment I said my name, they’d say the job was filled. Then there was our mail, full of abusive letters from good Christians all over, calling me a bitch and a Lesbian and a Communist. I’m not a Communist. I told my kids once I want three words on my tombstone. Woman, Atheist, Anarchist. That’s me.

TERESE: Perhaps God made you to change the structures of society —

MAYS: An Atheist loves himself and his fellowman. An Atheist knows that heaven is something for which we should work now — here on earth.

TERESE: It sounds a lot like church.

MAYS: Like Hell it is!

TERESE: You have members?

MAYS: Over 50,000 members world-wide.

TERESE: We have millions.

MAYS: It’s not the same.

TERESE: You have meetings?

MAYS: Yes, and conferences. But we educate people, and lobby for free speech — help free them from negative beliefs —

TERESE: You convert.

MAYS: No, we teach .

TERESE: You teach them what you believe —

MAYS: What science and logic proves!

TERESE: Now I break our deal. I want to tell you about how the organization of the Catholic Church is the infallible plan for mankind.

MAYS: Oh, goodie, let’s hear it!

TERESE: It started in the beginning, and has been rolling out ever since. Think about how the Church has focused people, over time…how it has collected knowledge, and yes, wealth, and helped people learn to read, established all kinds of order across the entire globe. How could something so powerful, so old, so permanent, not be created by something greater than man?

MAYS: But why have so many people been hurt in the Church’s name?

TERESE: This is very important to realize that love, to be true, has to hurt. It hurt Jesus to love us. We hurt him.

MAYS: When are we going to stop hurting people in the name of religion and love?

TERESE: You are hurting me now.

(There is a strong bout of turbulence, and the two jostle about)

MAYS: SHIT! My whiskey! (The engines whir unhappily, then the plane comes again into balance.) I don’t think that love has to be filled with pain.

(MAYS tries to wipe off herself. TERESE hands her some napkins from her pocket)

TERESE: Let’s not talk old business. Let’s talk logistics. So. Why exactly are they after you?

MAYS: It’s a mess. A fiasco. (beat) There is a lot of money missing from my organization. They think I took it…

TERESE: Who is they?

MAYS: The Federal Government, the media…my own people…

TERESE: Did you?

MAYS: Hell no. It’s a nonprofit, the money doesn’t belong to me. I’m a lot of things, but a thief, I’m not.

TERESE: Do you have any idea where the money is…?

MAYS: No. And there is more. My children — My children have disappeared. Jon and Robin…

TERESE: What do you think happened?

MAYS: I don’t know. I got this phone call. From this jerk, this nobody, this business associate, used to be my office manager, I recognized his voice right away. Waters is his name. He’s a criminal, got a criminal record, but those are the only people that will work for me, criminals and chicken fuckers.

TERESE: Please —

MAYS: Sorry. So, he says, give him $600,000 or he would kill Jon and Robin. So I called the bank, to see about the money, and found that the money was already missing. And I asked them where it went, and the bank said that Jon withdrew the funds. Jon himself, that very morning. Why would Waters call me about the money if Jon already gave it to him? And I, I don’t know, I just went bonkers, jumped in my car, and went driving…got on a plane in Houston…came to Beijing.

TERESE: You think that your son and daughter — stepdaughter…

MAYS: Granddaughter…

TERESE: They took the money and ran away?

MAYS: I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t bear to believe that. Then I think, what if Waters kidnapped them, and MADE Jon take out that money…and was just checking to make sure there wasn’t any more…

TERESE: Then why wouldn’t he have just said that?

MAYS: I don’t know. God, I can’t bear to think that my own children…

TERESE: Why haven’t you gone to the police…

MAYS: The Atheists think we all took the money, and by then the FBI was getting involved…

TERESE: This is too much. So. What are you going to do next?

MAYS: I don’t know. I don’t know.

TERESE: Do you have any other money?

MAYS: Not much. Some gold, a little cash left in a bank account in New Zealand…

TERESE: Did your children know about it?

MAYS: Sure, they knew about everything…I could use another drink now, thank you…

TERESE: New Zealand. That’s where we will go.

(We hear the plane dive as the lights go brown. The seats become a room full of empty bed with pillows. One has a single flower placed on it. Ocean sounds. A blank wall with a small unadorned window, through which we see the sea. It is a homeless Shelter of the Missionaries of Charity in New Zealand. TERESE leads MAYS around by the arm—she’s a tad bit tipsy)

TERESE (cont.)

And this is the room for the alcoholics. There are many sad alcoholics here in New Zealand…Indigenous peoples—

MAYS: That’s no excuse for being a drunkard.

TERESE: Ah, see, if you learn to hold back that anger, you can listen to what it really there. (TERESE pulls out her silver flask again, and gives it to MAYS, who continues to drink during the following) What is your culture made up of?

MAYS: Art, literature, technology, science….

TERESE: And who created this culture…

MAYS: Men.

TERESE: Many men. Who come up with a history of things, not of individual people. See, that is the problem. One man, this is not the problem. One man, he is a Maori, he has lost his culture. He has tattoos on his face, in a world where tattoos are not desirable on people’s faces. He lives in a land that once was his, but now belongs to the English…

MAYS: Bloody hell.

TERESE: These English, they are harder to tend to than to the people in Calcutta. The people in Calcutta, they say, “Mother, I’m hungry,” and I feed them. But the people here, in Christchurch, they problems are much deeper, down to their hearts. It’s hard to get them to trust you. It takes time.

MAYS: Oh, boy. I have to sit down now, it’s my hip…

(MAYS sits on bed)

TERESE: Please don’t sit there…

MAYS: What?

TERESE: Oh, my. There is something wrong here. (Calling off) Sister? Who’s in charge here…

MAYS: I’m sorry, I have to…sit…

TERESE: Okay, sit. Sit.

MAYS: What? what is it? Something about this bed?

TERESE: (calling off)

Sister? Sister? Where is the one who…(she picks the flower off the pillow)

MAYS: What does that mean?

TERESE: There was a man here…a very beautiful man…

MAYS: See sister, I knew you had a fire down below…

TERESE: This was…this was his bed.

MAYS: You wanted me to meet him? I’m touched…

TERESE: I should have been here. (pause) He is with Jesus now, and he is happy. I should not be sad…

MAYS: But you are.

TERESE: No, not for him. Just…that I could not be in more places all at once.

MAYS: So. This is your work. Helping people die.

TERESE: I know the sisters, they do as good as me. It will be alright, I think. That I was not here, holding his hand.

MAYS: Tell me about him.

TERESE: This man. He—he drove a car when he was drunk, and crashed into a tree, and they were all killed. His wife and children. All but him.

MAYS: How awful.

TERESE: Yes. Often times, you see people with the drinking sickness, and, you don’t really understand why they are suffering so much to do this terrible thing. But this, this Maori man, you could see. He had a sorrow 90 miles long.

MAYS: He had tattoos and everything?

TERESE: Yes. (beat). He was a strong man. A handsome man. A warrior. The Maori are a very proud people, with very old traditions. So, one day, this man, he came to us. For food. He had lost everything, his family, his job, his home. And he was quite mean at first, yelling at the sisters for a sweet potato. But one day I was visiting and saw him, and I went over to him. And I said, “I will give you food. But only if you tell me your story.” And at first, he resisted. He told me of being a little boy on the beach, and of learning the art of his people, of carving and fighting, and of falling in love, and of having to take a job in the city building buildings when the first baby came.

MAYS: Go on…

TERESE: He did not stay with us, then. Later, he came back, he had been in a fight, and had a bad stab wound in his stomach. As he lay there, in that bed, he told me about the Creation story of his people, at least as much as he could remember from his childhood days. Of how the Sky was torn apart from the Earth by their own children, the sea and the forest and the fishes and the wind, and how the one who did the most damage was spirit which became man, the guardian of war. He was a bad son. He wanted to kill the Sky and the Earth. And he fought to rule all the other children, until he was the most powerful of all. The only sibling Man did not conquer was the Wind.

MAYS: We still haven’t tamed the weather.

TERESE: But another thing. He said that the Wind and War had had a daughter, and that she was so ashamed that her father was a man, that she went down to the underworld to live forever, to pave the way for all the people that would come after her.

MAYS: Interesting. The Persephone myth. And you didn’t make him say 10 Hail Mary’s…

TERESE: I listened, and told him that Jesus loved him…and the Wind loved him…

MAYS: Ooooh. And you?

TERESE: And that I loved him too…loved him because — and I know you will find this hard to understand: but he was Jesus, right there in front of me. I could see Jesus right there in his eyes.

MAYS: Then what happened?

TERESE: He said, “Someone loves me!” And he seemed so beautiful, so strong, like he could just walk right out and tame the sea.

MAYS: But you did not cure him.

TERESE: No. Apparently, we did not. (beat) I’m glad, I’m glad he passed away before the maggots started, they will start before the rest is gone. I’m sure he had a beautiful death, going to the daughter of the Wind…

MAYS: Not to Jesus…

TERESE: I cannot see how that matters. He believed in something. That is enough. (beat) I think, my friend, I understand you better now. (beat) You are like my Savior…you have come to save me. I have a proposal for you. And you must not laugh.

MAYS: What is it?

TERESE: What if you were to take over my order.

MAYS: You’ve got to be kidding —

TERESE: No, you see…I’m old. I’m ill. I won’t last forever.

MAYS: I can’t believe my ears.

TERESE: I’ve tried and tried. There is no one. The girls, they try, but they are like sheep…here I am, so close to God, and there is no one…all I built, all I worked for —

MAYS: That would go completely against —

TERESE: Think about it. We are now in 129 countries, 562 tabernacles. We are now all over the world giving that tender love and care for the dying, for the crippled, for the mental – and we have now many places and offer homes for people suffering with AIDS. And you know how difficult this is with all these young people. It is wonderful to see the hunger of people – to love and to serve Jesus in the poorest of the poor. You see, there is even Jesus in you —

MAYS: How can you say such a thing —

TERESE: I know what you really want. And I respect what you have accomplished. You and I know, that if I don’t go to heaven for anything else it will be for all the publicity. Your organization does not want you any more. But mine, mine is ready…I can feel that this is a moment of spiritual awakening for you…think of the influence you will have. My order answers directly to the Pope. We have riches beyond your wildest imagination. You can, reconcile with your estranged son, whom you so obviously still love…

MAYS: But all I worked for…all I sacrificed —

TERESE: It was the hurt of loving Jesus, only you did not know it. Much of what you stood for can still be cradled in belief…freedom, love for the world…imagine the power you would have…

MAYS: The way you put it, it’s — tempting.

TERESE: The personal love Christ has for you is infinite. The small difficulty you have regarding the church is finite.

MAYS: Small difficulty!

TERESE: Simply overcome the finite with the infinite! Miracles do happen…

MAYS: Terese, I’m having a ball here, but…

TERESE: Tell me that when I feel pain, you do not feel it? When I feel love and joy, you do not share this? You are like a second self, do you not feel the same way?

MAYS: Hold on there, Terese…(giving back the flask) That’s a little too much mumbo-jumbo for me…

TERESE: I have this strange vision, that I could not have done the things I have done on earth, without you, fighting, on the other side. See, I have not really suffered very much. I have always had all I need, and more, too much, really. Even the Pope has made exceptions for me. It’s all been somehow… too… easy…

MAYS: Hey, come on, my suffering, however strange it may be, has nothing to do with you.

TERESE: What if mankind never learns to love God like he should? I am very worried about who will have to pay for all these sins…

MAYS: That’s why I’m here, sister. I’m the fall back plan: Love your fellow man. (pause) Listen. You obviously have quite a set up here, I’m very impressed. But, if you’ll recall, I have some business to attend to. Do you have a phone? Maybe, maybe I should call home, check see again if there have been any new messages…

TERESE: Of course. That way, the sister will show you.

(MAYS exits. TERESE sits on the bed and, after a moment)

TERESE (cont.)

Mary, Mother of Jesus, give me your heart so beautiful, so pure, so immaculate, so full of

love and humility that I may be able to receive Jesus in the Bread of Life, love Him as You

loved Him and serve Him as You served Him in the distressing disguise of the poorest of the poor.

(MAYS returns: her face is pale)

MAYS: It’s Waters. He has the children. I heard their voices. He says he will kill them if I don’t come.

TERESE: I will take you. Let us go.

(MAYS exits. The lights dim. A beam of light comes through an open window. A hospital room in Calcutta. Muslim chanting in the background. TERESE lays in a bed, near death, covered in a white sheet. Light pours in the window)

TERESE (cont.)

Praise Mary, Mother of Jesus, and your heart so beautiful, so pure, so immaculate. Let us start a perpetual adoration. Each one of us is a co-worker of Christ – we must labor hard to carry Him to the hearts where He has not yet been known and loved. Unless we have Jesus, every minute of every hour of every day, we cannot give Him. It is not hard to start a perpetual adoration. It is a prayer that goes on and on forever. Keep it in a separate place, a nice alcove, a grotto, where Jesus can be calm and safe. There are only one-hundred and sixty eight hours in a week, so you only need that many people to do it. Well, three-hundred and thirty six would be better. Jesus would like it most if there are two there to keep him company.

(MAYS enters quietly, and sits at her side: She is young again, thin, boisterous, restored. She is in her Army uniform, but it is all white)

MAYS: May I give you some water?

TERESE: Who’s there? I cannot see.

(MAYS helps TERESE drink from a cup with a straw)

TERESE: Mmm. You are an angel.

MAYS: First time I’ve been called that.

TERESE: I need to know. Is there any hope —

MAYS: Hope for what, Mother?

TERESE: Hope for peace. For mankind.

MAYS: Who am I to say.

TERESE: Mays? Is that you?

MAYS: Now, how did you know that?

TERESE: I had a dream about you.

MAYS: I know that dream. I had it, too.

TERESE: They told me…you were dead.

MAYS: Perhaps. I might just be missing.

TERESE: It’s not too late for you. Let me help you find meaning —

MAYS: Why do you want to help me at all?

TERESE: Because, as I’ve said a million times before, I love you.

MAYS: You cannot love me — I have done too many bad things —

TERESE: It does not matter, love is love — but you shouldn’t have done those bad things. What if I could show you Jesus, would you try to believe then?

MAYS: You can’t show me Jesus.

TERESE: But I can —

MAYS: Mother —

TERESE: Look at me. Very, very hard. See if you can see him in me, like I’ve taught you.

(MAYS tries. Looks at TERESE intently for a moment)

MAYS: I see beauty and strength and courage.

TERESE: Ah, see!

MAYS: It’s just you, Mother…I see you.

TERESE: You are not looking hard enough.

MAYS

What would it take YOU to change your mind? To know there is nothing more than what is?

TERESE: Why would you want me to?

MAYS: So you can see the truth — that there is no Heaven. No God. Only now.

TERESE: This is a sad sentiment indeed.

MAYS: Maybe there are multiple truths. How can you look at this wide wild world and believe otherwise?

TERESE: Are you young again?

MAYS: I must say, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

TERESE: Are you the devil?

