802CHAPTER 25UNDERSTANDING DRAMAThe distinctive ap.docx

802
CHAPTER 25
UNDERSTANDING DRAMA
The distinctive appearance of a script, with its divisions into
acts and scenes,
identi�es drama as a unique form of literature. A play is written
to be per-
formed in front of an audience by actors who take on the roles
of the charac-
ters and who present the story through dialogue and action. (An
exception is
a closet drama, which is meant to be read, not performed.) In
fact, the term
theater comes from the Greek word theasthai, which means “to
view” or “to
see.” Thus, drama is different from novels and short stories,
which are meant
to be read.
The Ancient Greek Theater
The dramatic presentations of ancient Greece developed out of
religious
rites performed to honor gods or to mark the coming of spring.
Play-
wrights such as Aeschylus (525–456 b.c.), Sophocles (496–406
b.c.), and
Euripides (480?–406 b.c.) wrote plays to be performed and
judged at com-

petitions held during the yearly Dionysian festivals. Works were
chosen by
a selection board and evaluated by a panel of judges. To
compete in the
contest, writers had to submit three tragedies, which could be
either based
on a common theme or unrelated, and one comedy.
Unfortunately, very few
of these ancient Greek plays survive today.
The open-air, semicircular ancient Greek theater, built into the
side of a
hill, looked much like a primitive version of a modern sports
stadium. Some
Greek theaters, such as the Athenian theater, could seat almost
seventeen
thousand spectators. Sitting in tiered seats, the audience would
look down
on the orchestra, or “dancing place,” occupied by the chorus—
originally
a group of men (led by an individual called the choragos) who
danced and
chanted and later a group of onlookers who commented on the
drama.
Dramatic Literature
Origins of Modern Drama
9781337509633, PORTABLE Literature: Reading, Reacting,
Writing, Ninth edition, Kirszner - © Cengage Learning. All
rights reserved. No distribution allowed without express
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Origins of Modern Drama 803
Raised a few steps above the orchestra was a platform on which
the
actors performed. Behind this platform was a skene, or building,
that origi-
nally served as a resting place or dressing room. (The modern
word scene
is derived from the Greek skene.) Behind the skene was a line
of pillars
called a colonnade, which was covered by a roof. Actors used
the skene for

entrances and exits; beginning with the plays of Sophocles,
painted back-
drops were hung there. These backdrops, however, were most
likely more
decorative than realistic. Historians believe that realistic props
and scenery
were probably absent from the ancient Greek theater. Instead,
the setting
was suggested by the play’s dialogue, and the audience had to
imagine the
physical details of a scene.
Two mechanical devices were used. One, a rolling cart or
platform,
was sometimes employed to introduce action that had occurred
offstage.
For example, actors frozen in position could be rolled onto the
roof of the
skene to illustrate an event such as the killing of Oedipus’s
father, which
occurred before the play began. Another mechanical device, a
small crane,
was used to show gods ascending to or descending from heaven.
Such
devices enabled playwrights to dramatize the myths that were
celebrated at
the Dionysian festivals.
The ancient Greek theater was designed to enhance acoustics.
The
�at stone wall of the skene re�ected the sound from the
orchestra and
the stage, and the curved shape of the amphitheater captured the
sound,
Grand Theater at Ephesus (3rd century B.C.), a Greek

settlement in what is now Turkey
Da v e G . Ho u s e r/Do c u m e n ta ry Va l u e /Co rb i s
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804 Chapter 25 • Understanding Drama

enabling the audience to hear the lines spoken by the actors.
Each actor
wore a stylized mask, or persona, to convey to the audience the
personal-
ity traits of the particular character being portrayed—a king, a
soldier, a
wise old man, a young girl (female roles were played by men).
The mouths
of these masks were probably constructed so they ampli�ed the
voice and
projected it into the audience. In addition, the actors wore
kothorni, high
shoes that elevated them above the stage, perhaps also helping
to project
their voices. Due to the excellent acoustics, audiences who see
plays per-
formed in these ancient theaters today can hear clearly without
the aid of
microphones or speaker systems.
Because actors wore masks and because males played the parts
of women
and gods as well as men, acting methods in the ancient Greek
theater were
probably not realistic. In their masks, high shoes, and full-
length tunics
(called chiton), actors could not hope to appear natural or to
mimic the atti-
tudes of everyday life. Instead, they probably recited their lines
while stand-
ing in stylized poses, with emotions conveyed more by gesture
and tone than
by action. Typically, three actors had all the speaking roles.
One actor—the
protagonist—would play the central role and have the largest
speaking part.

Two other actors would divide the remaining lines between
them. Although
other characters would come on and off the stage, they would
usually not
have speaking roles.
Ancient Greek tragedies were typically divided into �ve parts.
The �rst
part was the prologos, or prologue, in which an actor gave the
background
or explanations that the audience needed to follow the rest of
the drama.
Then came the párodos, in which the chorus entered and
commented on
the events presented in the prologue. Following this were
several episo-
dia, or episodes, in which characters spoke to one another on
the stage and
developed the central con
ict of the play. Alternating with episodes were
stasimon (choral odes), in which the chorus commented on the
exchanges
that had taken place during the preceding episode. Frequently,
the choral
odes were divided into strophes, or stanzas, which were recited
or sung as
the chorus moved across the orchestra in one direction, and
antistrophes,
which were recited as it moved in the opposite direction.
(Interestingly, the
chorus stood between the audience and the actors, often
functioning as an
additional audience, expressing the political, social, and moral
views of the
community.) The �fth part was the exodos, the last scene of the
play, during

which the con
ict was resolved and the actors left the stage.
Using music, dance, and verse—as well as a variety of
architectural and
technical innovations—the ancient Greek theater was able to
convey the
traditional themes of tragedy. Thus, the Greek theater
powerfully expressed
ideas that were central to the religious festivals in which they
�rst appeared:
the reverence for the cycles of life and death, the unavoidable
dictates of the
gods, and the inscrutable workings of fate.
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The Elizabethan Theater
The Elizabethan theater, in
uenced by the classical traditions of Roman and
Greek dramatists, traces its roots back to local religious
pageants performed
at medieval festivals during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
Town
guilds—organizations of craftsmen who worked in the same
profession—
reenacted Old and New Testament stories: the fall of man, Noah
and the
ood, David and Goliath, and the cruci�xion of Christ, for
example. Church
fathers encouraged these plays because they brought the Bible
to a largely
illiterate audience. Sometimes these spectacles, called mystery
plays, were
presented in the market square or on the church steps, and at
other times
actors appeared on movable stages or wagons called pageants,
which could
be wheeled to a given location. (Some of these wagons were

quite elaborate,
with trapdoors and pulleys and an upper tier that simulated
heaven.) As mys-
tery plays became more popular, they were performed in series
over several
days, presenting an entire cycle of a holiday—the cruci�xion
and resurrec-
tion of Christ during Easter, for example.
Performance of a mystery play
Art Resource
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Related to mystery plays are morality plays, which developed in
the four-
teenth and �fteenth centuries. Unlike mystery plays, which
depict scenes
from the Bible, morality plays allegorize the Christian way of
life. Typically,
characters representing various virtues and vices struggle or
debate over the
soul of man. Everyman (1500), the best known of these plays,
dramatizes the
good and bad qualities of Everyman and shows his struggle to
determine what
is of value to him as he journeys toward death.
By the middle of the sixteenth century, mystery and morality
plays had
lost ground to a new secular drama. One reason for this decline
was that mys-
tery and morality plays were associated with Catholicism and
consequently
discouraged by the Anglican clergy. In addition, newly
discovered plays of
ancient Greece and Rome introduced a dramatic tradition that
supplanted
the traditions of religious drama. English plays that followed
the classic
model were sensational and bombastic, often dealing with

murder, revenge,
and blood retribution. Appealing to privileged classes and
commoners alike,
these plays were extremely popular. (One source estimates that
in London,
between 20,000 and 25,000 people attended performances each
week.)
In spite of the popularity of the theater, actors and playwrights
encoun-
tered a number of dif�culties. First, they faced opposition from
city of�cials
who were averse to theatrical presentations because they
thought that the
crowds attending these performances spread disease. Puritans
opposed the
theater because they thought plays were immoral and sinful.
Finally, some
people attached to the royal court opposed the theater because
they thought
that the playwrights undermined the authority of Queen
Elizabeth by spread-
ing seditious ideas. As a result, during Elizabeth’s reign,
performances were
placed under the strict control of the Master of Revels, a public
of�cial who
had the power to censor plays (and did so with great regularity)
and to grant
licenses for performances.
Acting companies that wanted to put on a performance had to
obtain
a license—possible only with the patronage of a powerful
nobleman—and
to perform the play in an area designated by the queen. Despite
these

dif�culties, a number of actors and playwrights gained a
measure of �nancial
independence by joining together and forming acting
companies. These com-
panies of professional actors performed works such as
Christopher Marlowe’s
Tamburlaine and Thomas Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy in tavern
courtyards and
then eventually in permanent theaters. According to scholars,
the structures
of the Elizabethan theater evolved from these tavern courtyards.
William Shakespeare’s plays were performed at the Globe
Theatre (a
corner of which was unearthed in December 1988). Although
scholars do
not know the exact design of the original Globe, drawings from
the period
provide a good idea of its physical features. The major
difference between
the Globe and today’s theaters is the multiple stages on which
action could
be performed. The Globe consisted of a large main stage that
extended out
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into the open-air yard where the groundlings, or common
people, stood.
Spectators who paid more sat on small stools in two or three
levels of galleries
that extended in front of and around the stage. (The theater
could probably
seat almost two thousand people at a performance.) Most of the
play’s action
occurred on the stage, which had no curtain and could be seen
from three
sides. Beneath the stage was a space called the hell, which
could be reached
when the
oorboards were removed. This space enabled actors to

“disappear”
or descend into a hole or grave when the play called for such
action. Above
the stage was a roof called the heavens, which protected the
actors from the
weather and contained ropes and pulleys used to lower props or
to create
special effects.
At the rear of the stage was a narrow alcove covered by a
curtain that
could be open or closed. This curtain, often painted, functioned
as a decora-
tive rather than a realistic backdrop. The main function of this
alcove was
to enable actors to hide or disappear when the script called for
them to do
so. Some Elizabethan theaters contained a rear stage instead of
an alcove.
Because the rear stage was concealed by a curtain, props could
be arranged
on it ahead of time. When the action on the rear stage was
�nished, the
curtain would be closed and the action would continue on the
front stage.
On either side of the rear stage was a door through which the
actors could
enter and exit the front stage. Above the rear stage was a
curtained stage
called the chamber, which functioned as a balcony or as any
other setting
located above the action taking place on the stage below. On
either side of
the chamber were casement windows, which actors could use
when a play

called for a conversation with someone leaning out a window or
standing on
a balcony. Above the chamber was the music gallery, a balcony
that housed
the musicians who provided musical interludes throughout the
play (and
that doubled as a stage if the play required it). The huts,
windows located
above the music gallery, could be used by characters playing
lookouts or sen-
tries. Because of the many acting sites, more than one action
could take place
simultaneously. For example, lookouts could stand in the towers
of Hamlet’s
castle while Hamlet and Horatio walked the walls below.
During Shakespeare’s time, the theater had many limitations
that chal-
lenged the audience’s imagination. First, young boys—usually
between the
ages of ten and twelve—played all the women’s parts. In
addition, there was
no arti�cial lighting, so plays had to be performed in daylight.
Rain, wind,
or clouds could disrupt a performance or ruin an image—such as
“the morn
in russet mantle clad”—that the audience was asked to imagine.
Finally,
because few sets and props were used, the audience often had to
visualize
the high walls of a castle or the trees of a forest. The plays were
performed
without intermission, except for musical interludes that
occurred at various
points. Thus, the experience of seeing one of Shakespeare’s
plays staged in the

Elizabethan theater was different from seeing it staged in a
modern theater.
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The Globe Playhouse, 1599–1613; a conjectural reconstruction.
From C. Walter
Hodges The Globe Restored: A Study of the Elizabethan
Theatre. New York: Norton, 1973.
Source: C .W . Hodges . Conjectural Reconstruction of the
Globe Playhouse, 1965 . Pen & ink .
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Today, a reconstruction of the Globe Theatre (above) stands on
the
south bank of the Thames River in London. In the 1940s, the
American
actor Sam Wanamaker visited London and was shocked to �nd
nothing
that commemorated the site of the original Globe. He eventually
decided to
try to raise enough money to reconstruct the Globe in its
original location.
The Globe Playhouse Trust was founded in the 1970s, but the
actual con-
struction of the new theater did not begin until the 1980s. After
a number of
setbacks—for example, the Trust ran out of funds after the
construction of a
large underground “diaphragm” wall needed to keep out the
river water—the
project was �nally completed. The �rst performance at the
reconstructed
Globe was given on June 14, 1996, which would have been the
late Sam
Wanamaker’s 77th birthday.
The Modern Theater
Unlike the theaters of ancient Greece and Elizabethan England,
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theaters—such as the Palais
Royal,
where the great French playwright Molière presented many of
his plays—
were covered by a roof, beautifully decorated, and illuminated

by candles
so that plays could be performed at night. The theater remained
brightly lit
Aerial view of the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London
Source: ©Jason Hawkes/Corbis
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even during performances, partly because there was no easy way
to extin-
guish hundreds of candles and partly because people went to the
theater as
much to see each other as to see the play.
A curtain opened and closed between acts, and the audience of
about
five hundred spectators sat in a long room and viewed the play
on a
picture-frame stage. This type of stage, which resembles the
stages on
which plays are performed today, contained the action within a
prosce-
nium arch that surrounded the opening through which the
audience
viewed the performance. Thus, the action seemed to take place
in an
adjoining room with one of its walls cut away. Painted scenery
(some of
it quite elaborate), intricately detailed costumes, and stage
makeup were
commonplace, and for the �rst time women performed female
roles. In
addition, a complicated series of ropes, pulleys, and cranks
enabled stage-
hands to change scenery quickly, and sound-effects machines
could give
audiences the impression that they were hearing a galloping
horse or a rag-
ing thunderstorm. Because the theaters were small, audiences
were rela-

tively close to the stage, so actors could use subtle movements
and facial
expressions to enhance their performances.
Many of the �rst innovations in the theater were quite basic.
For
example, the �rst stage lighting was produced by candles lining
the front of
the stage. This method of lighting was not only ineffective—
actors were lit
from below and had to step forward to be fully illuminated—but
also dan-
gerous. Costumes and even entire theaters could (and did) catch
�re. Later,
covered lanterns with re
ectors provided better and safer lighting. In the
nineteenth century, a device that used an oxyhydrogen
ame directed on a
cylinder of lime created extremely bright illumination that
could, with the
aid of a lens, be concentrated into a spotlight. (It is from this
method of stage
lighting that we get the expression to be in the limelight.)
Eventually, in the twentieth century, electric lights provided a
depend-
able and safe way of lighting the stage. Electric spotlights,
footlights, and
ceiling light bars made the actors clearly visible and enabled
playwrights
to create special effects. In Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman
(p. 960), for
example, lighting focuses attention on action in certain areas of
the stage
while other areas are left in complete darkness.