MAYS: I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking about things, and it seems to me that the devil is a pretty good teacher, in most cases — of how not to live your life. And we’ve both met him, haven’t we.

TERESE: Why are you here?

MAYS: I didn’t want to see you die alone.

TERESE: Good. That is very good, Mays. It is not food or medicine or housing that is the worst poverty. The worse poverty is lack of love. Being unwanted is the worst disease of all.

MAYS: Save your breath. You’re going to need it.

(TERESE’s head falls. Lights go down. The stage goes bear. MAYS reenters, leading TERESE, still old, to a smoky place, with barb-wired fence and mounds of dirt. They are outside of Skopje, Macedonia, near the Bosnian border. Sounds of warfare pound in distance)

TERESE (cont.)

Where are we? Why are we walking …

MAYS: Let’s say, Jesus told me to do it.

TERESE: I was sleeping so soundly…dreaming…

MAYS: Breathe…the air is good for you…

TERESE: Wait. I recognize this place…what is that sound? Gunfire?

MAYS: It is war again, the type of human thing that cannot be explained by your idea of God…

TERESE: This is…my home?

MAYS: You left when you were 18.

TERESE: Yes…

MAYS: You never came back.

TERESE: Are those soldiers? I…I don’t like it here. Let’s go back…

MAYS: You said you were from Macedonia.

TERESE: Yes…what is, that hole?

MAYS: But you’re really Albanian…Skopje, 20 miles from the border of modern Bosnia.

TERESE: Yes…this is not a secret…don’t you see, ahead, it’s a ditch…be careful…

MAYS: A good Catholic girl in a country full of Muslims. And the massacres committed by Serbians against Albanians were already well established when you were a child.

TERESE: They thought it was their holy land…Kosovo —

MAYS: But it was your home, too, and an Albanian Province, for thousands of years before Serbs captured it —

TERESE: How do you know these things?

MAYS: I’ve done my research. One of the benefits of an open mind.

TERESE: Yes, it’s true.

MAYS: Is that why you left to join the convent?

TERESE: No, no — it was nothing to do with that. Me, I had, my calling — my first…

MAYS: These calling s seem to have suspiciously tangible predicating events. Your father was a merchant, a man of wealth — wouldn’t he have been among the first?

TERESE: All I wanted to do was to serve —

MAYS: Why didn’t you stay there. With your family —

TERESE: It, it wasn’t safe —

MAYS: I have a theory. Your father, was an activist for the Albanian Resistance. One night, they took him away — you never saw him again. You were 14, maybe 16 — Maybe the men came in. Maybe they did things to you…is it possible, Terese?

TERESE: Ten. I was ten. (beat) How could I fight. I am, I am so small.

MAYS: Where was your Jesus then —

TERESE: He was there. He saved me.

MAYS: So, you left. To save yourself. (beat) Why didn’t you do something? You had the world at your ear so many times — and yet you never mentioned — never visited —why did it take th e world so many years to expose what was really going on in Kosovo?

TERESE: Why do you make me think of this. I have not thought of this in years —

MAYS: Because I love truth. And so do you.

TERESE: I never told the truth. About my people. About my father. (beat) That is a great sin.

MAYS: But your Jesus will forgive you, right? And this, from the woman who won the Nobel fucking Peace Prize — Admit it, you abandoned your people, and never fucking looked back.

TERESE: And, all these years…all these many, many years…they continued…the ditch, what is in that ditch? (see sees, crumbles to her knees) Oh, my, hundreds of brothers and hundreds of sisters…there is no God here, no joy, there is nothing but cold emptiness…

MAYS: Is this how you show love? Is this the kind of good work Mother Teresa does?

TERESE: I did not know how to fight. I could not, could not help…thousands…hundreds of thousands…a million of my peoples…(she cries)

MAYS: Without the courage to tell the truth, to have an opinion, even one that goes against what the vast unwashed majority wants you to believe, this kind of nonsense might have gone on forever, without anyone else in the world ever knowing…

TERESE: I am a sinner, an abomination…

MAYS: Don’t look to me for redemption, Sister. Listen. (more sounds of war) After all these years, we are still are fighting. Tell me now, if your God is merciful.

(MAYS exits, leaving TERESE alone. TERESE after a moment, sings, slowly, as if remembered from her childhood: The Albanian National Anthem)

TERESE

Together, all hearts for the nation,

With one desire and one goal

We pledge to fight for our salvation

Our word of honor from our soul.

Pity, the devil born a traitor

who turns his back to those in need

Our countrymen are all born brave

And fall, until we all are freed.

For God above has blessed our fatherland

While other nations fall from sight

Albania shall carry on

For her, for her will we fight.

(The lights go to brown. TERESE exits. Lights up strong on the Texas Hill Country. A panorama of bluebonnets, prickly pears, and rolling green. MAYS carries her big bag, now also white. She pulls out a canteen and takes a sip. She salutes.)

MAYS: I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America.

And to the Republic, for which it stands, one Nation, under Law,

Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All.

(She begins to sing)

MAYS (cont.)

There’s….a…yellow rose of Texas

That I am going to see,

No other feller knows her,

No other, only me.

She cried so when I left her,

It like to break my heart,

And if I ever find her

We never more will part.

TERESE (off)

Mays?

MAYS: Terese?

TERESE (off)

Mays! Where are you?

MAYS

Over here! I knew you’d find me, eventually…

(TERESE, enters, young again as well, underneath her white habit, now without its trace of blue)

TERESE: Ach, my feet hurt. I feel like I’ve walked halfway around the world.

MAYS: You have. Want a sip?

TERESE: No thank you, I have my own. (she takes out her metal flask)

MAYS: (proposes a toast)

To saintly women and sinning ladies.

TERESE: May we leave our mark on the world. (they clink their canteen and flask, and sip) I am only a woman, not a saint.

MAYS: Not yet, anyway.

TERESE: (looks around)

So this is Texas.

MAYS: Yep.

TERESE: It looks a little like Italy. It is very beautiful, much greener than I imagined —

MAYS: Yes, everyone thinks it’s a dessert, but there’s plenty of water here — and trees — and roses, roses do nice — (beat) I am ever aware of air conditioned rooms and automobiles, hot water, and clean sheets. (beat) I can perhaps acknowledge a feeling of goodness, all around us, in us, through us, but I can’t get past this God thing. Shit. I’m an optimist for mankind!

TERESE: All of us are but His instruments, we do our little bit, and pass by. Like poor Princess Diana…

MAYS: Gawd, I’m so sick of that little rich bitch.

TERESE: What happened, with your children…

MAYS: Bill is born again.

TERESE: Oh! (catching herself from laughing) I’m sorry.

MAYS: He’s saying awful things about me. That I worshiped false idols! That I had sex with animals.

TERESE: You didn’t, did you?

MAYS: I refuse to answer that, on the grounds that it is ridiculous.

TERESE: So what happened?

MAYS: One of the men…a friend of Waters …confessed. He was in prison already for another crime…

TERESE: What does that mean?

MAYS: Neither one of them will be tried for killing us. They got Jon and Robin, too. Don’t know where they are though, haven’t seen them yet. But the American Atheists, they know I didn’t steal. My name is clear, at least with them. (beat) Well, this isn’t an afterlife, if that’s what you’re thinking…

TERESE: It’s not?

MAYS: Hell no. We’re just part of the collective unconsciousness. Figures in the public domain. Our lives have personas of their own, now. (beat) They’re going to have a hard time following you up. (beat) Look at my life. What a debacle. I failed in marriage, in motherhood, and as a politician — They still think I’m trying to shut down Christian Radio…they send out e-mails about me…

TERESE: What is an e-mail…

MAYS: They don’t even know I’m dead —

TERESE: Now, now, do not be so hard on yourself. They say bad things about me, too. That I took money from dictators. That I horde things. That I practice medicine without a license.

MAYS: That’s ridiculous. People are animals. Not even as good as animals. Look at this earth, it’s a total mess. (beat) Why did I think I could make a difference. Did I make a difference? Did we?

TERESE: I think you have a job to do, just like me — every time someone says our names, we will have to help them find love. Me of God, and you of Man. One by one by one.

MAYS: I can’t help but feel like this is some terrible eternal price to pay for our fame…

TERESE: Shh. It’s not up to us. Just be silent. Enjoy the view

MAYS: I think Atheism may be done for this time in human history. (beat) But maybe they’ll remember me when reason comes back in fashion. (beat) I just wish — all that while — I had found someone — who really, truly loved me. (beat) I don’t think I really know how to love. (beat) What is your secret, Terese?

TERESE: Smile. Just, smile.

(TERESE smiles and looks around. A pause. Sound of thunder in the distance)

MAYS: Wouldn’t you figure. Texas weather. Come on. We better head for those hills.

TERESE: Looks like home.

MAYS: There are some interesting caves that way. And a lovely little spring over there — and then there’s Mexico City…

TERESE: I’ve always wanted to meet Our Lady of Guadalupe – The Mexican Virgin Mary.

MAYS: Hell, yes…We’ll meet Our Lady. And there’s more….a whole wild world —

TERESE: Come my friend. We’ll go together.

(TERESE smiles at MAYS, and puts out her hand. MAYS smiles back, widely, and clasps it, and they walk off, together, hand in hand. Thunder.)

END OF PLAY

CHARACTERS

EMILY JANE BRONTË– Poet, at age 21, and soon-to-be author of a single novel, Wuthering Heights. Tall. Brooding. Insecure.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË– The oldest sister, author of Jane Eyre. Most popular of the three sisters. Practical. Plain. Responsible.

ANNE BRONTË– The youngest sister. Religious, but also quite passionate, and somewhat vain.

WILLIAM WEIGHTMAN– A young curate between 25-35. Sometimes described with red hair.

SETTINGS

The courtyard/graveyard of Haworth Parsonage, The Brontë’s living room, a lecture hall, and the ever-present Yorkshire moors.

TIME

1839-1842, collapsed. A very specific incident at an early point in their development. The scenes are continuous in two acts.

PRODUCTION NOTES

The setting dissolved quickly from place to place with simple lighting, exits and entrances, like a piece of chamber music. In fact, the liberal use of music is encouraged. Type, either classical or contemporary, should be determined in relation to the total production design, which may be selected realism or simply abstract. Costuming best be iconic: the women keep the same period dresses throughout: Weightman might have a fancy vest and a darker one. Anne might sport a parasol, Charlotte and Emily aprons and shawls that they take on and off. The pace should be lively and precise. The dialect need not be severe nor Irish in any respect, just a good solid standard British, easy on the audience’s ear.

ACT ONE

AT RISE: Music. In the background, a suggestion of the shadowy landscape of Yorkshire, England — scrubby hills and pastures marred by rocky outcrops. This is the dominant scenic element. Even when scenes are set inside and around various locations, this mystical countryside fills in for walls and doors.

(Fade up on the graveyard next to the living quarters of Haworth Parsonage. We see the edge of a short, stone wall and a number of slab-like gravestones. EMILY BRONTË lies on the ground, knees bent, feet slicing the air, with a paper and a pen, writing. She wears a simple dress of the 1830’s. Music fades. Her rosewood writing desk is open beside her)

EMILY: July the 30th, 1839. A secret diary paper to be opened four years in the future—that is, if all be well. It is Wednesday morning, about nine o’clock. The weather is wild and rainy, but I don’t mind. I have a good many books on hand, but I make small progress with any. I mean to do great things. (more dogs bark in the distance) And now I close, sending from far an exhertation of courage…

CHARLOTTE: (offstage) Where are you…birthday girl?

EMILY: Ex-her-ta-tion?

CHARLOTTE: (offstage) Twenty-one can still have fun…

EMILY: Exhortation of courage. (makes the ‘e’ into an ‘o’) Courage to the exiled and harassed Anne. For her eyes only. Emily Jane Brontë.

(EMILY gathers up her writing desk, sits up on a gravestone. CHARLOTTE BRONTË enters. She is more controlled and serene than her sister, but romantic, with a touch of frill. She wears spectacles and walks in little steps. She carries a basket of damp laundry, which she will lay out to dry)

CHARLOTTE: There you are, odd thing. What shall we do for your special day?

EMILY: Looks as though we’ll do the wash.

CHARLOTTE: (pulls something out of pile of clothes) Here’s a present. Couldn’t afford the wrap…

EMILY: A book of Shelley?

CHARLOTTE: Did you think that I’d forgot?

EMILY: I don’t remember celebrating yours.

CHARLOTTE: Did you tend to Papa this morning?

EMILY: I put out his cakes and tea…

CHARLOTTE: What were you writing? About the land of Gondal?

EMILY: Give me the laundry.

CHARLOTTE: Let me see.

EMILY: It’s private.

CHARLOTTE: Please? Pretty please….

EMILY: (as she tucks the letter in her apron) No, I told you.

CHARLOTTE: You never let me look anymore. Our imagination is dead. I worry that mine is, anyway. (beat) Darling. You make me fret. Why won’t you be more loving?

EMILY: I am invulnerable to love. (pause) What are we going to do about Anne? We can’t leave her in that terrible place to rot.

CHARLOTTE: Blake Hall is an excellent position. The Inghams pay quite handsomely…

EMILY: But she can’t abide working as a governess!

CHARLOTTE: Neither can I.

EMILY: But, she’s suffering…

CHARLOTTE: Nonsense. It will give her character. Would you wish to replace her?

EMILY: Don’t be daft. I won’t leave Papa.

CHARLOTTE: It’s a terrible fact. Some must work, and some must run the household…

EMILY: I couldn’t live in with strangers. You know how I am—

CHARLOTTE: Perhaps I don’t know you at all. How is anyone to know you when you constantly cloister yourself away? You’re always hiding out-of-doors…

EMILY: I don’t mean to hurt you, Charlotte. Honestly, I don’t. It’s merely that I long to be free.

CHARLOTTE: Free from what?

EMILY: Free from common existence. From earthy wants and needs. I cannot tolerate the petty details.

CHARLOTTE: But it’s the petty details that are most important. Until you understand that, you’ll never truly be free—

EMILY: I heard a pack of wild dogs morning.

CHARLOTTE: There are not any wild dogs in all Yorkshire.

(EMILY jumps up and darts around the gravestones)

CHARLOTTE: (cont.) Where are you going?

EMILY: La-lala-lala-la. Catch me if you can.

CHARLOTTE: Honestly, Em. Show some respect—

EMILY: What respect. You lay the laundry here to dry.

CHARLOTTE: What if Papa sees?

EMILY: He won’t. He’s going blind! (beat) Come now. It’s my birthday.

CHARLOTTE: All right then. I’ll play! What are we doing?

EMILY: Why — looking for a husband, of course. Here’s one. Father. Born 1801. Ohh, he’s a chipper chap…

(While CHARLOTTE lays out the laundry, EMILY hides herself from CHARLOTTE’s view)

CHARLOTTE: Uh. This yard completely unsettles me. It’s so awfully Gothic! Have you finished that story by Mary Shelley? To think, bringing life back from the dead. And that pitiful Creature, so — misunderstood. Why can’t novels end happily? Shouldn’t the reader have some hope for beauty and a proper redemption — Emmy? Oh, you! Come out, slowly, and I promise I won’t have a fit. Emmy? Emily!