Along with electric lighting came other innovations, such as
electronic
ampli�cation. Microphones made it possible for actors to speak
conversation-
ally and to avoid using unnaturally loud “stage diction” to
project their voices
to the rear of the theater. Microphones placed at various points
around the
stage enabled actors and actresses to interact naturally and to
deliver their
lines audibly even without facing the audience. More recently,
small wireless
microphones have eliminated the unwieldy wires and the “dead
spaces” left
between upright or hanging microphones, allowing characters to
move freely
around the stage.
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The true revolutions in staging came with the advent of realism
in the
middle of the nineteenth century. Until this time, scenery had
been painted
on canvas backdrops that trembled visibly, especially when they
were inter-
sected by doors through which actors and actresses entered.
With realism
came settings that were accurate down to the smallest detail.
(Improved
lighting, which revealed the inadequacies of painted backdrops,
made such
realistic stage settings necessary.) Backdrops were replaced by
the box set,
three
at panels arranged to form connected walls, with the fourth wall
removed to give the audience the illusion of looking into a
room. The room
itself was decorated with real furniture, plants, and pictures on
the walls; the
door of one room might connect to another completely furnished

room, or
a window might open to a garden �lled with realistic foliage. In
addition,
new methods of changing scenery were employed. Elevator
stages, hydraulic
lifts, and moving platforms enabled directors to make
complicated changes
in scenery out of the audience’s view.
During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
however,
some playwrights reacted against what they saw as the excesses
of realism.
They introduced surrealistic stage settings, in which color and
scenery
mirrored the uncontrolled images of dreams, and expressionistic
stage
Thrust-Stage Theater. Rendering of the thrust stage at the
Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis.
With seats on three sides of the stage area, the thrust stage and
its background can assume
many forms. Entrances can be made from the aisles, from the
sides, through the stage floor, and
from the back.
Source: Alvis Upitis/Getty Images
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settings, in which costumes and scenery were exaggerated and
distorted
to re
ect the workings of a troubled, even unbalanced mind. In
addition,
playwrights used lighting to create areas of light, shadow, and
color that
reinforced the themes of the play or re
ected the emotions of the protago-
nist. Eugene O’Neill’s 1920 play The Emperor Jones, for
example, used a
series of expressionistic scenes to show the deteriorating mental

state of
the terri�ed protagonist.
Sets in contemporary plays run the gamut from realistic to
fantastic,
from a detailed re-creation of a room in a production of
Tennessee Wil-
liams’s The Glass Menagerie (1945) to dreamlike sets for
Eugene O’Neill’s
The Emperor Jones (1920) and Edward Albee’s The Sandbox
(1959). Motor-
ized devices, such as revolving turntables, and wagons—scenery
mounted on
wheels—make possible rapid changes of scenery. The Broadway
musical Les
Misérables, for example, required scores of elaborate sets—
Parisian slums,
barricades, walled gardens—to be shifted as the audience
watched. A gigan-
tic barricade constructed on stage at one point in the play was
later rotated to
show the carnage that had taken place on both sides of a battle.
Light, sound,
and smoke were used to heighten the impact of the scene.
Today, as dramatists attempt to break down the barriers that
separate
audiences from the action they are viewing, plays are not
limited to the
picture-frame stage; in fact, they are performed on many
different kinds of
stages. Some plays take place on a thrust stage (pictured on the
previous
page), which has an area that projects out into the audience.
Other plays
are performed on an arena stage, with the audience surrounding

the actors.
(This kind of performance is often called theater in the round.)
In addi-
tion, experiments have been done with environmental staging, in
which
the stage surrounds the audience or several stages are situated at
various
locations throughout the audience. Plays may also be performed
outdoors, in
settings ranging from parks to city streets.
Some playwrights even try to blur the line that divides the
audience
from the stage by having actors move through or sit in the
audience—
or even by eliminating the stage entirely. For example, Tony ’n
Tina’s
Wedding, a participatory drama created in 1988 by the theater
group Arti-
�cial Intelligence, takes place not in a theater but at a church
where a
wedding is performed and then at a catering hall where the
wedding recep-
tion is held. Throughout the play, the members of the audience
function
as guests, joining in the wedding celebration and mingling with
the actors,
who improvise freely.
A more recent example of participatory drama is Sleep No
More, which
takes place in a block of warehouses (which has been
transformed into the
McKittrick Hotel) in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York
City. The play
is a wordless production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Audience

members, who
must wear white Venetian carnival masks and remain silent at
all times, are
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taken by elevator to various
oors of the “hotel.” Once deposited, they are free
to follow any of the actors, who appear and disappear at will, or
to explore the
hotel’s many rooms. The action can be intense, with audience
members chas-
ing actors down dark, narrow hallways or up and down stairs to
other
oors of
the hotel, and at times, being pulled into the action of the play.
Arena-Stage Theater. The arena theater at the Riverside
Community Players in
Riverside, California. The audience surrounds the stage area,
which may or may not be
raised. Use of scenery is limited—perhaps to a single piece of
scenery standing alone in
the middle of the stage.
Source: Courtesy The Arena Theatre, Riverside Community
Players, Riverside, CA
Scene from the participatory drama Sleep No More
Credit: Lucas Jackson/Reuters/Corbis
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ANTON CHEKHOV (1860–1904) is an important nineteenth-
century CHEKHOV (1860–1904) is an important nineteenth-
century CHEKHOV
Russian playwright and short story writer . He became a doctor
and,
as a young adult, supported the rest of his family after his
father’s
bankruptcy . After his early adult years in Moscow, Chekhov
spent
the rest of his life in the country, moving to Yalta, a resort town
in
Crimea, for his health (he suffered from tuberculosis) . He
continued to
write plays, mostly for the Moscow Art Theatre, although he

could not
supervise their production as he would have wished . His plays
include
The Seagull (1896),The Seagull (1896),The Seagull Uncle
Vanya (1898), Uncle Vanya (1898), Uncle Vanya The Three
Sisters (1901), and The Three Sisters (1901), and The Three
Sisters
The Cherry Orchard (1904)The Cherry Orchard (1904)The
Cherry Orchard .
Today, no single architectural form de�nes the theater. The
modern stage
is a
exible space suited to the many varieties of contemporary
theatrical
production.
Dramatic works differ from other prose works in a number of
fairly obvious
ways. For one thing, plays look different on the page: generally,
they are
divided into acts and scenes; they include stage directions that
specify char-
acters’ entrances and exits and describe what settings look like
and how char-
acters look and act; and they consist primarily of dialogue, lines
spoken by the
characters. And, of course, plays are different from other prose
works in that
they are written not to be read but to be performed in front of an
audience.
Unlike novels and short stories, plays do not usually have
narrators to
tell the audience what a character is thinking or what happened
in the

past; for the most part, the audience knows only what characters
reveal. To
compensate for the absence of a narrator, playwrights can use
monologues
(extended speeches by one character), soliloquies (monologues
in which a
character expresses private thoughts while alone on stage), or
asides (brief
comments by a character who reveals thoughts by speaking
directly to the
audience without being heard by the other characters). In
addition to these
dramatic techniques, a play can also use costumes, scenery,
props, music,
lighting, and other techniques to enhance its impact on the
audience.
The play that follows, Anton Chekhov’s The Brute (1888), is
typical of
modern drama in many respects. A one-act play translated from
Russian, it
is essentially a struggle of wills between two headstrong
characters, a man
and a woman, with action escalating through the characters’
increasingly
heated exchanges of dialogue. Stage directions brie
y describe the setting—
“the drawing room of a country house”—and announce the
appearance of
various props. They also describe the major characters’
appearances as well
as their actions, gestures, and emotions. Because the play is a
farce, it features
broad physical comedy, asides, wild dramatic gestures, and
elaborate �gures
of speech, all designed to enhance its comic effect.

Defining Drama
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Glaspell: Trifles 867
SUSAN GLASPELL (1882–1948) was born in Davenport,
Iowa, and graduated from Drake University in 1899 . First a
reporter and then a freelance writer, she lived in Chicago
(where she was part of the Chicago renaissance that
included poet Carl Sandburg and novelist Theodore Dreiser)
and later in Greenwich Village . Her works include two plays
in addition to Trifles, The Verge (1921) and The Verge (1921)
and The Verge Alison’s House
(1930), and several novels, including Fidelity (1915) and
Fidelity (1915) and Fidelity
The Morning Is Near Us (1939) . With her husband, George The
Morning Is Near Us (1939) . With her husband, George The
Morning Is Near Us
Cram Cook, she founded the Provincetown Players, which
became the staging ground for innovative plays by Eugene
O’Neill, among others .
Glaspell herself wrote plays for the Provincetown Players,

beginning with Trifles, which she
created for the 1916 season although she had never previously
written a drama . The play opened
on August 8, 1916, with Glaspell and her husband in the cast .
Glaspell said she wrote Trifles
in one afternoon, sitting in the empty theater and looking at the
bare stage: “After a time, the
stage became a kitchen—a kitchen there all by itself .” She
remembered a murder trial she had
covered in Iowa in her days as a reporter, and the story began to
play itself out on the stage as
she gazed . Throughout her revisions, she said, she returned to
look at the stage to see whether
the events she was recording came to life on it . Although
Glaspell later rewrote Trifles as a short Trifles as a short Trifles
story called “A Jury of Her Peers,” the play remains her most
successful and memorable work .
Cultural Context One of the main themes of this play is the
contrast between the sexes
in terms of their roles, rights, and responsibilities . In 1916,
when Trifles was first produced, Trifles was first produced,
Trifles
women were not allowed to serve on juries in most states . This
circumstance was in accor-
dance with other rights denied to women, including the right to
vote, which was not ratified
in all states until 1920 . Unable to participate in the most basic
civic functions, women largely
discussed politics only among themselves and were relegated to
positions of lesser status in
their personal and professional lives .
Tri�es (1916)
CHARACTERS

George Henderson, county attorney Mrs. Peters
Henry Peters, sheriff Mrs. Hale
Lewis Hale, a neighboring farmer
SCENE
The kitchen in the now abandoned farmhouse of John Wright, a
gloomy kitchen,
and left without having been put in order—unwashed pans under
the sink, a loaf
of bread outside the breadbox, a dish towel on the table—other
signs of incom-
pleted work. At the rear the outer door opens and the Sheriff
comes in followed
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868 Chapter 27 • Plot
by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are men
in middle life,
the County Attorney is a young man; all are much bundled up
and go at once
to the stove. They are followed by two women—the Sheriff’s
wife �rst; she is a
slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and
would ordinarily
be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now
and looks fearfully
about as she enters. The women have come in slowly, and stand
close together
near the door.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands) This feels good.

Come up to the
�re, ladies.
MRS. PETERS: (after taking a step forward) I’m not—cold.
SHERIFF: (unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from
the stove as if to
mark the beginning of of�cial business) Now, Mr. Hale, before
we move
things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw
when
you came here yesterday morning.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: By the way, has anything been moved?
Are things
just as you left them yesterday?
SHERIFF: (looking about) It’s just the same. When it dropped
below zero last
night I thought I’d better send Frank out this morning to make a
�re
for us—no use getting pneumonia with a big case on, but I told
him
not to touch anything except the stove—and you know Frank.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Somebody should have been left here
yesterday.
5
In this scene from the Provincetown Players’ 1917 production
of Susan Glaspell’s Trifles, the Trifles, the Trifles
three men discuss the crime while Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale
look on.
Source: ©Billy Rose Theatre Collection, New York Public
Library for the Performing Arts, Astor, Lenox & Tilden

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SHERIFF: Oh—yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris

Center for
that man who went crazy—I want you to know I had my hands
full
yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today and
as long
as I went over everything here myself—
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened
when you
came here yesterday morning.
HALE: Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes.
We came
along the road from my place and as I got here I said, “I’m
going to
see if I can’t get John Wright to go in with me on a party
telephone.”
I spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying
folks
talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet—
I guess
you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought
maybe if I
went to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I
said to
Harry that I didn’t know as what his wife wanted made much
differ-
ence to John—
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Let’s talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I
do want to talk
about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the
house.
HALE: I didn’t hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and
still it was

all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight
o’clock.
So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say, “Come
in.”
I wasn’t sure, I’m not sure yet, but I opened the door—this door
(indicating the door by which the two women are still standing)
and there
in that rocker—(pointing to it) sat Mrs. Wright.
They all look at the rocker.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: What—was she doing?
HALE: She was rockin’ back and forth. She had her apron in
her hand and
was kind of—pleating it.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: And how did she—look?
HALE: Well, she looked queer.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: How do you mean—queer?
HALE: Well, as if she didn’t know what she was going to do
next. And
kind of done up.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: How did she seem to feel about your
coming?
HALE: Why, I don’t think she minded—one way or other. She
didn’t pay
much attention. I said, “How do, Mrs. Wright, it’s cold, ain’t
it?” And
she said, “Is it?”—and went on kind of pleating at her apron.
Well,
I was surprised; she didn’t ask me to come up to the stove, or to
set
down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, “I
want to

see John.” And then she—laughed. I guess you would call it a
laugh.
I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp:
“Can’t
I see John?” “No,” she says, kind o’ dull like. “Ain’t he home?”
says I.
“Yes,” says she, “he’s home.” “Then why can’t I see him?” I
asked her,
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out of patience. “’Cause he’s dead,” says she. “Dead?” says I.
She just
nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin’ back and
forth.
“Why—where is he?” says I, not knowing what to say. She just
pointed
upstairs—like that. (Himself pointing to the room above.) I got
up, with
the idea of going up there. I walked from there to here—then I
says,
“Why, what did he die of?” “He died of a rope round his neck,”
says
she, and just went on pleatin’ at her apron. Well, I went out and
called
Harry. I thought I might—need help. We went upstairs and there
he
was lyin’—
COUNTY ATTORNEY: I think I’d rather have you go into that
upstairs,
where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of
the
story.
HALE: Well, my �rst thought was to get that rope off. It looked
. . . (stops,

his face twitches) . . . but Harry, he went up to him, and he said,
“No,
he’s dead all right, and we’d better not touch anything.” So we
went
back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. “Has
anybody
been noti�ed?” I asked. “No,” says she, unconcerned. “Who did
this,
Mrs. Wright?” said Harry. He said it businesslike—and she
stopped
pleatin’ of her apron. “I don’t know,” she says. “You don’t
know?” says
Harry. “No,” says she. “Weren’t you sleepin’ in the bed with
him?”
says Harry. “Yes,” says she, “but I was on the inside.”
“Somebody
slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him and you didn’t
wake
up?” says Harry. “I didn’t wake up,” she said after him. We
must ’a
looked as if we didn’t see how that could be, for after a minute
she
said, “I sleep sound.” Harry was going to ask her more
questions but
I said maybe we ought to let her tell her story �rst to the
coroner,
or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers’ place,
where
there’s a telephone.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: And what did Mrs. Wright do when she
knew that
you had gone for the coroner?
HALE: She moved from that chair to this one over here
(pointing to a small

chair in the corner) and just sat there with her hands held
together and
looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some
conversation,
so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a
telephone,
and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked
at
me—scared. (The County Attorney, who has had his notebook
out, makes
a note.) I dunno, maybe it wasn’t scared. I wouldn’t like to say
it was.
Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr.
Peters,
and so I guess that’s all I know that you don’t.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (looking around) I guess we’ll go
upstairs �rst—and
then out to the barn and around there. (To the Sheriff.) You’re
con-
vinced that there was nothing important here—nothing that
would
point to any motive.
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SHERIFF: Nothing here but kitchen things.
The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen,
opens the door
of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and looks on a shelf.
Pulls his hand
away, sticky.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Here’s a nice mess.
The women draw nearer.
MRS. PETERS: (to the other woman) Oh, her fruit; it did