EMILY: (finally popping out behind CHARLOTTE, sheet around her head) Arrrggghhh!

CHARLOTTE: Oh, I hate you! You know I do!

EMILY: (with scary voice) I am the ghost of romantic love, come to chain down your heart!

CHARLOTTE: The way I see it, marriage should be a rational choice. A woman should never fall in love before her vows, and then, only six-months-to-a-year after.

EMILY: Charlotte! Let’s take on the characters of the dead and haunt the weary Earth!

WEIGHTMAN: (off) Hallo? Is anyone about?

EMILY: What now?

CHARLOTTE: Sounds like a man.

EMILY: We don’t know any men.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, that’s right. Papa said something about a visitor…

EMILY: Why didn’t you tell me?

CHARLOTTE: Didn’t want to trouble you with petty details…

WEIGHTMAN: (off) You there! Can you take my horse…

(EMILY grabs her writing desk and heads off)

EMILY: I have to beat the rugs.

CHARLOTTE: (Stopping her) Be sociable for a change. (pulling at EMILY’s dress) Straighten up!

EMILY: Spikes and nails!

CHARLOTTE: (rubbing her own cheeks) How do I look?

EMILY: Like you always look.

CHARLOTTE: Be nice. He’ll be here and gone in a moment. (looks off-whispers) Oh, look. He’s the picture of “Mr. Darcy!”

EMILY: I hate Jane Austen.

(WILLIAM WEIGHTMAN enters. He is in his early twenties, bright, handsome, but also slightly to eager or clumsy, but his fashionable clothes are somewhat disheveled from his ride. He carries a large bag. CHARLOTTE stands boldly forward. EMILY shrinks away)

WEIGHTMAN: Pardon me, Misses.

CHARLOTTE: Good morning, may we help you?

WEIGHTMAN: Perhaps. I’m looking for the Reverend Brontë?

CHARLOTTE: And why, may I ask?

WEIGHTMAN: Th-that is a question I hope he can answer…

CHARLOTTE: Hmm. Mysterious. Where do you hail from?

WEIGHTMAN: Well, I—I’m originally from Appleby, but I’ve just finished at Dunham University—

CHARLOTTE: Indeed. And what was your subject?

WEIGHTMAN: The Classics, mainly. And of course, Theology.

CHARLOTTE: My, my. A learnéd man. (To EMILY) Well now, sis. What do you say? (EMILY drops her writing desk and scrambles to pick it up. WEIGHTMAN notices, continues to keep an eye on her) Forgive my sister. She’s “a mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.”

WEIGHTMAN: That’s Wordsworth.

CHARLOTTE: Ooh. You’re quick!

WEIGHTMAN: I had the good fortune to hear him speak recently.

CHARLOTTE: How thrilling. I find his poems the pinnacle of wisdom and beauty.

WEIGHTMAN: He even signed my book.

CHARLOTTE: How refreshing to meet someone with whom to discuss belles lettres!

WEIGHTMAN: Would you like to see? I think I have it with me, somewhere…

(WEIGHTMAN searches through his bag. EMILY is burning with discomfort)

CHARLOTTE: This is a day, this is a special day indeed….

WEIGHTMAN: This is the right place? I stopped for directions… but…

CHARLOTTE: The Haworth dialect’s rather hard to muddle through.

WEIGHTMAN: You’re not from here, then…do I detect an Irish lilt?

CHARLOTTE: No, no. Papa’s taught us well, we’re not Irish, really, born in Bradford…

WEIGHTMAN: Bradford, eh? (gives up on bag) Oh, well. Sorry. I cannot seem to find it.

CHARLOTTE: Pity.

WEIGHTMAN: Hmm. Perhaps it is in my trunk. It should be arriving here in just a few days…

CHARLOTTE: No matter. So what exactly is the purpose of your vi—your trunk?

WEIGHTMAN: Why, it holds my possessions…

CHARLOTTE: Pardon me, I’m — confused…

WEIGHTMAN: I believe the Reverend Brontë is expecting me…

CHARLOTTE: Yes, yes, he said we’d have a visit…Oh. I see. (aside, To EMILY) He must be Papa’s new curate from the church!

EMILY: (mouthing the words only) Oh no!

WEIGHTMAN: If you say so, I must be. But you couldn’t possibly be The Reverend’s daughters—

CHARLOTTE: Certainly we are.

WEIGHTMAN: But clergymen’s daughters are notoriously plain.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, a flatterer, have we? (quite un-amused now) Papa did not tell me the true nature of your business. I’m Miss Brontë. And this also is Miss Brontë. Welcome to Haworth Parsonage. Mr.—

WEIGHTMAN: Weightman. William Weightman.

CHARLOTTE: Weightman. A substantial name. Curates stay in the cottage by the chapel. Laundry is due Friday for delivery before the Sunday service…

WEIGHTMAN: Do I detect a shift in tone—

CHARLOTTE: Over there is the pantry and the kitchen. Come and get your plate from the window when you hear the bell. Papa’s study is the only room of the house in which you are allowed. This, of course, is our residence…

EMILY: And this — our graveyard.

WEIGHTMAN: Ah! She speaks!

CHARLOTTE: Don’t quote Shakespeare. It will only encourage her…Shame on us. You must pardon my behavior. Father’s curates are usually unbearably thick and self-seeking.

WEIGHTMAN: What a legacy. I hope you will not find me so.

CHARLOTTE: No. I believe you are something else entirely.

EMILY: Father is in his study. He will not come out till high noon.

CHARLOTTE: Now, darling. I imagine he might make an exception…

EMILY: He is contemplating matters of extreme importance and must not be disturbed.

CHARLOTTE: Nonsense. I’m sure Mr. Weightman’s very anxious to see
him—I’ll just run and knock on his door.

EMILY: Tallie!

CHARLOTTE: Emmy.

EMILY: I’ll go with you.

CHARLOTTE: Stay and entertain the young man.

EMILY: But it’s not proper…I don’t even know him…

CHARLOTTE: I’m sure we can bend propriety a bit. Don’t you think, Mr. Weightman? Besides, it is my sister’s birthday, and a little entertainment couldn’t do her harm…

WEIGHTMAN: Certainly. I strive to accommodate nearly everyone, particularly on their birthdays.

CHARLOTTE: Excellent. I’ll just be a moment, then.

(CHARLOTTE leaves. A long, long pause) WEIGHTMAN I had a very fine journey in today. Yes I did. A bit foggy at first, but things soon cleared up.

(pause) EMILY: You didn’t see a pack of wild dogs, did you?

WEIGHTMAN: No, I can’t say that I did.

EMILY: Did you gallop all the way?

WEIGHTMAN: Had to.

EMILY: You shouldn’t gallop over these roads. They’re full of stones.

WEIGHTMAN: My horse was limping a bit…

EMILY: (attempting to escape) Did you warn the groundskeep? He may have thrown a shoe…

WEIGHTMAN: (stopping her) Let it be. Listen. I used to be very nervous meeting new people. I was afraid they were thinking how simple I was. Until I realized they probably felt the same way.

EMILY: I never feel simple.

WEIGHTMAN: That I believe.

EMILY: Shall you keep him here? During your stay?

WEIGHTMAN: Who?

EMILY: Your horse, silly.

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, I think not. He belongs to my uncle. I’ll have to send him back in a few days.

EMILY: Don’t you have a horse of your own?

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t you?

EMILY: Just an old cart horse. He’s no good to ride.

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, I see. Do you like to ride?

EMILY: I would if we had a decent horse. It’s not because we’re poor, you know. We don’t need them. People around here come to us, you know. To come to church.

WEIGHTMAN: Say you wanted to go to Leeds…

EMILY: We walk.

WEIGHTMAN: Across those hills?

EMILY: It’s good for the soul. Being out there. The smell of the moss, the slap of the bog under your boots…

WEIGHTMAN: Sounds — strenuous. Haven’t you another remedy to ease your soul?

EMILY: No, I don’t. Do you like to go on walks?

WEIGHTMAN: Only when it cannot be avoided.

EMILY: Maybe I shall force you to, sometime.

WEIGHTMAN: Maybe you should. What’s that line, “True beauty dwells in deep retreats…”

EMILY: Curses on Wordsworth.

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t you enjoy his poetry?

EMILY: He has the originality of sealing wax.

(CHARLOTTE enters)

CHARLOTTE: Good news. Father will see you now. But please: don’t be put off by his squint. He’s going blind, but his pride won’t admit it. And, don’t ask to see a written sermon. He never writes them down — he preaches ad extempore.

WEIGHTMAN: Fascinating. I depend upon my notes.

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman—Do you, perhaps, compose…?

WEIGHTMAN: Prose, you mean? Not I.

CHARLOTTE: Pity.

WEIGHTMAN: No, I’m afraid I’m like the rude Peter Bell:

“A primrose by the river’s brim,

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more.”

EMILY: It seems to me you do see the beauty in a poem.

WEIGHTMAN: Perhaps. I find Wordsworth a trifle insincere. (winks to Emily) Well, young ladies. Adieu, for now.

(WEIGHTMAN exits, CHARLOTTE hesitates)

CHARLOTTE: My, my, my. What do you think?

EMILY: He might be — amusing.

CHARLOTTE: What a day, what a day!

(CHARLOTTE flounces off. Music. Fade down on the graveyard and up on the moors. EMILY wanders out on her own)

EMILY: An old poem. By me.

(chanting her poem like a schoolgirl’s verse)

“When days of beauty deck the vale,

Or stormy nights descend,

How well my spirit knows the path

on which it ought to wend!

“It seeks the consecrated spot,

Beloved in childhood’s years:

The space between is all forgot,

It’s sufferings and it’s tears….”

WEIGHTMAN: (offstage) “The meeting of the waters…”

EMILY: (sighs, takes in the view) Perfect!

WEIGHTMAN: (offstage) Is it really a waterfall?

EMILY: It’s just a trickle, really.

(WEIGHTMAN arrives, a little out of breath)

WEIGHTMAN: I rather thought I might I join you. (beat) Ugh! This is a barren place! The sky, it’s always gray…

EMILY: If you don’t like the country, then why study here?

WEIGHTMAN: Your father’s sermons sound like poetry. Slow down for a moment, can’t you?

EMILY: You’ll have to toughen up if you want to walk with me.

WEIGHTMAN: It’s your legs, girl. They’re far too long for any normal woman.

EMILY: Maybe I’m not a woman at all. Maybe I’m…a raven!

(She runs around, flapping her arms, crowing)

WEIGHTMAN: Blast it, girl!

EMILY: What’s the matter, Your Highness? Afraid of a little black bird?

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t be absurd. (grabs her) Are you frightened of me?

EMILY: No. Are you of me?

WEIGHTMAN: Perhaps.

EMILY: (breaking away) Good. Then, forward march!

WEIGHTMAN: Whatever you say, Major Em.

EMILY: What?

WEIGHTMAN: E-M. As in your name.

EMILY: Major Em. I like that.

WEIGHTMAN: Why do you spend so much time alone?

EMILY: I try very hard to do only things that please me.

WEIGHTMAN: What does your father think of that?

EMILY: Papa is his own man. He never speaks — least of all to me.

WEIGHTMAN: Where’s your mother?

EMILY: We lost her, you know, to consumption.

WEIGHTMAN: I’m sorry.

EMILY: Don’t be. I hardly even remember her at all. (pause) Do you believe there are certain forces at work that we know nothing about—that despite the best efforts of science, some things will always remain a mystery to mankind—?

WEIGHTMAN: You mean, like, the supernatural?

EMILY: Exactly.

WEIGHTMAN: Someone’s been filling your head with silly stories.

EMILY: They aren’t stories!

WEIGHTMAN: You’ve been reading the Romantics, haven’t you. Byron, Shelley…

EMILY: Shouldn’t I?

WEIGHTMAN: Lord Byron seduced woman after woman. Even his own sister.

EMILY: Eww. I don’t care so much for Byron. I like Percy Bysshe Shelley.

WEIGHTMAN: Shelley’s no better. He and Mary bore a child out of wedlock.

EMILY: That’s impossible…

WEIGHTMAN: Byron seduced Mary’s sister. They were all raving hedonists.

EMILY: How do you know all this?

WEIGHTMAN: A chap from the University. Used to run around with the lot.

EMILY: My. I will never think of Shelley the same again.

WEIGHTMAN: His vision was not so wrong, I think, in terms of faith.

EMILY: What would you say if I told you there are spirits in our very midst?

WEIGHTMAN: What kind of spirits?

EMILY: Visible. Apparitions.

WEIGHTMAN: It could be heat lightening, a phenomenon of nature…

EMILY: Of course it’s a phenomenon of nature! The manifestations of a human soul! We miss so much of our true existence. Sometimes when I am out here, alone, walking, after dark—I loose all track of time. They rhythm of my footsteps numbs my body, and I feel as if I’ve lost this shell completely. It’s as if I’m rising, floating, flying really. My soul itself is free to go wherever it desires, tethered by a silver string…

WEIGHTMAN: That sounds frightening.

EMILY: Oh, no. It’s magnificent.

WEIGHTMAN: Where do you think the soul dwells? In the body, or in the mind?

EMILY: In the mind, of course…

WEIGHTMAN: Funny. I’ve always thought of it as a dark shadow lurking deep within my — elbow.

EMILY: (laughing) Then mine is here, on my neck.

(She points to her neck—he examines it, lightly touching her shoulder)

WEIGHTMAN: When I was a child, playing near a farmhouse dairy, I fell into a nearly frozen river. Such a shock of cold, it made me too afraid to open my eyes. But when I did, it was as if I was looking down on the scene from above—as if my soul had somehow wandered. It was frightening, really, because I wasn’t sure how to get back.

EMILY: What happened?

WEIGHTMAN: I don’t know. The milkmaids came and pulled me from the water—they were screaming and wailing they were. Suddenly, I was choking, spitting out water, and these huge peasant women were hugging and pawing me for joy. But ever since then I have wondered—where was I when I wasn’t in my body? And why wasn’t God there to meet me…

EMILY: Perhaps God was there, but you did not notice.

(Squeals and laughter from offstage)

EMILY: (cont.) Is she here? Is she?

WEIGHTMAN: What is it?

EMILY: A surprise, Mr. Weightman. A most glorious arrival!

CHARLOTTE: (offstage) Come along now, dear.

ANNE: (offstage) But I’m muddying my dress!

WEIGHTMAN: But I don’t understand—

EMILY: She has returned! She has returned!

(CHARLOTTE and ANNE BRONTË enter. ANNE is very pretty and somewhat given to great emotional extremes, but retains an honesty and innocence that is very appealing. ANNE and EMILY run to each other and embrace with squeals of excitement)

ANNE: Oh Emmy. I can hardly believe it!

EMILY: You’re pale, and your hands are freezing cold….

ANNE: How is the icy Land of Gondal? Transport me there immediately!

EMILY: Listen, Rosina: “Gondal’s shaken throne, Is now secure and free; And my King Julius reigns alone, Debtless, alas, to me.”