freeze. (To the
County Attorney.) She worried about that when it turned so
cold. She
said the �re’d go out and her jars would break.
SHERIFF: Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and
worryin’
about her preserves.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: I guess before we’re through she may
have something
more serious than preserves to worry about.
HALE: Well, women are used to worrying over tri�es.
The two women move a little closer together.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (with the gallantry of a young
politician) And yet, for
all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? (The
women do
not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes a dipperful of water from
the pail and
pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them on
the roller
towel, turns it for a cleaner place.) Dirty towels! (Kicks his foot
against the
pans under the sink.) Not much of a housekeeper, would you
say, ladies?
MRS. HALE: (stif�y) There’s a great deal of work to be done
on a farm.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: To be sure. And yet (with a little bow
to her) I know
there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do not have

such
roller towels.
He gives it a pull to expose its full length again.
MRS. HALE: Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men’s hands
aren’t always
as clean as they might be.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you
and Mrs. Wright
were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too.
MRS. HALE: (shaking her head) I’ve not seen much of her of
late years. I’ve
not been in this house—it’s more than a year.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: And why was that? You didn’t like her?
MRS. HALE: I liked her all well enough. Farmers’ wives have
their hands
full, Mr. Henderson. And then—
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes—?
MRS. HALE: (looking about) It never seemed a very cheerful
place.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: No—it’s not cheerful. I shouldn’t say
she had the
homemaking instinct.
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MRS. HALE: Well, I don’t know as Wright had, either.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: You mean that they didn’t get on very
well?
MRS. HALE: No, I don’t mean anything. But I don’t think a
place’d be any
cheerfuller for John Wright’s being in it.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: I’d like to talk more of that a little
later. I want to get
the lay of things upstairs now.
He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door.
SHERIFF: I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does’ll be all right.
She was to take
in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We
left in
such a hurry yesterday.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes, but I would like to see what you
take, Mrs.
Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to
us.
MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mr. Henderson.
The women listen to the men’s steps on the stairs, then look
about the kitchen.
MRS. HALE: I’d hate to have men coming into my kitchen,
snooping
around and criticizing.
She arranges the pans under sink which the County Attorney
had shoved out of
place.

MRS. PETERS: Of course it’s no more than their duty.
MRS. HALE: Duty’s all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff
that came out
to make the �re might have got a little of this on. (Gives the
roller towel
a pull.) Wish I’d thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk
about her
for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in
such a
hurry.
MRS. PETERS: (who has gone to a small table in the left rear
corner of the room,
and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan) She had bread
set.
Stands still.
MRS. HALE: (eyes �xed on a loaf of bread beside the
breadbox, which is on a
low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward
it.) She was
going to put this in there. (Picks up loaf, then abruptly drops it.
In a
manner of returning to familiar things.) It’s a shame about her
fruit.
I wonder if it’s all gone. (Gets up on the chair and looks.) I
think there’s
some here that’s all right, Mrs. Peters. Yes—here; (holding it
toward
the window) this is cherries, too. (Looking again.) I declare I
believe
that’s the only one. (Gets down, bottle in her hand. Goes to the
sink and

wipes it off on the outside.) She’ll feel awful bad after all her
hard work
in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my
cherries
last summer.
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She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the room.
With a sigh, is about
to sit down in the rocking-chair. Before she is seated realizes
what chair it is; with a
slow look at it, steps back. The chair which she has touched
rocks back and forth.
MRS. PETERS: Well, I must get those things from the front
room closet.
(She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the
other room, steps
back.) You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me
carry them.
They go in the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a
dress and skirt, Mrs.
Hale following with a pair of shoes.
MRS. PETERS: My, it’s cold in there.
She puts the clothes on the big table, and hurries to the stove.
MRS. HALE: (examining her skirt) Wright was close. I think
maybe that’s
why she kept so much to herself. She didn’t even belong to the
Ladies
Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn’t do her part, and then you
don’t
enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty

clothes and
be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls
singing in
the choir. But that—oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you
was to
take in?
MRS. PETERS: She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to
want, for
there isn’t much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I
suppose
just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top
drawer
in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that
always hung
behind the door. (Opens stair door and looks.) Yes, here it is.
Quickly shuts door leading upstairs.
MRS. HALE: (abruptly moving toward her) Mrs. Peters?
MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE: Do you think she did it?
MRS. PETERS: (in a frightened voice) Oh, I don’t know.
MRS. HALE: Well, I don’t think she did. Asking for an apron
and her little
shawl. Worrying about her fruit.
MRS. PETERS: (starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are
heard in the
room above. In a low voice.) Mr. Peters says it looks bad for
her.
Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech and he’ll make fun
of her
sayin’ she didn’t wake up.

MRS. HALE: Well, I guess John Wright didn’t wake when they
was slipping
that rope under his neck.
MRS. PETERS: No, it’s strange. It must have been done awful
crafty and
still. They say it was such a—funny way to kill a man, rigging it
all up
like that.
MRS. HALE: That’s just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun
in the house.
He says that’s what he can’t understand.
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MRS. PETERS: Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was
needed for
the case was a motive; something to show anger, or—sudden
feeling.
MRS. HALE: (who is standing by the table) Well, I don’t see
any signs of
anger around here. (She puts her hand on the dish towel which
lies on the
table, stands looking down at table, one half of which is clean,
the other half
messy.) It’s wiped to here. (Makes a move as if to �nish work,
then turns
and looks at loaf of bread outside the breadbox. Drops towel. In
that voice
of coming back to familiar things.) Wonder how they are
�nding things
upstairs. I hope she had it a little more red-up1 up there. You
know, it

seems kind of sneaking. Locking her up in town and then
coming out
here and trying to get her own house to turn against her!
MRS. PETERS: But Mrs. Hale, the law is the law.
MRS. HALE: I s’pose ’tis. (Unbuttoning her coat.) Better
loosen up your
things, Mrs. Peters. You won’t feel them when you go out.
Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at
back of room, stands
looking at the under part of the small corner table.
MRS. PETERS: She was piecing a quilt.
She brings the large sewing basket and they look at the bright
pieces.
MRS. HALE: It’s log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn’t it? I wonder if
she was goin’
to quilt it or just knot it?
Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff
enters followed by
Hale and the County Attorney.
SHERIFF: They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot
it!
The men laugh; the women look abashed.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands over the stove)
Frank’s �re didn’t
do much up there, did it? Well, let’s go out to the barn and get
that

cleared up.
The men go outside.
MRS. HALE: (resentfully) I don’t know as there’s anything so
strange, our
takin’ up our time with little things while we’re waiting for
them to
get the evidence. (She sits down at the big table smoothing out a
block with
decision.) I don’t see as it’s anything to laugh about.
MRS. PETERS: (apologetically) Of course they’ve got awful
important things
on their minds.
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Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table.
MRS. HALE: (examining another block) Mrs. Peters, look at
this one. Here,
this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All
the
rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It’s all
over the
place! Why, it looks as if she didn’t know what she was about!
After she has said this they look at each other, then start to
glance back at the door.
After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at a knot and ripped the
sewing.

MRS. PETERS: Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE: (mildly) Just pulling out a stitch or two that’s not
sewed very
good. (Threading a needle.) Bad sewing always made me
�dgety.
MRS. PETERS: (nervously) I don’t think we ought to touch
things.
MRS. HALE: I’ll just �nish up this end. (Suddenly stopping
and leaning
forward.) Mrs. Peters?
MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE: What do you suppose she was so nervous about?
MRS. PETERS: Oh—I don’t know. I don’t know as she was
nervous.
I sometimes sew awful queer when I’m just tired. (Mrs. Hale
starts to
say something, looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing.)
Well, I must
get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than
we
think. (Putting apron and other things together.) I wonder where
I can
�nd a piece of paper, and string.
MRS. HALE: In that cupboard, maybe.
MRS. PETERS: (looking in cupboard) Why, here’s a birdcage.
(Holds it up.)
Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE: Why, I don’t know whether she did or not—I’ve
not been

here for so long. There was a man around last year selling
canaries
cheap, but I don’t know as she took one; maybe she did. She
used to
sing real pretty herself.
MRS. PETERS: (glancing around) Seems funny to think of a
bird here. But
she must have had one, or why would she have a cage? I wonder
what
happened to it.
MRS. HALE: I s’pose maybe the cat got it.
MRS. PETERS: No, she didn’t have a cat. She’s got that feeling
some people
have about cats—being afraid of them. My cat got in her room
and she
was real upset and asked me to take it out.
MRS. HALE: My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain’t it?
MRS. PETERS: (examining the cage) Why, look at this door.
It’s broke. One
hinge is pulled apart.
MRS. HALE: (looking too) Looks as if someone must have been
rough
with it.
MRS. PETERS: Why, yes.
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She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table.

MRS. HALE: I wish if they’re going to �nd any evidence
they’d be about it.
I don’t like this place.
MRS. PETERS: But I’m awful glad you came with me, Mrs.
Hale. It would be
lonesome for me sitting here alone.
MRS. HALE: It would, wouldn’t it? (Dropping her sewing.) But
I tell you
what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes
when
she was here. I—(looking around the room)—wish I had.
MRS. PETERS: But of course you were awful busy, Mrs.
Hale—your house
and your children.
MRS. HALE: I could’ve come. I stayed away because it weren’t
cheerful—
and that’s why I ought to have come. I—I’ve never liked this
place.
Maybe because it’s down in a hollow and you don’t see the
road.
I dunno what it is but it’s a lonesome place and always was. I
wish
I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see
now—
Shakes her head.
MRS. PETERS: Well, you mustn’t reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale.
Somehow
we just don’t see how it is with other folks until—something
comes up.

MRS. HALE: Not having children makes less work—but it
makes a quiet
house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he
did
come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?
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In this scene from a 2010 production of Susan Glaspell’s
Trifles, Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale Trifles, Mrs. Peters and Mrs.
Hale Trifles
discuss the discovery of a birdcage.
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Glaspell: TriflesGlaspell: TriflesGlaspell: T 877
MRS. PETERS: Not to know him; I’ve seen him in town. They
say he was a
good man.
MRS. HALE: Yes—good; he didn’t drink, and kept his word as
well as most,
I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters.
Just to
pass the time of day with him—(Shivers.) Like a raw wind that
gets to
the bone. (Pauses, her eye falling on the cage.) I should think
she would
’a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it?
MRS. PETERS: I don’t know, unless it got sick and died.
She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again.
Both women watch it.
MRS. HALE: You weren’t raised round here, were you? (Mrs.
Peters shakes
her head.) You didn’t know—her?

MRS. PETERS: Not till they brought her yesterday.
MRS. HALE: She—come to think of it, she was kind of like a
bird herself—
real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—�uttery. How—
she—
did—change. (Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought and
relieved to
get back to everyday things.) Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why
don’t you
take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.
MRS. PETERS: Why, I think that’s a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale.
There
couldn’t possibly be any objection to it, could there? Now, just
what
would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here—and her
things.
They look in the sewing basket.
MRS. HALE: Here’s some red. I expect this has got sewing
things in it.
(Brings out a fancy box.) What a pretty box. Looks like
something
somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here.
(Opens box.
Suddenly puts her hand to her nose.) Why—(Mrs. Peters bends
nearer, then
turns her face away.) There’s something wrapped up in this
piece of silk.
MRS. PETERS: Why, this isn’t her scissors.
MRS. HALE: (lifting the silk) Oh, Mrs. Peters—it’s—
Mrs. Peters bends closer.

MRS. PETERS: It’s the bird.
MRS. HALE: (jumping up) But, Mrs. Peters—look at it! Its
neck! Look at its
neck! It’s all—other side to.
MRS. PETERS: Somebody—wrung—its—neck.
Their eyes meet. A look of growing comprehension, of horror.
Steps are heard
outside. Mrs. Hale slips the box under quilt pieces, and sinks
into her chair. Enter
Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. Peters rises.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (as one turning from serious things to
little pleasantries)
Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to quilt it
or
knot it?
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MRS. PETERS: We think she was going to—knot it.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, that’s interesting, I’m sure.
(Seeing the birdcage.)
Has the bird �own?
MRS. HALE: (putting more quilt pieces over the box) We think
the—cat got it.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (preoccupied) Is there a cat?
Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters.
MRS. PETERS: Well, not now. They’re superstitious, you
know. They leave.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (to Sheriff Peters, continuing an
interrupted conversa-
tion) No sign at all of anyone having come from the outside.
Their own
rope. Now let’s go up again and go over it piece by piece. (They
start
upstairs.) It would have to have been someone who knew just
the—
Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at
one another, but as
if peering into something and at the same time holding back.
When they talk now it
is in the manner of feeling their way over strange ground, as if
afraid of what they
are saying, but as if they can not help saying it.
MRS. HALE: She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in
that pretty box.
MRS. PETERS: (in a whisper) When I was a girl—my kitten—
there was
a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes—and before I could
get
there—(Covers her face an instant.) If they hadn’t held me back
I
would have—(catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are
heard, falters
weakly)—hurt him.
MRS. HALE: (with a slow look around her) I wonder how it
would seem
never to have had any children around. (Pause.) No, Wright
wouldn’t
like the bird—a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that,

too.
MRS. PETERS: (moving uneasily) We don’t know who killed
the bird.
MRS. HALE: I knew John Wright.
MRS. PETERS: It was an awful thing was done in this house
that night, Mrs.
Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his
neck that
choked the life out of him.
MRS. HALE: His neck. Choked the life out of him.
Her hand goes out and rests on the birdcage.
MRS. PETERS: (with rising voice) We don’t know who killed
him. We don’t
know.
MRS. HALE: (her own feeling not interrupted) If there’d been
years and years
of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still,
after the
bird was still.
MRS. PETERS: (something within her speaking) I know what
stillness is. When
we homesteaded in Dakota, and my �rst baby died—after he
was two
years old, and me with no other then—
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MRS. HALE: (moving) How soon do you suppose they’ll be

through, looking
for the evidence?
MRS. PETERS: I know what stillness is. (Pulling herself back.)
The law has
got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale.
MRS. HALE: (not as if answering that) I wish you’d seen
Minnie Foster when
she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in
the
choir and sang. (A look around the room.) Oh, I wish I’d come
over here
once in a while! That was a crime! That was a crime! Who’s
going to
punish that?
MRS. PETERS: (looking upstairs) We mustn’t—take on.
MRS. HALE: I might have known she needed help! I know how
things
can be—for women. I tell you, it’s queer, Mrs. Peters. We live
close
together and we live far apart. We all go through the same
things—it’s
all just a different kind of the same thing. (Brushes her eyes;
noticing the
bottle of fruit, reaches out for it.) If I was you I wouldn’t tell
her her fruit
was gone. Tell her it ain’t. Tell her it’s all right. Take this in to
prove it
to her. She—she may never know whether it was broke or not.
MRS. PETERS: (takes the bottle, looks about for something to
wrap it in; takes
petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very

nervously begins
winding this around the bottle. In a false voice) My, it’s a good
thing the
men couldn’t hear us. Wouldn’t they just laugh! Getting all
stirred up
over a little thing like a—dead canary. As if that could have
anything
to do with—with—wouldn’t they laugh!
The men are heard coming down stairs.
MRS. HALE: (under her breath) Maybe they would—maybe
they wouldn’t.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: No, Peters, it’s all perfectly clear
except a reason for
doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there
was some
de�nite thing. Something to show—something to make a story
about—a
thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it—
The women’s eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer
door.
HALE: Well, I’ve got the team around. Pretty cold out there.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: I’m going to stay here a while by
myself. (To the Sher-
iff.) You can send Frank out for me, can’t you? I want to go
over every-
thing. I’m not satis�ed that we can’t do better.
SHERIFF: Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take
in?