ANNE: Praise be! The war is over! And how are you, my Queen?

EMILY: Still tearing through men like wasted sheets of paper!

CHARLOTTE: When will you two leave that child’s game behind? Doesn’t she look terrible?

ANNE: How kind of you, Tallie.

EMILY: What happened? Why did you leave your position?

CHARLOTTE: She wouldn’t tell me a thing.

ANNE: It was nothing, really.

EMILY: Do tell! You said hardly anything in your letter.

CHARLOTTE: It’s a miracle we knew you were coming at all.

ANNE: I’m loathe to say it. They let me go.

CHARLOTTE: They discharged you?

ANNE: I couldn’t get anything done. The children were constantly hanging on me, riding me, never giving me a moment’s peace. Whenever Mrs. Ingham appeared, they turned into little angels. I simply had to do something. So, one day, when the parents were off on a visit, I tied the little brats to the nursery room table.

CHARLOTTE: You what?

ANNE: With a rope. ‘Round their legs. You should have seen the look on the parent’s faces when they returned. It was glorious!

EMILY: Hurrah! Brave, resourceful Anne!

CHARLOTTE: Anne. What were you thinking! The Inghams were very important charges! We’ll never find another situation like the one at Blake Hall.

ANNE: Hallo. Who’s this?

EMILY: Anne, this is Mr. Weightman. He’s come to study with Papa.

ANNE: Oh, then never mind.

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman’s been a genuine breath of Spring around here. This is our sister, Anne.

WEIGHTMAN: It is a pleasure, Miss Brontë. I assume you’re familiar with the poet Wordsworth… (pause) “She was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight:

A lovely apparition sent

To be a moment’s ornament…”

(WEIGHTMAN kisses ANNE’s hand. ANNE smiles, then faints. CHARLOTTE and EMILY quickly move to help her)

CHARLOTTE: Oh dear Lord!

EMILY: Annie!

CHARLOTTE: Look at what you’ve done!

WEIGHTMAN: But I—

EMILY: (helping ANNE) Wake up sister.

WEIGHTMAN: I really meant no harm…

EMILY: Breathe!

ANNE: Oh my. Opps.

EMILY: She’ll be all right.

CHARLOTTE: Do you have some explanation?

WEIGHTMAN: I have kissed many a woman’s hand, and never received such a reaction…

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman. I believe you were looking upon my sister with wanton thoughts.

WEIGHTMAN: I’m terribly sorry. Please accept my apologies. I must have been—momentarily inspired—by the perfection of her nose. (pause) It was a simple, aesthetic reaction, much like the experience of viewing a fine painting or a sculpture. In Plato’s words, the “ideal” woman’s nose shone clear in the form of Miss Brontë’s actual face, but only for one brief, sublime instant. I assure you. Like all such experiences, it was in the end, quite fleeting.

ANNE: Please, Charlotte. It really is my fault. I haven’t been eating well. I’ve hardly had a decent night’s sleep for months. Please pardon my naïveté, sir. I’ve never had so much formal attention as even a single valentine…

WEIGHTMAN: I certainly didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Brontë.

ANNE: I’m afraid God fashioned me with a delicate constitution.

WEIGHTMAN: Is there anything that I can do?

CHARLOTTE: Thank you. We can manage, Mr. Weightman, without you.

ANNE: I’ll be fine. Really. Oh, Emmy. I can hardly wait to play and write with you again…

EMILY: On Gondal!

ANNE: Hail, Augusta!

CHARLOTTE: Not now, darlings. You must rest. Come. We must be getting home.

(CHARLOTTE hustles ANNE away. EMILY glares at WEIGHTMAN)

WEIGHTMAN: What a reunion. You must be very glad to have her home. So, what was the topic…?

(EMILY hisses at WEIGHTMAN)

WEIGHTMAN: (cont.) What’s that for? All I did was kiss a lady’s hand.

EMILY: She’s not a lady. She’s my Anne.

WEIGHTMAN: It’s a habit, from the city. I really meant no harm….

EMILY: The “ideal nose!?”

WEIGHTMAN: You’re mocking me.

EMILY: No, Mr. Weightman. I understand. What man would not be swayed by her simple, joyful radiance?

WEIGHTMAN: I wouldn’t say I was swayed.

EMILY: Leaning, perhaps?

WEIGHTMAN: You really are remarkable, you know?

EMILY: Not as remarkable as my sister.

WEIGHTMAN: I beg to differ—

EMILY: Listen, you. This lesson’s over. Today, tomorrow, and forever.

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t fabricate an untrue image of me in your mind…

EMILY: We were content here, living in our minds. But you’ve come and shattered all that.

WEIGHTMAN: Change is a wonderful thing, Miss Brontë…

EMILY: I want things to stay the way they are. Fly away, Mr. Weightman. I want to be alone. Do you hear me? Fly away!

WEIGHTMAN: As you wish…

(WEIGHTMAN stumbles away. EMILY composes spontaneously)

EMILY: “Love is like the wild rose-briar;

Friendship like the holly-tree:

The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms,

But which will bloom most constantly?

“The wild rose briar is sweet in spring,

It’s summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again

And who will call the wild briar fair?

“Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,

And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,

That when December blights thy brow,

He still may leave thy garland green.”

(EMILY exits, calmed and comforted by her work. Music. CHARLOTTE: appears, in the graveyard, with a letter)

CHARLOTTE: There’s no time like the present. Please, God, if you care at all for little, selfish me, let them like my work…(she opens the letter) “Dear Miss Brontë: we regretfully inform you…” Oh no! I can’t… “without disrespect, we believe that a woman of your means and disposition might be better off engaging in more suitable tasks, such as cooking, or cleaning or mending…”

(Fade down on CHARLOTTE, shaking her head, and up on EMILY and ANNE inside the living room of Haworth Parsonage. There is some early Victorian furniture—perhaps a love seat and an end table. ANNE is reading from a book. EMILY is searching)

EMILY: Annie. Have you seen my writing desk? I’ve looked all over…

ANNE: Oh? Where did you see it last?

EMILY: If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking!

ANNE: Stop and listen to me. Percy Bysshe Shelley loves you!

EMILY: Oh, please.

ANNE: He does, he does! Listen to this: “Emily, I love thee, Would we two had been twins of the same mother!”

EMILY: That’s nonsense. It was some other Emily.

ANNE: “I am not thine: I am part of thee!”

EMILY: Mr. Shelley, you are too forward!

ANNE: “Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, One Heaven, one Hell, and one Immortality.” (beat) I tell you, he wrote this poem for you, across the span of years!

EMILY: If that is the case, he wasted a tremendous amount of effort.

ANNE: I wish someone had written that way about me. Perhaps you two are joined somehow, in your spirits, in your souls.

EMILY: I would hate to think that weakling poet was my one eternal love. Wait a moment. That’s not what Shelley wrote.

ANNE: Of course it is.

EMILY: I am familiar with that poem. It goes “One Immortality and…”

ANNE: But it’s so—depressing.

EMILY: “One Immortality and one…”

ANNE: Why must you spoil everything with your fascination with doom!

EMILY: Say it!

ANNE: “One Immortality and One—Annihilation.” There. I said it. Annihilation. The end. Dead. Finis. I don’t know why he wrote that part.

EMILY: Maybe he knew the ocean would steal away his youth.

ANNE: Or because all love dies with time. I don’t care. It’s beautiful anyway. (she puts the book away and bundles up in a coverlet) Two overshadowing souls. I want to write like that.

(EMILY puts down her desk, brushes ANNE’s hair) EMILY: You just want to be in love.

ANNE: Oh, Emily. Don’t be daft! Love is only good to think and write about. Not to actually practice.

EMILY: Annie. I was lost without you. Promise me you’ll never leave again.

ANNE: All right…

EMILY: Kneel, Rosina.

ANNE: (kneeling) I am your servant, my Queen.

EMILY: Swear to me. You will never leave Gondal again.

ANNE: I swear by the cold, clear waters of Lake Werna…

EMILY: (with book of Shelley) Swear on the book of Percy!

ANNE: By the silvery star of Venus—I promise. I will not go. (pause) Does Mr. Weightman remind you of Hamlet?

EMILY: I beg your pardon?

ANNE: There is just something so—indecisive about him. There is tragedy in his eyes. (beat) Poor Mr. Shelley. To die by drowning.

EMILY: We must not shed tears for him. He lead a sinful life. He was vain, weak, false, proud, and has nothing to do with me.

ANNE: I think you’re wrong. I think you and he are exactly alike.

EMILY: Now you’ve done it!

(EMILY pulls ANNE’s hair, they begin a pillow fight) ANNE Ah!!! Stop it, Em!

EMILY: Does little orphan Rosina dare to mock her Queen?

ANNE: Augusta Geraldine Amelda!

EMILY: After all I’ve done for you, plucked you from the hopeless streets. You were nothing before I found you…

ANNE: Ah!! Stop it, Em. I take it back! I take it back!

(CHARLOTTE enters with a number of papers. EMILY continues to hit ANNE with the pillow. ANNE squeals and runs, EMILY goes after her, and in the process, CHARLOTTE is bumped. The papers are dropped)

CHARLOTTE: You reckless…

ANNE: Sorry, Tallie…

CHARLOTTE: (picking up papers) The least you can do is help.

ANNE: If only the Queen weren’t so cruel… Where have you been?

CHARLOTTE: Balancing Papa’s account books. Someone has to keep track of the family finances. But Look. Something’s arrived—very, very strange—

ANNE: We’re lost heirs to a huge legacy! Let’s take a trip down the Nile…

CHARLOTTE: Shush. One for each of us. The messenger said they came from Bradford…

EMILY: We don’t know anyone there…

CHARLOTTE: Yes…I wonder who they’re from?

(ANNE rips hers open)

ANNE: Oh! Lord!

EMILY: A valentine?

CHARLOTTE: What on earth?

ANNE: I can’t believe it! All my life, I’ve pretended to myself. And now, oh, look, my hands are shaking…

EMILY: What does it say?

ANNE: I—can’t, it’s too…too…

EMILY: I’ll read it.

CHARLOTTE: Let me! I want to see.

EMILY: “Fair Anne, Sweet Fair Anne….”

ANNE: Lord, someone loves me!

EMILY: Who! That’s the question.

CHARLOTTE: Yes, who. It’s not signed.

ANNE: Open yours.

CHARLOTTE: Mine says, “Fond Love, Go Away.” Goodness.

ANNE: Is it signed?

CHARLOTTE: Luckily for the sender, no. Well. This is a fine prank Branwell must have played on us.

EMILY: Branny? It’s possible, but it’s really not his style. Death notices, warrants for arrest, but not valentines. Besides. He couldn’t afford to travel to Bradford just to make the post.

ANNE: Who else is there?

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman. At least, he probably sent yours.

ANNE: Who could have guessed?

CHARLOTTE: Don’t play coy. We all know how he feels about you. You can see it painted on his face—on both your faces!

ANNE: What on earth are you talking about?!

CHARLOTTE: I see the way he looks at you in church…

EMILY: How do they look at each other?

CHARLOTTE: If you’d bother to come, like a proper clergy’s daughter, you’d see for yourself. He sits opposite Anne, sighing softly and looking out of the corners of his eyes to win her attentions—and Anne is so quiet, her look so downcast—they are a picture…

ANNE: Do you think it’s terribly noticeable?

CHARLOTTE: He’s supposed to set an example. It’s a wonder Papa doesn’t drag him out by the ear.

EMILY: Is it true then? What Charlotte says?

ANNE: I’ve tried moving from pew to pew…

CHARLOTTE: Wait a moment. Emmy? What does yours say?

EMILY: It really isn’t important.

ANNE: Oh, sister. Do tell us what it says.

EMILY: I’ll read it later.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, come now. It can’t be worse than mine.

ANNE: Emmy, don’t you want to know what it says?

CHARLOTTE: Come on. We must find out the culprit. Give that thing to me. (She snatches the note away and reads) “Emily, my Soul Divine.” Emily—

ANNE: That’s beautiful.

EMILY: It doesn’t mean a thing.

CHARLOTTE: Lord. Look at this handwriting! Almost identical.

ANNE: Wha—

CHARLOTTE: William Weightman must have written all three.

ANNE: Isn’t it wonderful? He’s pious and kind!

CHARLOTTE: I think it’s very improper.

ANNE: They’re only valentines!

CHARLOTTE: They are symbols of Romantic love! I, for one, am very concerned about Mr. Weightman’s peculiar manners. “Fond Love, Go Away?” What kind of valentine is that? Besides, to all three? He must be very fickle, very fickle indeed. Annie. Come and help me set the table.

(CHARLOTTE exits)

ANNE: It seems the most profound remark was the one he made to you.

(ANNE exits. Music. Fade as EMILY returns to the moors)

EMILY: (clutching the valentine to her chest) My soul divine …

“Sleep not, dream not; this bright day

Will not, cannot last….”

(During the following, CHARLOTTE enters the living room cautiously with a lit candle and EMILY’s writing desk. She reverently opens it, thumbing tentatively though the pages)

EMILY: (cont.) “I love thee boy, for all divine,

All full of God thy features shine.

Darling enthusiast, holy child,

Too good for this world’s warring wild…”

(EMILY spins and reels in reverie. CHARLOTTE reads quickly, nearly overlapping)

CHARLOTTE: “Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now, When

Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow…

EMILY: “Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run…”

CHARLOTTE: “My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out from tears…”

EMILY: “And am I wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair…”

CHARLOTTE: “Since my own soul can grant my prayer?”

EMILY: “Speak, God of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!”

(CHARLOTTE slams the desk closed, blows out the candle, and exits with the desk)

EMILY: (cont.) No, Spirit! I will not allow it! I will not allow myself to fall in love…

“Riches I hold in light esteem,

And love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream,

That vanished with the morn:

“And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me,

Is Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!

“Yes, as my swift days near their goal

‘Tis all that I implore;—

In life and death a chainless soul,

With courage to endure.”

(EMILY exits. Shift to afternoon in the graveyard. ANNE brings in a bowl of potatoes and a knife. CHARLOTTE enters, with laundry)

CHARLOTTE: You don’t seem to realize the seriousness of our situation. We have no savings. We must plan ahead. I know its terrible to think about, but what will happen to us when he’s gone?

ANNE: Papa may be blind, but he isn’t dying!

CHARLOTTE: Of course not. I’m damned to even mentioned it.

ANNE: Shh. Don’t worry so much.

CHARLOTTE: I’m resigned. I must put away my writing and look for work. Blast! I know I can do better…if only I had some time…

ANNE: We were talking about Emily’s poems, Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE: So am I, Anne. So am I. (beat) They’re good, I tell you.

ANNE: How good?

CHARLOTTE: Better than mine.

ANNE: Oh, come now. You’re an excellent poet.

CHARLOTTE: I know I am. But these—these are works of genius. They have a peculiar music—wild and melancholy, yet, elevating. She writes like a man. Better than a man, because they are hers…

ANNE: Charlotte. She didn’t want us looking at them…

CHARLOTTE: She let you read them.