The County Attorney goes to the table, picks up the apron,
laughs.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: Oh, I guess they’re not very dangerous
things the
ladies have picked out. (Moves a few things about, disturbing
the quilt
pieces which cover the box. Steps back.) No, Mrs. Peters
doesn’t need
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supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the
law. Ever
think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?
MRS. PETERS: Not—just that way.
SHERIFF: (chuckling) Married to the law. (Moves toward the
other room.) I
just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to
take a
look at these windows.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (scof�ngly) Oh, windows!
SHERIFF: We’ll be right out, Mr. Hale.
Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into
the other room.
Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, looking intensely at
Mrs. Peters,
whose eyes make a slow turn, �nally meeting Mrs. Hale’s. A
moment Mrs. Hale
holds her, then her own eyes point the way to where the box is
concealed. Sud-
denly Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the
box in the bag she

is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to take bird out,
cannot touch it,
goes to pieces, stands there helpless. Sound of a knob turning in
the other room.
Mrs. Hale snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big
coat. Enter County
Attorney and Sheriff.
COUNTY ATTORNEY: (facetiously) Well, Henry, at least we
found out that she
was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call
it, ladies?
MRS. HALE: (her hand against her pocket) We call it—knot it,
Mr. Henderson.
* * *
Reading and Reacting
1. What key events have occurred before the start of the play?
Why do you
suppose these events are not presented in the play itself?
2. What are the “tri�es” to which the title refers? How do these
“tri�es”
advance the play’s plot?
3. Glaspell’s short story version of Tri�es is called “A Jury of
Her Peers.”
Who are Mrs. Wright’s peers? What do you suppose the verdict
would
be if she were tried for her crime in 1916, when only men were
permit-
ted to serve on juries? If the trial were held today, do you think
a jury

might reach a different verdict? What would your own verdict
be? Do
you think Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters do the right thing by
concealing
the evidence?
4. Tri�es is a one-act play, and all its action occurs in the
Wrights’ kitchen.
What do you see as the advantages and disadvantages of this
con�ned
setting?
5. All background information about Mrs. Wright is provided by
Mrs. Hale.
Do you consider her to be a reliable source of information?
Explain.
6. Mr. Hale’s summary of his conversation with Mrs. Wright is
the reader’s
only chance to hear her version of events. How might the play
be differ-
ent if Mrs. Wright appeared as a character?
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Ibsen: A Doll House 881
7. How does each of the following events advance the play’s
action: the
men’s departure from the kitchen, the discovery of the quilt
pieces, the
discovery of the dead bird?
8. What assumptions about women do the male characters
make? In what
ways do the female characters support or challenge these
assumptions?
9. JOURNAL ENTRY In what sense is the process of making a
quilt an appropriNTRY In what sense is the process of making a
quilt an appropriNTRY -

ate metaphor for the plot of Tri�es?
10. CRITICAL PERSPECTIVE In American Drama from the
Colonial Period through
World War I, Gary A. Richardson says that in Tri�es, Glaspell
developed
a new structure for her action:
While action in the traditional sense is minimal, Glaspell is
nevertheless able
to rivet attention on the two women, wed the audience to their
perspective,
and make a compelling case for the fairness of their actions.
Existing on the
margins of their society, Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale become
emotional sur-
rogates for the jailed Minnie Wright, effectively exonerating her
action as
“justi�able homicide.”
Tri�es is carefully crafted to match Glaspell’s subject matter—
the action
meanders, without a clearly delineated beginning, middle, or
end. . . .
Exactly how does Glaspell “rivet attention on” Mrs. Hale and
Mrs. Peters?
In what sense is the play’s “meandering” structure “carefully
crafted to
match Glaspell’s subject matter”?
Related Works: “I Stand Here Ironing” (p. 217), “Everyday
Use” (p. 344),
“The Yellow Wallpaper” (p. 434), “Harlem” (p. 577), “Daddy”
(p. 589), A
Doll House (p. 881)

HENRIK IBSEN (1828–1906), Norway’s foremost dramatist,
was born into a prosperous family; however, his father lost his
fortune when Ibsen was six . When Ibsen was fifteen, he was
apprenticed to an apothecary away from home and was per-
manently estranged from his family . During his apprenticeship,
he studied to enter the university and wrote plays . Although
he did not pass the university entrance exam, his second
play, The Warrior’s Barrow (1850), was produced by the The
Warrior’s Barrow (1850), was produced by the The Warrior’s
Barrow
Christiania Theatre in 1850 . He began a life in the theater,
writing plays and serving as artistic director of a theatrical
company . Disillusioned by the public’s lack of interest in
theater, he left Norway, living with
his wife and son in Italy and Germany between 1864 and 1891 .
By the time he returned
to Norway, he was famous and revered . Ibsen’s most notable
plays include Brand (1865), Brand (1865), Brand
Peer Gynt (1867), Peer Gynt (1867), Peer Gynt A Doll House
(1879), A Doll House (1879), A Doll House Ghosts (1881),
Ghosts (1881), Ghosts An Enemy of the People (1882), An
Enemy of the People (1882), An Enemy of the People
The Wild Duck (1884), The Wild Duck (1884), The Wild Duck
Hedda Gabler (1890), and Hedda Gabler (1890), and Hedda
Gabler When We Dead Awaken (1899) .When We Dead Awaken
(1899) .When We Dead Awaken
A Doll House marks the beginning of Ibsen’s successful realist
period, during which he A Doll House marks the beginning of
Ibsen’s successful realist period, during which he A Doll House
explored the ordinary lives of small-town people—in this case,
writing what he called “a
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modern tragedy .” Ibsen based the play on a true story, which
closely paralleled the main events
of the play: a wife borrows money to finance a trip for an ailing
husband, repayment is de-
manded, she forges a check and is discovered . (In the real-life
story, however, the husband
demanded a divorce, and the wife had a nervous breakdown and
was committed to a mental
institution .) The issue in A Doll House, he said, is that there
are “two kinds of moral law, . . .
one in man and a completely different one in woman . They do

not understand each other . . . .”
Nora and Helmer’s marriage is destroyed because they cannot
comprehend or accept their dif-
ferences . The play begins conventionally but does not fulfill
the audience’s expectations for a
tidy resolution; as a result, it was not a success when it was first
performed . Nevertheless, the
publication of A Doll House made Ibsen internationally famous
.A Doll House made Ibsen internationally famous .A Doll House
Cultural Context During the nineteenth century, the law treated
women only a little better
than it treated children . Women could not vote, and they were
not considered able to handle
their own financial affairs . A woman could not borrow money
in her own name, and when
she married, her finances were placed under the control of her
husband . Moreover, working
outside the home was out of the question for a middle-class
woman . So, if a woman were to
leave her husband, she was not likely to have any way of
supporting herself, and she would
lose the custody of her children . At the time when A Doll
House was first performed, most A Doll House was first
performed, most A Doll House
viewers were offended by the way Nora spoke to her husband,
and Ibsen was considered an
anarchist for suggesting that a woman could leave her family in
search of herself . However,
Ibsen argued that he was merely asking people to look at, and
think about, the social structure
they supported .
A Doll House (1879)
Translated by Rolf Fjelde