ANNE: Only Gondal poems. Not her private ones. Why couldn’t you respect her wishes?

CHARLOTTE: Because. It’s not right for her to keep them to herself. They need to be seen. Shared. With greater minds than either you or I.

ANNE: You know Emmy can’t stand to be the center of attention…

CHARLOTTE: Emily has a talent. A gift.

ANNE: You really think so?

CHARLOTTE: My heart stirred like a trumpet when I read them.

ANNE: And what about mine. Have you read the ones I gave you yet?

CHARLOTTE: Darling, you are a very fine poet, too. All we girls are. Annie. I just had a thought. I’ve heard about a printing house in London, that will put books together for a fee…What if we could put together our savings and self-publish, just the three of us…

ANNE: Charlotte. A book of girl poems? No one will take it seriously.

CHARLOTTE: There are ways to get around our sex. Hidden identities, pseudonyms…

ANNE: Three gentlemen poets named not Brontë but —

(The dinner bell rings)

CHARLOTTE: What time…?

ANNE: A sign. A—Bell! The three gentlemen Bell!

CHARLOTTE: Imagine. How our lives would blossom…

(WEIGHTMAN enters)

WEIGHTMAN: Ladies. Pardon me—is it time for tea already?

CHARLOTTE: No, no. It must be some mistake.

ANNE: Good morning Mr. Weightman. How are your studies coming?

WEIGHTMAN: I’ve been reading Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. What a relief to see the sun and not go blind! And where is the tall Miss Brontë at present?

CHARLOTTE: Baking bread for the orphanage.

WEIGHTMAN: How charitable of her. I believe she’s been avoiding me.

CHARLOTTE: She has better sense than some. Oh, perhaps she rang for help. I’d better go…

ANNE: Did you hear? Some secret admirer sent us all valentines.

WEIGHTMAN: And you haven’t any idea who?

CHARLOTTE: From the scrawl of the penmanship, we figured the groundskeep must have sent them.

WEIGHTMAN: The groundskeep!

CHARLOTTE: Only he could have been so crass.

ANNE: Charlotte!

WEIGHTMAN: I have often been complimented on my penmanship. (beat) I hope I have not overstepped my position. It’s only, when you said, you never, I thought it such a crime…

CHARLOTTE: It was the postmark that threw me off…at least at first.

ANNE: Don’t listen to her. Your little notes were much appreciated.

WEIGHTMAN: I hope you don’t think I scatter my affections too wide…

CHARLOTTE: It just makes me wonder who’s affection you’re after.

ANNE: Tallie! (beat) How long have you wanted to be a priest, Mr. Weightman?

WEIGHTMAN: It was my uncle’s idea, really. I keep waiting, you know, for that golden voice to say: (with thunder noises) “William Weightman. This is your calling. It is time to take your vows.”

ANNE: Oh, you’re terrible — You know, I have wanted to be a priest myself.

WEIGHTMAN: Have you now? That would cause quite the stir…

ANNE: Yes. I often wonder why God made me a woman.

WEIGHTMAN: But I adore you as a woman. You’re quite woman. 100 percent.

ANNE: I’m sure he has some plan. I must admit, I lust for male advantages…

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t forget! There’s burdens, too. I should say I might prefer to be lady…

CHARLOTTE: Oh, come now. We’ll have no more talk of this. We are what we are and that’s final. What do you really want from life, Mr. Weightman?

WEIGHTMAN: How does one answer a question like that!

CHARLOTTE: You seem very nervous, Mr. Weightman.

ANNE: Do I make you nervous? (beat) Oh, Mr. Weightman…

WEIGHTMAN: To be honest, I’ve been struggling a bit, about my place in the Church.

CHARLOTTE: And what about marriage, Mr. Weightman? Does this come into view?

WEIGHTMAN: I can’t imagine growing old alone. Can you?

(EMILY enters, with an apron dusted with flour. She lurks and watches, unseen)

CHARLOTTE: How is it that you posted from Bradford, anyway?

WEIGHTMAN: What? Oh, yes. The valentines. I’ve been spending some time in Keighley, Bradford’s just a step away…actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you about this…

CHARLOTTE: What were you doing in Keighley?

WEIGHTMAN: Taking some classes, actually. Now, don’t tell your Papa…

CHARLOTTE: Oh, no—I shan’t…I didn’t realize you were so adamant a student…

WEIGHTMAN: The ivory tower has its own appeal. And I have news. I’ve been asked to deliver a speech at the lecture hall there. You see, Miss Brontë, you are not the only one who dreams of greener pastures.

CHARLOTTE: Really! I’ve never been to a formal lecture. I’d imagine it’s quite an affair.

WEIGHTMAN: It is. With a reception to follow. I hope you all find it in your hearts to come…

ANNE: Mr. Weightman, if I may ask—what is to be the subject of your speech?

WEIGHTMAN: Basically, I am questioning the laws of human and divine love.

ANNE: How sublime!

CHARLOTTE: Ye gads. Isn’t that place a Mechanical Institute? What interest have scientists in matters of love?

WEIGHTMAN: It’s called Metaphysics. It’s an up-and-coming field. They speculate on the very essence of our being.

CHARLOTTE: I had no idea one could study such things. Are you saying, there are different ways of loving…

ANNE: Yes! Like the Holy Trinity…

WEIGHTMAN: Yes, well. I hadn’t thought about it that way…perhaps there are three…

(WEIGHTMAN notices EMILY lingering, she sees him as well. ANNE and CHARLOTTE don’t)

WEIGHTMAN: (cont.) Well. I’ll have to visit my notes again. Blast it! I was hoping to make a name for myself with this event.

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman. I understand. I have faced much rejection in my literary pursuits…

ANNE: Yes. Perhaps you could help us find a representative…

WEIGHTMAN: For what?

ANNE: We’ve a little book of poems…

CHARLOTTE: And I’m working on a novel…

ANNE: You are?

WEIGHTMAN: I’m impressed. But I doubt that my connections will help you much with fiction. Still…I do hope you can come…Could use some friendly faces in the crowd, you know… Ah, well. Back to the old routine…

(WEIGHTMAN exits)

ANNE: What novel! How dare you write a novel behind my back!

CHARLOTTE: Shh. It’s nothing yet. I promise you I’ll show you in a bit. But first, we must make it to that lecture.

ANNE: Let’s go fix up our dresses!

CHARLOTTE: Imagine, sitting amongst all those educated people, watching Mr. Celia Amelia talk about love!

(CHARLOTTE and ANNE exit. EMILY steps forward, looks after her sisters)

EMILY: What are you. My sisters? How can your flesh and mine be the same?

(beat) “True to myself, and true to all

May I be healthful still,

And turn away from passion’s call

And curb my own wild will.”

(A few dogs bark. She sits up) Hallo? Is anyone there?

(pause. She stands) Spirit. Come. Reveal yourself!

(pause) If you won’t, then be gone!

(pause) I must be mad to talk to ghosts.

(EMILY starts to go in again, but WEIGHTMAN sneaks up behind her)

WEIGHTMAN: Boo!

EMILY: Gads!

WEIGHTMAN: I saw you. Watching us.

EMILY: Blast Annie. I told her Papa’s shirt needs mending. And Charlotte’s supposed to take the loaves to town…Excuse me.

WEIGHTMAN: The heat must be unbearable. Stay here and have a rest. So. How did you like your Valentine…

EMILY: Mr. Weightman. In the future, I would appreciate your excluding me from your pathetic little escapades.

WEIGHTMAN: No worse than spying on your sisters, I suppose. You heard then, about Keighley? Will you come see me speak?

EMILY: Who wants to sit through some stuffy old lecture?

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t you want to be cultured?

EMILY: Not particularly, no.

WEIGHTMAN: Please, come on. It will be good for you…

EMILY: Who are you to say what’s good for me? We’re too old to chase dreams, Mr. Weightman. And you are, too.

WEIGHTMAN: So easily defeated, Major Em?

EMILY: Don’t call me that ever again.

WEIGHTMAN: I—I don’t understand. Have I—embarrassed you?

EMILY: You. You are stupid and ridiculous.

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, you’re so superior, are you?

EMILY: Yes. Yes I am. You don’t know the first thing about real knowledge. I’ve read Milton, I’ve read a Thousand and One Arabian Nights…

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, have you now? Then how does a camel smell?

EMILY: Don’t make me laugh…

WEIGHTMAN: I have been to the desert, and I tell you, they smell horrid!

EMILY: You have?

WEIGHTMAN: I wouldn’t wish a trip to Egypt on anyone I know.

EMILY: Maybe I don’t know the desert. But I know human nature. You go and speak your crazy ideas in front of all those people, and they won’t understand. They’ll laugh you down. Then where will you be? No priest, no scholar…you’d do well to remember your duty, to the orphans, like me!

(EMILY exits—WEIGHTMAN, under his breath)

WEIGHTMAN: I am an orphan, too.

(WEIGHTMAN leaves. ANNE appears in the graveyard. It is night)

ANNE: (wandering through the courtyard) What’s come over me…(praying) Dear God in Heaven. When I hear him, he awakens me. (pause, pulls out paper and pen to compose)

“That voice, the magic of whose tone

Can wake an echo in my breast,

Creating feelings that, alone,

Can make my trancéd spirit blest.

“That laughing eye, whose sunny beam

My memory would not cherish less;—

And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam

No mortal language can express…” (pause)

He is my heart, I know, he is the other half of me. Lord. Please. Help me to understand.

(ANNE exits. Fade up on CHARLOTTE and EMILY in the living room. CHARLOTTE is writing) CHARLOTTE: Will you listen to my new poem?

EMILY: If I must.

CHARLOTTE: “The peaceful glow of our fireside,

Imparts no peace to me:

My thoughts would rather wander wide

Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.”

EMILY: Jane who…you mean me?

CHARLOTTE: Shush. “I’m on a distant journey bound,

And if, about my heart,

Too closely kindred ties were wound,

‘Twould break when forced to part.”

EMILY: It’s sound. I particularly like the sense of separation. I find it very wise.

CHARLOTTE: Do you think I should submit it to Blackwood’s Magazine?

EMILY: If you wish.

CHARLOTTE: Darling. Haven’t you ever dreamed of seeing your words forever sealed in print….

EMILY: My writing is for me and for me alone. It serves no purpose but itself.

CHARLOTTE: But think of all the great writers whom we have enjoyed. We would know nothing of them if not for their books.

EMILY: Tallie. The words will find ears if God wills. Publish, if it makes you happy. It just doesn’t matter to me.

(ANNE enters, flushed, giggling, out of breath. EMILY begins to look around for something)

CHARLOTTE: Where have you been, you ninny? It’s almost time for bed.

ANNE: I was talking with Mr. Weightman. He’s a very odd fellow. He said that the only thing wrong with being a Priest is working on Sunday mornings.

EMILY: How facetious.

ANNE: (drunk with love) He’d rather be out hunting foxes.

EMILY: Where is my volume of Shelley?

ANNE: I gave it to Mr. Weightman.

EMILY: You what?

ANNE: He said he needed to prepare for his lecture. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would mind—

EMILY: Annie plays fetch.

ANNE: Better than your fictitious hounds—

CHARLOTTE: But darling, you will come with us, won’t you? To the lecture…

ANNE: Oh, Emmy please? Mr. Weightman’s leaving early. We can’t do it by ourselves…

CHARLOTTE: (pulling out desk bundled in a blanket) And by the way, I have something for you—

EMILY: Oh, Tallie! Where did you—Ha! My very life is in this desk….

ANNE: Tallie….

EMILY: My favorite ink from India…

CHARLOTTE: (aside, unfolding another paper) Annie. I thought this the most—sensible—way…

EMILY: I was beginning to think it was gone forever…(hugging CHARLOTTE quickly) I am deeply in your debt…

ANNE: Oh, dear. I’m suddenly so tired…Goodnight…

EMILY: What? It’s only seven…(sits. opens desk) Wait…it’s all, out of order…

CHARLOTTE: (slowly—To EMILY—who interjects, overlapping freely in between) “I love thee boy, for all divine…”

EMILY: How could you…

CHARLOTTE: “All full of God thy features shine…”

EMILY: You mustn’t…

CHARLOTTE: “Darling enthusiast, holy child…

EMILY: Stop your mouth…

CHARLOTTE: “Too good for this world’s warring wild… “

EMILY: Give that back!

CHARLOTTE: You are so careless with your possessions. I think you really wanted them to be found!

EMILY: How many more did you steal?

CHARLOTTE: I didn’t steal. I copied them and returned the originals.

EMILY: If you were a man, I’d beat you for this!

CHARLOTTE: Why must you keep them from us?

EMILY: They’re not for other people. They’re just my thoughts!

CHARLOTTE: Thoughts are not complete until they have reached another…

EMILY: That’s your opinion! My thoughts are complete in my mind and God’s alone!

CHARLOTTE: The truth is, sister, these are not common effusions. Your verse is terse and concise, vigorous and genuine. They’re not as grand as Milton, nor as lyrical as Shakespeare. But they certainly rival your beloved Shelley.

(EMILY desperately grabs the paper away and tucks it away in her desk)

ANNE: Emmy, why did you write about love? Is it about someone in particular?

EMILY: Who would I be in love with? The groundskeep?

ANNE: Then it must be a Gondal poem after all…

EMILY: What? Of course it is. Rosina is running away with a shepherd!

ANNE: What? She would never…

EMILY: I am the Queen and I say she will!

ANNE: She’s mine and she’ll do what I want!

CHARLOTTE: Gondal or not, my dear, better stuff was never penned.

EMILY: How would you know, Charlotte? With that sentimental wash you write…

ANNE: Emmy!

CHARLOTTE: While your style is startlingly excellent, your subject matter is morally disturbing—

ANNE: Darlings, no! Please, let’s do not fight. What does it matter who is better? Can’t we all just live in peace?

EMILY: How long have you known she read my poems!

ANNE: I’m not a tattle—What was I to do?

CHARLOTTE: Won’t you publish your poems with us? What damage could it do?

EMILY: You know what my answer will be. Now and forever. I’d rather lie cold and deep in the earth than be the folly of haughty men!

(Fade down on CHARLOTTE, EMILY and ANNE. Fade up WEIGHTMAN steps up to the podium with paper in hand)

WEIGHTMAN: (He reads from notes) The notion of the moral and the immoral is simple enough to most. For Aristotle, true emotions were evoked from specific situations under a certain set of moral conditions. The trouble arises when we are introduced to the concepts of Eros and Logos, that is, worldly and divine love. I posit that in modern times, Eros, or worldly love, has too often been maligned. Take, for instance—the Romantic poets. The critics say—(He accidentally drops his notes: panic, ad lib. disarray)—those critics say—Ahem. Forget that. We are not concerned about the critics. We are concerned about the very nature of human love. I believe that certain forms of Eros, for example, the love between a mother and her child, between close-knit sisters, these forms of Eros enter upon the realm of divine…

(EMILY enters on the moors…but WEIGHTMAN seems to hear her)

EMILY: “Come walk with me, it may not be, Is human love so true?”

WEIGHTMAN: I will even go so far as to say…that in certain instances, the powerful love between a man and a woman…May even transcend Eros, blending with Logos, becoming the quality of goodness, truth, and beauty akin to that of God. This becomes a third kind of love, encompassing body, mind, and soul. This kind of love would never fade, it could transcend time, and reincarnate itself from form to form as time went on. To find this love, in life, would indeed be Heaven on Earth.

(Fade down on the lecture. EMILY is still alone on the moors)

EMILY: “All day I’ve toiled, but not with pain,

In learning’s golden mine;

And now at eventide again,

The moonbeams softly shine….”

WEIGHTMAN: (offstage) Miss Brontë?

EMILY: “True to myself, and true to all, May I be healthful still… And turn away from passion’s call, and curb my own wild will…”

WEIGHTMAN: (offstage) Emily!

EMILY: Oh, damnation! I can’t let him see me like this.

(WEIGHTMAN appears. The sound of the dogs returns)

WEIGHTMAN: Miss Brontë. There you are. We were worried — Are you— unwell?

EMILY: No, no. I’m fine.

WEIGHTMAN: Where have you been? We missed you at the reception. Did you enjoy the speech?

EMILY: Yes, yes. I enjoyed it very much. I just need time to think…

WEIGHTMAN: Why are you so nervous? Was my lecture really that horrible?

EMILY: Mr. Weightman. Do you really believe what you said tonight? That human love can be divine?

WEIGHTMAN: Of course I do. I wouldn’t have lectured on it if I didn’t.

EMILY: But isn’t that idea, well, a little dangerous?

WEIGHTMAN: I suppose so. But I’m not advocating frivolous love. I think the love of two people can be the strongest bond in the world. Harder than iron to break.

EMILY: Then, do you think that God himself has a hand in it?

WEIGHTMAN: Perhaps. What’s in that brain of yours?

EMILY: Oh, Mr. Weightman. I don’t know how to explain…

WEIGHTMAN: You’ve never been at a loss for words with me before.

EMILY: It’s just—I wonder if I have felt—the hand of God upon my heart.

WEIGHTMAN: Why, Miss Brontë…

EMILY: It’s terrible. It’s like a great rush of pain. That’s what it feels like, cutting off my air, my circulation…

WEIGHTMAN: Did my lecture inspire all this?

EMILY: Yes. I’m afraid it did.

WEIGHTMAN: Why, I had no idea you harbored this kind of passion.

EMILY: Passion. Yes. You’ve hit the mark.

WEIGHTMAN: Well, I’m afraid passion is another matter entirely. I haven’t quite figured out where passion comes into the Aristotelian scheme. That is, if passion really exists.

EMILY: I feel it. I tell you. It’s real.

WEIGHTMAN: To tell you the truth, I’ve felt it myself.

EMILY: You have?

WEIGHTMAN: There are times when my reason fails to inform me—when my spirit too, longs for release…

EMILY: Exactly.

WEIGHTMAN: But this, desire—it cannot come from God…

EMILY: Why not?

WEIGHTMAN: Because, because it is unreasonable. Oh, Miss Brontë.

EMILY: What?

WEIGHTMAN: I am the most divided man in the world…

EMILY: Never say that.

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, Emily. When I read Byron, the passion he describes seems more true, more alive, than life itself. Why then do the Church elders, who I admire and respect for their strength of faith, tell me that the Romantics are false? I know that I am not alone in my experiences…

EMILY: Mr. Weightman. There is something that I must tell you.

WEIGHTMAN: And something I’ve been wanting to tell you.

EMILY: I have made against you, certain, trespasses…

WEIGHTMAN: You have been a great friend, an honest voice…

EMILY: Promise nothing will ever change that.

WEIGHTMAN: Not even death itself.

EMILY: Dear Lord.

WEIGHTMAN: That’s why I know I can tell you.

EMILY: You must.

WEIGHTMAN: I’ve been thinking it’s time to marry.

EMILY: Unbelievable!

WEIGHTMAN: Do you think your sister Anne will consider me?

EMILY: (pause) Of course.

WEIGHTMAN: I haven’t the faintest idea what to say or do—Your Father will be so relieved.

EMILY: I see.

WEIGHTMAN: You aren’t too shocked, are you? I would have thought you, of all people—

EMILY: It comes as a surprise, I must admit.

WEIGHTMAN: Yes. I act like an idiot when I’m around her, making jokes, using other voices…Oh, Miss Brontë. Emily. I consider you my friend. My equal. I have rarely met a woman of your intelligence…

EMILY: Friendship, like the holly-tree…

WEIGHTMAN: I truly enjoy our little talks…

EMILY: Yes. So do I.

WEIGHTMAN: Good. Then you will be my confidant in this affair?

EMILY: Yes, yes. More than you could ever know. (beat) Meet me on the moors this evening.

WEIGHTMAN: You are a little sorceress, aren’t you?

EMILY: Please. Just come. At midnight. To the meeting of the waters. You will see what confidence I shall bring.

WEIGHTMAN: Confidence is a thing I sorely need.

(HE exits. EMILY walks to the moors. Music. Sounds of wild dogs barking, very distant, sporadic)

EMILY: If ever a spirit did haunt my soul, come and council me now.

“There should be no despair for you

While nightly stars are burning.

While evening pours its silent dew,

And sunshine gilds the morning…

“There should be no despair—

though tears May flow down like a river:

Are not the best beloved of years

Around your heart forever?

“Winds sigh, revive, and from their fate

Your fate cannot be parted:

Then journey on, if not elate

Still never broken-hearted!”

(EMILY runs off, as music returns)

END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

AT RISE: Setting is the same as Act One.

(Music. Fade up on the moors again. EMILY pulls ANNE, in bed clothes, behind her)

ANNE: (offstage) It’s too dark. Don’t go so fast!

EMILY: Come on. I want you to see something.

ANNE: I’d be happy back in my bed!

EMILY: Sleep brings no hope to me.

ANNE: Why are you being so cryptic? Where are we going?

EMILY: By the meeting of the waters. That is where we shall wait.

ANNE: Oh, I do hate it when you become so conspiratorial.

EMILY: Fate is driving us here tonight. Our true hearts will be exposed.

ANNE: You make everything sound so—decadent.

EMILY: But first. Tell me one thing.

ANNE: What?

EMILY: Just tell me this one thing, and if you answer correctly, we shall go home.

ANNE: What is it, then?

EMILY: Are you in love with Mr. Weightman?

ANNE: What?

EMILY: Do you love the man, yes or no?

ANNE: Love is very—hard to discern…

EMILY: Answer me, or we’ll be out here all night…

ANNE: No. I do not love him.

(EMILY takes ANNE’s arm and twists it behind her back)

EMILY: Who are you?

ANNE: Anne!

EMILY: Who?

ANNE: Anne Brontë! Stop it, you’re hurting me…

EMILY: Aren’t you the little orphan girl, Rosina?

ANNE: Stop it, Em. I don’t want to play!

EMILY: Aren’t you the little orphan girl, and am I the magnificent Augusta Geraldine Amelda?

ANNE: Yes, but—

EMILY: Say it.

ANNE: You are Augusta Amelda, Queen of all Gondal, and I am Rosina, your slave. Why are you doing this?

EMILY: As your Queen, I demand to know: Are you in love with William Weightman?

ANNE: Oh, Emily. I’m so confused.

EMILY: I am your Queen! Answer me!

ANNE: I don’t know what it is about him. He’s somewhat handsome I suppose, and quite well read—

EMILY: Annie!

ANNE: He makes my stomach tighten up and my ears begin to ring…I confess, I have at length imagined a future life together—I thought you’d hate me Em, if you knew I was so weak…

(EMILY lets ANNE go) EMILY: Do you love him?

ANNE: I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before.

EMILY: I don’t want to lose you, Annie.

ANNE: What are you talking about? You won’t lose me….

EMILY: But you’ll run away and be married.

ANNE: I’m not leaving…

EMILY: You’re the good one, the warm one, and so pretty…

ANNE: You’re pretty, too—

EMILY: Not me. Handsome, maybe. Not pretty. Well. You must tell him how you feel.

ANNE: Why, I can’t, Emily. Charlotte thinks he’s…

EMILY: Forget Charlotte. Think quick of what to say. He’ll be upon us any minute.

ANNE: You—brought me out here—to be with him? Oh my lord—what shall I say? What shall I do? I will make an utter fool of myself….

EMILY: Recite one of your poems!

ANNE: They’re all about God, or Gondal, or the tense is all wrong—

EMILY: Then tell him the love poem. The one that I wrote.

ANNE: But—I can’t. Those are your words.

EMILY: They’re yours now. Please. All I want is your happiness. (pause) You do love him.

ANNE: I do. Is it wicked?

EMILY: Don’t worry about morality. Love is a force of Nature, and Nature, a force of God. If God is good, as you believe, than love itself must be good. You must meet with him and share your soul. Perhaps a treaty can be forged—a bond—

ANNE: Oh, brave Emily. Strong Emily. Where would I be without you?

EMILY: Certainly not here, that’s the truth.

(WEIGHTMAN enters. He carries a flask. He is tipsy, out of breath)

WEIGHTMAN: Emily! Emily! Here comes I, Wee Willie Weightman, your little charge, out of the night and here to participate in whatever dark dealings you have planned…

EMILY: William?

WEIGHTMAN: In the immortal words of William Blake: “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” (sees ANNE) Oh, dear lord, I beg your pardon.

ANNE: (whispers to EMILY) He’s drunk.

EMILY: All the better to present your case.

WEIGHTMAN: Anne, beautiful Anne. What has brought you here? Oh, I know, I see. Emily. You’re playing games…I thought you were to be my confidant—

EMILY: Hush. Don’t be a fool. Tell her what you told me.

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, my—I’m not prepared—You see, my friends took me out to celebrate. My lecture was a success! We went down to the Black Bull, had a little bit to drink. You know—pleasures of the flesh….

EMILY: Speak quickly. We mustn’t be out all night.

WEIGHTMAN: Dear God, I am a disgrace.

ANNE: It’s all right, Mr. Weightman. I don’t mind.

WEIGHTMAN: Miss Brontë—Anne—you are too kind. Dear Lord, I’ve had too much to drink.

ANNE: Mr. Weightman, William—I, too, have something I must share…

WEIGHTMAN: “She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies… And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

ANNE: Listen, Em. That’s Byron!

WEIGHTMAN: “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent…

EMILY: Go on, say the verse—

WEIGHTMAN: “The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent—”

ANNE: “I love thee boy, for all divine, All full of God thy features shine. Darling enthusiast, holy child, Too good for this world’s warring wild…”

WEIGHTMAN: That’s—for me—?

ANNE: Yes. I love you. William. Please tell me you love me, too.

(ANNE closes her eyes and puckers. He kisses her. EMILY slips away. WEIGHTMAN looks after EMILY. ANNE opens her eyes)

ANNE: (cont.) William. Did you hear? I said I love you.

WEIGHTMAN: Lord, clear my head…

ANNE: Oh, I’ve ruined everything—

WEIGHTMAN: Shh, my purest Anne. We must step back a moment to consider what’s transpired…

ANNE: But I’m giving you my heart…

WEIGHTMAN: I cannot, in good conscious, mislead you any longer—

ANNE: Then, you do not have affection for me?

WEIGHTMAN: Oh, much more than passing fancy—

ANNE: But not enough to say you love?

WEIGHTMAN: How could you fall for such a creature as me?

ANNE: It’s something terrible. You’re ill, aren’t you?

WEIGHTMAN: No, no, of course not. God help me. It’s something—I cannot fully—Something that prevents me from…. I’m already engaged.

ANNE: I beg your pardon?

WEIGHTMAN: I’m engaged. To a woman in Appleby.

ANNE: How long—?

WEIGHTMAN: S-since before I arrived in Haworth. I’ve known her since I was a child… Uncle arranged it—Her name is Isabella—

ANNE: You have been—deceitful. (pause) So. Tell me about her.

WEIGHTMAN: She—I don’t know how to say this. She is a good person. Sweet. Loving by nature, but—

ANNE: But she’s insane and was locked away in an attic?

WEIGHTMAN: Certainly not! She’s—from a old family, but, she’s—uh, not much of a conversationalist. She nods her head as if she’s listening, but in her eyes, there’s nothing there.

ANNE: Do you love her? (pause) How could you be engaged to a woman you do not love?

WEIGHTMAN: Anne. Precious girl—

ANNE: Would you place fortune before love?

WEIGHTMAN: This meeting is premature—

ANNE: I should have never opened my heart to you!

WEIGHTMAN: If only I had the chance to speak with your sister—

ANNE: My sister! What has she—

WEIGHTMAN: Give me time to think—

ANNE: You think to much, Mr. Weightman. We’ve crossed the will of God!

(ANNE runs away. WEIGHTMAN sits, pulls out flask and drinks. Barking in the distance. EMILY returns, hidden from WEIGHTMAN, in the shadows)

EMILY: “Come, walk with me, there’s only thee

To bless my spirit now…

We used to love on winter nights

To wander through the snow…

Can we not woo back old delights?”

WEIGHTMAN: “Misery—O Misery, This world is all too wide for thee.”

(WEIGHTMAN exits)

EMILY: “Shade of Shelley, I condemn

All the puny ways of men

Free my heart, my spirit free beckon and I’ll follow thee!”

(Fade on EMILY. Fade up on ANNE, in the graveyard, praying)

ANNE: Oh dear Lord in Heaven, my only Savior, Savior of us all, I cannot stand what I have done, I cannot stand what I have become. Oh, Mother, if you are in heaven, looking down on me, please, please, forgive, I cannot stand to think what you must think of me, secretly meeting with man in the wild, a man who pretends to be a friend and defender of God, and yet a demon and a traitor….And I, confessing my love….Show me the light, what may I may do to remedy the situation? I cannot bear the weight of this alone….

(ANNE exits. Fade to morning. CHARLOTTE enters with letters. EMILY is sitting with her writing desk: she is wild from lack of sleep) CHARLOTTE: Where’s your sister?

EMILY: Isn’t she your sister, too?

CHARLOTTE: She wasn’t in bed this morning. It’s not like her to walk alone…

EMILY: Tallie. I had a dream last night. The most fantastic thing…I saw you dining with Thackary and Anne signing books of prose…

CHARLOTTE: What is this altered spirit?

EMILY: The world bowed at your feet, Charlotte. You even found a mate, a curate, I think…

CHARLOTTE: Oh, posh!

EMILY: Odd part is, last night, I didn’t sleep a wink. Still, it’s true. I know it. Here. (opening writing desk, pulling out pages) I want you to have these…

CHARLOTTE: But, Emmy…

EMILY: Here, take this…

“On a sunny brae alone I lay

one summer afternoon;

It was the marriage-time of May,

With her young lover, June…”

CHARLOTTE: Are you sure…

EMILY: And this:

“Death! that struck when I was most confiding

In my certain faith of joy to be—

Strike again, Time’s withered branch dividing

From the fresh root of Eternity…”

CHARLOTTE: What’s wrong with you? Have you been into the sherry?

EMILY: Only drunk with Reason. Drunk with life.

“Woe for the day, Regina’s pride, Regina’s hope is in the grave…”

CHARLOTTE: From Gondal—

EMILY: And here’s the “Last Words” of Augusta Amelda. Here, Charlotte, take them all…

CHARLOTTE: But you can’t really mean…what am I to do…

EMILY: I don’t care one iota. Lock them away in a chest. Finish your chapbook. Say you wrote them yourself…

CHARLOTTE: No, I can’t. I wouldn’t…

EMILY: There. I’m through. (wiping off hands) What a relief!

CHARLOTTE: Darling! You can’t give up… Your voice is strong and fierce; it must be toned and sharpened.

EMILY: And who, pray tell, can offer that?

CHARLOTTE: Academia.

(EMILY spits)

CHARLOTTE: (cont.) Must you do that! How will you ever become a lady!

EMILY: Since when did I aspire to be a lady?

CHARLOTTE: I want so desperately for us to have an education. You might as well know I’ve been looking overseas. We must acquire some languages. German, French. I’m particularly interested in a finishing school in Brussels… the Pensionnat Heger. We need only stay one year. And in our spare time, we could write…

EMILY: You scheming old maid! Won’t you ever be satisfied…

CHARLOTTE: To be satisfied is to become null and void! Emily. Please. I need you and you need me.

EMILY: I need no one!

CHARLOTTE: Why must you fight me all the way? I’m trying to protect you. But you are fierce and willful, and cannot see how far withdrawn you grow. It cannot be productive for you to wander day and night with the wild dogs on the moors. And these dreams, I really think you mean that they are true…

EMILY: I see the sprits, Tallie…

CHARLOTTE: You cannot see spirits. They are false, they lead you away from your true path…

EMILY: They show me what is real…

CHARLOTTE: This is real. Your work! You must write again. You must use your spectacular will to come back to us! God has given us a means to save ourselves. You from madness, and I from despair. It’s a gift we must not waste! We are poor. We are women! We have nothing!

EMILY: We have our souls, Charlotte…

CHARLOTTE: But for how long? This is our last chance. The only way to seize our destiny. It’s the only way to freedom! Please, sister. I am withering away…

EMILY: I will never leave Haworth. I’m tied here by a force a dozen times stronger than you!

(ANNE enters from the moors)

CHARLOTTE: Annie!

ANNE: Such a visitation…

CHARLOTTE: Where have you been—

EMILY: Here comes the bride…

ANNE: Why did you leave me out there with him? Why did you take me in the first place?

EMILY: Are the nuptials set? Should we make the lace?

ANNE: Don’t you talk to me—

EMILY: Something’s gone wrong…

CHARLOTTE: What has happened? Has he proposed?

(ANNE goes for the house. EMILY grabs ANNE’s arm)

EMILY: I did it for you, you belong together…

ANNE: Not in a thousand, thousand years.

EMILY: What has changed?

ANNE: Charlotte—keep her away from me—

CHARLOTTE: Tell me sisters—All I want to do is help—

EMILY: All you care about is you! Annie…

ANNE: Please Charlotte. I want to go away now…

EMILY: I took her to meet Weightman.

ANNE: This is not Gondal!

EMILY: He loves her, can’t you see?

CHARLOTTE: What right have you to play God with us?

ANNE: I am tainted. Ruined. Sinful.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, Annie. Shh. Papa must never know…

ANNE: You left me out there with him, full of drink—I can never be his wife.

EMILY: So he drinks. Branny drinks. There are greater faults—

ANNE: No! There is another—His wife to be.

EMILY: His wife to be, that’s you—

ANNE: You and your awful tricks. You must have known it from the start. He’s not free—he’s betrothed. To a woman from Appleby.

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman is engaged to a woman from Appleby?

EMILY: Who, what? Lies!

CHARLOTTE: How could he not have mentioned—

ANNE: And he doesn’t even love her—Oh—stop my heart—I’m feeling feint—

CHARLOTTE: (To EMILY) What on earth were you thinking?

ANNE: I think that’s rather strange—were you talking to him about me? What right have you—

EMILY: I didn’t know—I swear—Let me get my hands on him. I’ll kill him for hurting my Anne—

CHARLOTTE: Your Anne? Your Anne? You have done enough. (To ANNE) Think. The situation might be salvageable. Marriages can be—un-arranged…

ANNE: Charlotte, please. I’ve been praying all night. He has some strange power over me. I wish I could rid him from my mind completely. (pause) Do you think that God understands what it’s like to be in love?

CHARLOTTE: He created us, didn’t He?

ANNE: But I don’t always understand what I create. Do you think that God can forgive my indiscretions?

CHARLOTTE: I’m certain that he will. The man’s lied to us about his entanglements. He is obviously a scoundrel and a rogue. He’ll never want for troops of victims amongst young ladies.

ANNE: Yes. I’ve come to my decision. I can never trust a man with such terrible secrets. (beat) I thought, perhaps, under the circumstance, it might be wise if I had some time alone. I thought I might go back to governing…

EMILY: No—you promised—

ANNE: It might be a kind of penance…

CHARLOTTE: Darling. There must be some other way. We could ask Papa to make him go—

EMILY: No—you mustn’t—

CHARLOTTE: Why? (pause) Emily. Why?

ANNE: Perhaps she’s grown fond of him, too.

EMILY: Don’t be ridiculous. I care no more for him than the rocks in the field, the wind in the trees, the puddles of mud that form in the rain—

ANNE: But Emily. Those are the things you love the most—

CHARLOTTE: Emily? Tell us now, before you burst! (long pause) Damn it! The world does not revolve around your passion and your darkness. You think you are free; you think that you are humble. But you are in a prideful, brooding trap. I cannot watch you struggle any more.

EMILY: Annie—

ANNE: You’ve broken my heart—

CHARLOTTE: Come, dear.

EMILY: Do not go…

ANNE: I can’t bear to look at you—

EMILY: Tallie—

CHARLOTTE: Fend for yourself.

EMILY: But—I—

(ANNE and CHARLOTTE exit. Fade down on the courtyard. Rise on EMILY as she walks out to the moors)

EMILY: “The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me,

And I cannot, cannot go.”

“The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighted with snow

The storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

“Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me:

I will not, cannot go.”

(Fade on EMILY to black. CHARLOTTE enters and lights a candle in the dark Living Room. She huddles over a page and reads, with pen in hand. A red fire glows)

CHARLOTTE: “…Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different than before; not quite so stern—much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, with wine, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was in his after dinner mood; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against the back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their depths, which, if it was not softness, reminded you of that feeling…”

Buttons and coal. I might as well give up. Ah, my dear imagined reader, it’s really no great loss….

(WEIGHTMAN enters. His face is pale and his eyes are sunken. He carries the now tattered volume of Shelley under his arm)

WEIGHTMAN: Pardon, may I—

CHARLOTTE: You! You’re not allowed in here—

WEIGHTMAN: Please. The fire’s out in my cottage—

CHARLOTTE: You know where the wood is—

WEIGHTMAN: Please, let me warm myself—

CHARLOTTE: There. (Throws him a blanket) Now be on your way—

WEIGHTMAN: It’s freezing. I have a most persistent chill—

CHARLOTTE: I don’t care if you have ice in your socks, get out…

WEIGHTMAN: Rats. I’ve never met three more headstrong women…

(WEIGHTMAN coughs)

CHARLOTTE: Oh, Lord. (pause) Come. Sit by the fire. But just for a few moments.

WEIGHTMAN: You are an angel—

CHARLOTTE: Don’t start with me. I’ll pour you some tea.

WEIGHTMAN: So. (pause) How are your sisters. Are they well?

CHARLOTTE: Well enough. And your fiancee?

WEIGHTMAN: Hmm? Oh, that.

CHARLOTTE: (sarcastically) You must be very close.

WEIGHTMAN: We have our—differences.

CHARLOTTE: Then some women are immune to your spell?

WEIGHTMAN: Like you?

CHARLOTTE: Who’s to know.

WEIGHTMAN: Charlotte. Come now. You’re not flirting with me, are you?

CHARLOTTE: Why not? The house has already gone to the dogs—I might as well join along. (gives him some tea) It isn’t fair, it isn’t right. I’m the one who works the hardest, studies the most. But I’ll never have real talent…it’s hopeless, useless…

WEIGHTMAN: Talent’s not everything, Charlotte. (coughs) You must persist.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, what bundle of self-pity I am. (touches his forehead) You’ve a fever, haven’t you?

WEIGHTMAN: How—

CHARLOTTE: What is it?

WEIGHTMAN: Your sisters. Are they—well?

CHARLOTTE: I told you. They are—fine.

WEIGHTMAN: And—is it true—Anne is leaving?

CHARLOTTE: Yes. And Emily and I have been accepted into the Pensionnat Heger. You men will soon be on your own. (pause) Far be it from me to give advice, Mr. Weightman—

WEIGHTMAN: No, no—please—

CHARLOTTE: But in the meanwhile, do stay away from my sisters if you’re fond of your career. Now if you’ll excuse me…

WEIGHTMAN: I see. Perhaps, then, you could return this volume for me…

CHARLOTTE: (ignoring him, back to her work) This is writing from the devil, it’s worthless sentimental drivel….

(Threatens to throw her writing in the fire. WEIGHTMAN stops her)

WEIGHTMAN: Stop, sweet Charlotte…You mustn’t throw away your labors so…

CHARLOTTE: No worse than throwing away my sister’s affections.

WEIGHTMAN: Perhaps you’ve been misinformed. It is they who have rejected me. There is many a man who is worse than I, and you should be happy that Anne did not bear herself to a real villain.

CHARLOTTE: You are villain enough for Haworth.

WEIGHTMAN: Were I a better clergyman, I might deduce a want for your own secret love.

CHARLOTTE: For your information, I’ve had full proposals…

EMILY: Really? From who?

CHARLOTTE: From one Mr. Bryce, an acquaintance of father’s, a man in all respects better than you…

WEIGHTMAN: But you turned him down? Why?

CHARLOTTE: You know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable.

WEIGHTMAN: For your sake, I hope that you are right. Else your judgmental ways could doom you to loneliness.

CHARLOTTE: Kiss me, Mr. Weightman.

WEIGHTMAN: Why?

CHARLOTTE: Just a for a moment. For the experience. Then I’ll go back to hating you. (He does, on the forehead. After a beat) How can you pretend to care about us, when you’ve been so deceitful?

WEIGHTMAN: “Darling enthusiast, Holy Child—”

CHARLOTTE: Emily shared her work? With you?

WEIGHTMAN: Not Emily. Anne—

CHARLOTTE: Mr. Weightman. It’s Emily who wrote those lines.

WEIGHTMAN: No. You must be mistaken. It’s Anne who gave me Shelley—

CHARLOTTE: No, I’m quite sure. (beat) She’s brilliant, isn’t she?

WEIGHTMAN: And this volume?

CHARLOTTE: What? Oh. I’ll take that…

WEIGHTMAN: No. I’ll return it to Emily myself—Oh, impossible…I thought she hated me…

CHARLOTTE: No, no…I was mistaken, that was Annie’s poem, indeed…

WEIGHTMAN: Sweet Heaven! God has at last revealed himself….

CHARLOTTE: I think you should leave now—

WEIGHTMAN: Listen to me. (from book) “Emily. I love thee. Would we were twins of the same mother…” (grabs CHARLOTTE) She’s mine, Tallie.

CHARLOTTE: What? Let go of me…

WEIGHTMAN: She’s meant for me…

CHARLOTTE: You don’t deserve her. Get out!

WEIGHTMAN: Shelley proves it…

CHARLOTTE: Damn Romantic poets! I do not believe in ghosts…

WEIGHTMAN: I’ve been dead before. By drowning. Just like him…

CHARLOTTE: Remember God, Mr. Weightman…

WEIGHTMAN: Ha! He won’t remember me! (let’s her go) Goodnight. I’ve a fine young foal to train…

(WEIGHTMAN exits.)

CHARLOTTE: (after him) You’ve no right! (beat) You’ll destroy her!

(CHARLOTTE hesitates. Dogs bark. Fade up on EMILY whispers, laying on a gravestone)

EMILY: Mama…Mama…let me in. You must let me in Mama. Mama? Mama, please, I’ve never asked for much. Talk to me. Please, say something. I’m afraid, Mama. I think—I think I’m being haunted, Mama, by the King of Darkness himself…I can’t fight him alone. I beg you, Mama, if you love me at all, please, let me in…

(Fade up on WEIGHTMAN, on the moors, at night, walking, with a book)

WEIGHTMAN: “While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Thro’ many a cave and ruin, With fearful steps pursuing… Hopes of high talk with the dead. I was not heard: I saw them not… …Sudden thy shadow fell on me: I clasped my hands in ecstasy…”

(WEIGHTMAN exits. Dogs fade. Fade to the Courtyard. Morning. EMILY holds a pair of gloves. ANNE carries a bag. They both wear shawls)

EMILY: So. Here we are.

ANNE: Yes.

EMILY: I owe you an apology.

ANNE: If you like.

EMILY: I never should have… It was madness.

ANNE: I hope you understand then why I broke my promise.

EMILY: Yes. I do.

ANNE: You do?

EMILY: I am not invulnerable to love.

ANNE: Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes I think you do not want to be loved at all. (beat) It is a good thing for me to go.

EMILY: On this day, four years in the future, do you think we shall be finally established to our hearts content?

ANNE: Have faith.

EMILY: Time will tell.

(CHARLOTTE enters with a bundle)

CHARLOTTE: The carriage is almost ready. I brought you some linen writing paper. You must write us all the time.

EMILY: Here. Take these gloves. They’re horribly crafted, by me.

ANNE: Thank you. Emmy, the one thing you cannot do is sew. (beat) I cannot go.

CHARLOTTE: You must.

ANNE: I’ll be all right. Thorpe Green. The name sounds pleasant enough.

CHARLOTTE: Maybe this family will be better.

EMILY: The children will act like angels all the time.

CHARLOTTE: Certainly they will.

WEIGHTMAN: (off) Hold the horse, man. Ho!

CHARLOTTE: Oh, Lord!

ANNE: Why has he come—?

(WEIGHTMAN enters, with two books)

ANNE: (cont) William. What are you doing here?

WEIGHTMAN: I couldn’t let you leave without a good-bye…

ANNE: I have made my own amends.

WEIGHTMAN: Please. Forgive me. For all that I have done—I have every confidence you will find a better sort…

ANNE: That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Mr. Weightman.

WEIGHTMAN: Know that I never meant to hurt you.

ANNE: But you did.

WEIGHTMAN: Yes. Still. I have a present for you.

ANNE: An Anglican Bible. With my name…

WEIGHTMAN: Engraved in gold…

ANNE: Oh, William…

CHARLOTTE: You must board the carriage. You have far to travel…

ANNE: Yes. Well. Right. I’m off.

EMILY: Be brave, dear Sis!

ANNE: Be good. All of you. Goodbye!

(ANNE leaves. The sisters ad lib “goodbyes.” They all watch her as she goes. Sound of horse and carriage down a lane)

CHARLOTTE: Seems like only yesterday she came home.

EMILY: She’d still be here if it weren’t for the two of you and your meddling!

WEIGHTMAN: It was a foolish thing you did, bringing her out on the moors with us—

CHARLOTTE: Come now. No need for dramatics. Emotional displays are self-indulgent and entirely unbecoming. Excuse us, Mr. Weightman…

EMILY: Tallie, leave me alone. Can’t you even wait till she’s down the path?

WEIGHTMAN: I brought your book of Shelley.

EMILY: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

WEIGHTMAN: Please, take it…

CHARLOTTE: Darling, we must discuss the travel arrangements…

EMILY: Don’t pester me!

WEIGHTMAN: It’s your book. I can’t keep it…

EMILY: I don’t want it anymore…

WEIGHTMAN: You have to take it! It belongs to you! It has your little notes tucked in every page…

(CHARLOTTE takes the book. WEIGHTMAN coughs)

CHARLOTTE: Give it here. Mr. Weightman. You shouldn’t stay out here. With that cough of yours.

WEIGHTMAN: Feeling much better, thank you. In fact, I think I need a walk.

CHARLOTTE: And we have chores to do. Come along, Emily.

EMILY: I think I need a walk as well.

CHARLOTTE: No, you don’t.

EMILY: Yes I do.

CHARLOTTE: You can take your walk later.

EMILY: Later it will grow dark, kind Sis.

CHARLOTTE: Emily. I thought we agreed —

EMILY: I agreed to nothing, Tallie.

CHARLOTTE: Must you always be so stubborn and selfish?

EMILY: Must you always be so nosy and nasty?

CHARLOTTE: Will I ever get through to you? He is a man possessed…

EMILY: And what if he is? I doubt his demons can outwit my own.

CHARLOTTE: Look to the light, Emily. I worry for your soul…

EMILY: Worry for you own, and save yourself!

CHARLOTTE: Go on. Enjoy yourself. But don’t come running back when you’re down and disgraced!

EMILY: Don’t be emotional, Tallie. It’s not becoming.

WEIGHTMAN: Now, if you will excuse us, your sister and I will be off on our walk…

CHARLOTTE: You—I—Fools.

(CHARLOTTE leaves. EMILY and WEIGHTMAN walk to the moors. The sound of wild dogs lingers off and on in the great distance)

EMILY: Well, you certainly made a mess of things…

WEIGHTMAN: I should say the same to you! What were you trying to say that night after lecture? I think I cut you off—

EMILY: Do you still intend to marry?

WEIGHTMAN: There is no Isabella.

EMILY: What?

WEIGHTMAN: Well, there was, once. But she broke it off when she learned of my chosen profession…

EMILY: You are nothing but full of lies!

WEIGHTMAN: And I have lied deepest to myself. I let Anne believe long enough to set her free, from who she thought I was…from this sheltered prison you call home.

EMILY: A cruel trick by a spineless man…

WEIGHTMAN: Am I? Would you have truly wished for your sister and I to have become one?

EMILY: Then, you never really loved our Anne…

WEIGHTMAN: Under the conditions, I tried very hard to love her.

EMILY: And what conditions are those?

WEIGHTMAN: Knowing she was the one that made most common sense.

EMILY: What kind of person are you?

WEIGHTMAN: A restless, searching one. Just like you.

EMILY: At least I know the boundaries of my sex! Anne would have never approached you on her own…but her passion was true, I tell you…night after night she longed for you, she’d fondly trace your feature in the air…

WEIGHTMAN: Ah, yes. Your mysterious knowledge of passion.

EMILY: There isn’t anything mysterious about it. It comes through observation.

WEIGHTMAN: Observation of whom?

EMILY: What?

WEIGHTMAN: Who is this man that inspires the heart of such a one as you? He must be some character, to weather the tides of your affection. (Barking becomes louder) What is it?

EMILY: It’s those dogs again.

WEIGHTMAN: Is it someone from the parish?

EMILY: Please, don’t persist—

WEIGHTMAN: Ah! I must be close then.

EMILY: It’s really none of your business. They sound closer than ever…

WEIGHTMAN: Emily, I have told you all my secrets! Now, you must confess!

EMILY: I cannot confess! To do so would only put the both of us in jeopardy…

WEIGHTMAN: But aren’t you the brave one? Don’t you love to challenge danger?

EMILY: What if I were to say I loved you, Mr. Weightman? Would it not belie the friendship we pretend? What, with my sister loving you, and a wife to be in Appleby, wouldn’t that put me in the most dire of straits? Imagine, how I would feel, were I in love with you. Our walks, our chats, how they would take on a multiplicity of meaning? How every time you looked, or smiled, or brushed an arm past mine, what that would do to my wicked, churning heart? Do you think that any normal being could tolerate such a condition? Certainly not, I tell you. Anyone in their right mind would ignore such feelings, cut them out and throw them to those dogs!

WEIGHTMAN: Emily…

EMILY: Listen! Hear them? That is the way love sounds! Do you know what I’m saying William? Am I making any sense?

(The dogs stop barking)

WEIGHTMA: No.

EMILY: Do you not see what a horrible situation this would be, if we shared a passionate love?

WEIGHTMAN: It would be the end of friendship, I suspect.

EMILY: Then promise not to ask me about the man I love.

WEIGHTMAN: That I cannot do.

“Sweeter far than placid pleasure; Purer, higher beyond measure…”

EMILY: How…

WEIGHTMAN: It was in your book. And you wrote the poem that Anne spoke to me.

EMILY: Oh, no…

WEIGHTMAN: You cannot live your whole life never experiencing passion, Emily. That would be worse than an untimely death! It would be as if you never lived at all!

EMILY: I’m not afraid of death.

WEIGHTMAN: I am! Death is everywhere. That’s why I want to live…with you…

EMILY: I cannot give my heart away …

WEIGHTMAN: You can.

EMILY: If I loose my heart, I’ll loose my mind…

WEIGHTMAN: And I’d be stealing you forever from the one thing you truly love: these dreary Yorkshire moors!

EMILY: Love them? I hate them! They have sucked my soul and will not let me free—

WEIGHTMAN: What’s the matter?

EMILY: I saw something—a shadow—

WEIGHTMAN: Where?

EMILY: It’s nothing.

WEIGHTMAN: Don’t pull away. Don’t turn against your own heart…

EMILY: What do you know of my heart? I will not bend for love! (pause) There it is again…

WEIGHTMAN: What? The dogs?

EMILY: No. Don’t you see? A shape. Through those trees.

WEIGHTMAN: Show me.

EMILY: It’s him.

WEIGHTMAN: Who? The groundskeep?

EMILY: Do you know me, William? Do you? (pause) There! He comes clear! Do you see him? (beat) Do you know me, spirit? Tell me who I am!

WEIGHTMAN: Emily…

EMILY: Maybe he’ll speak…Wouldn’t that be magnificent?

WEIGHTMAN: Love—

EMILY: Listen—

WEIGHTMAN: Emily. You needn’t search anymore…

EMILY: I’ve been waiting all my life for this…Can’t you see him?

WEIGHTMAN: Look at my face. He’s here. I’ve come through time for you…

EMILY: You mustn’t speak such things…As if you’ve no soul of your own…Oh, no. He’s disappearing! Oh dream!

WEIGHTMAN: Forget the dream! I’m here…

EMILY: Spirit! Please, don’t go…

WEIGHTMAN: Damn it! There’s nothing! Nothing here but me, wanting you, loving you!

EMILY: You didn’t see him.

WEIGHTMAN: I saw, some movement…

EMILY: But not—

WEIGHTMAN: No. But that’s perfectly explainable—

EMILY: You think I’m insane. That I’ve made this whole thing up.

WEIGHTMAN: No.

EMILY: You think I’m a liar…

WEIGHTMAN: If you say you saw a ghost, well then, you did!

EMILY: If you love me, how could you not see him? William, I no longer feel my darling, lonely pain…

WEIGHTMAN: I will prove myself to you.

EMILY: We should head for Haworth…

WEIGHTMAN: Hear me, ghost? Reveal yourself! I challenge you!

(WEIGHTMAN leaves to follow the ghost)

EMILY: No, William. This is madness. Wait!

(EMILY exits after WEIGHTMAN. Music. Fade up on CHARLOTTE in the graveyard with a letter and a manuscript. The sound of the carriage in the distance)

CHARLOTTE: To Misters Aylott and Jones, 8 Paternoster Row, London. Gentlemen. Though we are obscure and un-recommended, please lend an indulgent ear. Enclosed is our advance—in full and in cash. Please commence production of four-hundred copies of this short book of verse, to be self-published and fully credited to we three brothers—Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.

(she folds up the package and ties it)

It will work. It must.

(CHARLOTTE tucks away the package and exits. WEIGHTMAN stumbles into the graveyard, exhaused, and lies, belly down, across a grave)

WEIGHTMAN: We shall elope…Uncle will cut me off when he hears… I shall be ruined. But it’s no matter. We’ll survive. We’ll go to Ireland. Or Africa. Or the Americas. Yes. She’d like that. The Americas…

(EMILY enters, and rushes to WEIGHTMAN)

EMILY: You foolish, willful man. What have you done?

WEIGHTMAN: Come with me.

EMILY: Where…

WEIGHTMAN: Be with me.

EMILY: But what about Anne…and Tallie…

WEIGHTMAN: It’s you I’ve come for. I know it now. Only — (coughs violently) you…

EMILY: William—you’re very sick…

WEIGHTMAN: Nothing matters anymore, except for us.

EMILY: Are you the one? (She kisses him. They fall into a deep embrace) I want to know you, be you…

WEIGHTMAN: Darling, this is what I’ve longed for…

EMILY: William. Are we “one passion in twin hearts?”

WEIGHTMAN: You are my passion.

EMILY: “One spirit within two frames?”

WEIGHTMAN: You are my spirit. You are more myself than I. Whatever souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.

EMILY: My soul wants to leap from my body…

WEIGHTMAN: It’s not your body anymore. This hand is not mine, it is yours. This bountiful hair, these soft cheeks, belong not to you, but to us.

EMILY: I’m bursting. I can’t seem to think clearly. Where is my soul? I can’t feel myself…

WEIGHTMAN: Shh. Love. It is here. Waiting.

EMILY: And your soul is inside me? (He coughs) What have I done, playing games with you so…

WEIGHTMAN: I forgive you, Emily. Please. Forgive me.

EMILY: I forgive what you have done to us. I love my murderer—but yours—How can I?

WEIGHTMAN: I am your ghost, Emily. I have always been, and always will be. Until the end of time. (he gasps for breath)

EMILY: Don’t say that. You will not leave me. You must not go. Don’t go William. Do not go!

(She holds him desperately, as he fades into unconsciousness. Very slow fade to black. The sound of a church bell, ringing, slowly, mournfully. When the lights return, EMILY and WEIGHTMAN are gone. CHARLOTTE is looking at the grave. ANNE approaches)

CHARLOTTE: Annie. We’ve been hoping…

ANNE: I came as fast as I could…I cannot believe it.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, darling. It all happened so quickly…

ANNE: Where is she —

CHARLOTTE: Inside. Helping Papa with the house guests.

ANNE: Well. Now that’s a change…

CHARLOTTE: Please do not be so hard on her. It’s been a very difficult time.

ANNE: How was the service?

CHARLOTTE: Papa said William had some “peculiar advantages,” but that his “character wore well, the surest proof of real worth.” It’s true, I think that I misjudged him…

ANNE: Perhaps. And our little collection?

CHARLOTTE: I finally scraped together enough funds. I’ve transcribed it all as clearly as I can… It is with the printer. I have nothing left now to keep me busy, I can hardly keep myself together…

ANNE: With Emmy’s poems, too?

CHARLOTTE: Wait until you see her. There is something…wholly different…

ANNE: If only I hadn’t been so cold-hearted… he might have…and she…what if—

CHARLOTTE: Shh, darling. The doctor said the cause was protracted influenza. But it seemed to me one night, somehow, he was suddenly, taken…

ANNE: What finally transpired between them?

CHARLOTTE: She will not say directly… There is something of the devil all in this.

ANNE: Or of men. To tell you the truth, I do not understand this thing at all…

(EMILY enters. She is detached, aloof, calm)

EMILY: Sister. Welcome home.

ANNE: I am too late. Are you, at peace?

EMILY: I’ve decided to go with Charlotte to Brussels…

ANNE: It will do you well…I wish I had such an opportunity…

CHARLOTTE: Darling…about that. We needn’t go if you don’t want to. I’ve been so selfish—

EMILY: Tallie. I want to go. I need to see the world. Let’s go as soon as we are able.

CHARLOTTE: Oh, my sweet, sad, maypole…

EMILY: Did you love him, Annie?

ANNE: No, I think not.

EMILY: He was a funny man.

ANNE: Emmy. Don’t…

EMILY: Sometimes, I think he and I must have lived another life together. He knew me. He understood me, like I thought no man ever could…

ANNE: Oh, dear, oh dear…

EMILY: Please don’t hate me.

ANNE: Shush. It’s all right. Really. (beat) You held this inside all this while? How could you stand it?

EMILY: What was I to do? I couldn’t very well disappoint your faith in stoic Major Em…

ANNE: Emmy—now I love you even more. We will forget this man. And the whole business of men. We don’t need them, do we? We will carry on with our lives. I cannot stand to think we’ll be apart again.

CHARLOTTE: Darlings. The pangs of separation make me think. Perhaps when we return, we might start our own girls school, and bring the students home to us in Haworth.

ANNE: A sound proposal.

EMILY: We will teach them Goethe’s Faust, in German yet.

ANNE: I brought something to show you. I’ve been working on a novel…

CHARLOTTE: Anne, I will never forgive you for keeping our sister’s talents such a secret. Maybe she’s got a novel in her, yet.

ANNE: Yes, I know. She’s always had a fire…

EMILY: Would you two still love me, if I did not write again? I don’t know if I will be able…

CHARLOTTE: Oh, Emmy…Can you think we want you to be anything other than what you are?

EMILY: Dear sisters, every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own….

ANNE: See, now, we must remember, however bleak things seem, God has a reason for everything. Let me go and see how Papa’s doing. (She hugs them both) It’s good to be home.

(ANNE exits)

CHARLOTTE: Sissy…what did happen to you and he, out there on the heights?

EMILY: Perhaps I will write about it, someday.

(goes to a grave—a new one)

“Holy be thy resting place

Wherever thou mayst lie;

The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,

The softest of the sky…”

CHARLOTTE: May God have mercy on his soul.

EMILY: I love you, Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE: Why, sis. I love you, too…come inside now. It’s getting late.

(CHARLOTTE exits. Dogs sound again in the distance).

EMILY: To wander. (pause) To wonder.

(WEIGHTMAN appears, a shadow, a whisper)

WEIGHTMAN: Let…me…in…

(EMILY starts. She looks. There lingers but a shadow of him, reaching for her. Wind. Fade to black. Music.)

END OF PLAY