CHARACTERS
Torvald Helmer, a lawyer Nils Krogstad, a bank clerk
Nora, his wife The Helmers’ three small children
Dr. Rank Anne-Marie, their nurse
Mrs. Linde Helene, a maid
A Delivery Boy
The action takes place in Helmer’s residence.
ACT 1
A comfortable room, tastefully but not expensively furnished. A
door to the right
in the back wall leads to the entryway; another to the left leads
to Helmer’s study.
Between these doors, a piano. Midway in the left-hand wall a
door, and further
back a window. Near the window a round table with an armchair
and a small
sofa. In the right-hand wall, toward the rear, a door, and nearer
the foreground a
porcelain stove with two armchairs and a rocking chair beside
it. Between the stove
and the side door, a small table. Engravings on the walls. An
étagère with china
�gures and other small art objects; a small bookcase with richly
bound books; the
�oor carpeted; a �re burning in the stove. It is a winter day.
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Ibsen: A Doll House Act 1 883
A bell rings in the entryway; shortly after we hear the door
being unlocked. Nora
comes into the room, humming happily to herself; she is
wearing street clothes and
carries an armload of packages, which she puts down on the
table to the right.
She has left the hall door open; and through it a Delivery Boy is
seen, holding a

Christmas tree and a basket, which he gives to the Maid who let
them in.
NORA: Hide the tree well, Helene. The children mustn’t get a
glimpse of it
till this evening, after it’s trimmed. (To the Delivery Boy,
taking out her
purse.) How much?
DELIVERY BOY: Fifty, ma’am.
NORA: There’s a crown. No, keep the change. (The Boy thanks
her and
leaves. Nora shuts the door. She laughs softly to herself while
taking off
her street things. Drawing a bag of macaroons from her pocket,
she eats a
couple, then steals over and listens at her husband’s study
door.) Yes, he’s
home. (Hums again as she moves to the table right.)
HELMER: (from the study) Is that my little lark twittering out
there?
NORA: (busy opening some packages) Yes, it is.
HELMER: Is that my squirrel rummaging around?
NORA: Yes!
HELMER: When did my squirrel get in?
NORA: Just now. (Putting the macaroon bag in her pocket and
wiping her
mouth.) Do come in, Torvald, and see what I’ve bought.
HELMER: Can’t be disturbed. (After a moment he opens the
door and peers in,
pen in hand.) Bought, you say? All that there? Has the little
spendthrift

been out throwing money around again?
NORA: Oh, but Torvald, this year we really should let ourselves
go a bit.
It’s the �rst Christmas we haven’t had to economize.
HELMER: But you know we can’t go squandering.
NORA: Oh yes, Torvald, we can squander a little now. Can’t
we? Just a
tiny, wee bit. Now that you’ve got a big salary and are going to
make
piles and piles of money.
HELMER: Yes—starting New Year’s. But then it’s a full three
months till
the raise comes through.
NORA: Pooh! We can borrow that long.
HELMER: Nora! (Goes over and playfully takes her by the ear.)
Are your scat-
terbrains off again? What if today I borrowed a thousand
crowns, and
you squandered them over Christmas week, and then on New
Year’s
Eve a roof tile fell on my head, and I lay there—
NORA: (putting her hand on his mouth) Oh! Don’t say such
things!
HELMER: Yes, but what if it happened—then what?
NORA: If anything so awful happened, then it just wouldn’t
matter if I had
debts or not.
HELMER: Well, but the people I’d borrowed from?

NORA: Them? Who cares about them! They’re strangers.
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HELMER: Nora, Nora, how like a woman! No, but seriously,
Nora, you know
what I think about that. No debts! Never borrow! Something of
free-
dom’s lost—and something of beauty, too—from a home that’s
founded
on borrowing and debt. We’ve made a brave stand up to now,
the two
of us; and we’ll go right on like that the little while we have to.
NORA: (going toward the stove) Yes, whatever you say,
Torvald.
HELMER: (following her) Now, now, the little lark’s wings
mustn’t droop.
Come on, don’t be a sulky squirrel. (Taking out his wallet.)
Nora, guess
what I have here.
NORA: (turning quickly) Money!
HELMER: There, see. (Hands her some notes.) Good grief, I
know how costs
go up in a house at Christmastime.
NORA: Ten—twenty—thirty—forty. Oh, thank you, Torvald; I
can man-
age no end on this.
HELMER: You really will have to.

NORA: Oh yes, I promise I will! But come here so I can show
you every-
thing I bought. And so cheap! Look, new clothes for Ivar here—
and a
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Scene from A Doll House with Toby Stephens (as Torvald A
Doll House with Toby Stephens (as Torvald A Doll House
Helmer) and Gillian Anderson (as Nora) at The Donmar
Warehouse, London, UK in May 2009
Source: Nigel Norrington/ArenaPal/TopFoto/The Image Works
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sword. Here a horse and a trumpet for Bob. And a doll and a
doll’s bed
here for Emmy; they’re nothing much, but she’ll tear them to
bits in no
time anyway. And here I have dress material and handkerchiefs
for the
maids. Old Anne-Marie really deserves something more.
HELMER: And what’s in that package there?
NORA: (with a cry) Torvald, no! You can’t see that till tonight!
HELMER: I see. But tell me now, you little prodigal, what have
you thought
of for yourself?
NORA: For myself? Oh, I don’t want anything at all.
HELMER: Of course you do. Tell me just what—within
reason—you’d most
like to have.
NORA: I honestly don’t know. Oh, listen, Torvald—
HELMER: Well?
NORA: (fumbling at his coat buttons, without looking at him) If
you want to
give me something, then maybe you could—you could—

HELMER: Come on, out with it.
NORA: (hurriedly) You could give me money, Torvald. No
more than
you think you can spare; then one of these days I’ll buy
something
with it.
HELMER: But Nora—
NORA: Oh, please, Torvald darling, do that! I beg you, please.
Then
I could hang the bills in pretty gilt paper on the Christmas tree.
Wouldn’t that be fun?
HELMER: What are those little birds called that always �y
through their
fortunes?
NORA: Oh yes, spendthrifts; I know all that. But let’s do as I
say, Torvald;
then I’ll have time to decide what I really need most. That’s
very sen-
sible, isn’t it?
HELMER: (smiling) Yes, very—that is, if you actually hung
onto the money
I give you, and you actually used it to buy yourself something.
But it
goes for the house and for all sorts of foolish things, and then I
only
have to lay out some more.
NORA: Oh, but Torvald—
HELMER: Don’t deny it, my dear little Nora. (Putting his arm
around her

waist.) Spendthrifts are sweet, but they use up a frightful
amount of
money. It’s incredible what it costs a man to feed such birds.
NORA: Oh, how can you say that! Really, I save everything I
can.
HELMER: (laughing) Yes, that’s the truth. Everything you can.
But that’s
nothing at all.
NORA: (humming, with a smile of quiet satisfaction) Hm, if
you only knew
what expenses we larks and squirrels have, Torvald.
HELMER: You’re an odd little one. Exactly the way your father
was. You’re
never at a loss for scaring up money; but the moment you have
it, it
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runs right out through your �ngers; you never know what
you’ve done
with it. Well, one takes you as you are. It’s deep in your blood.
Yes,
these things are hereditary, Nora.
NORA: Ah, I could wish I’d inherited many of Papa’s qualities.
HELMER: And I couldn’t wish you anything but just what you

are, my sweet
little lark. But wait; it seems to me you have a very—what
should I call
it?—a very suspicious look today—
NORA: I do?
HELMER: You certainly do. Look me straight in the eye.
NORA: (looking at him) Well?
HELMER: (shaking an admonitory �nger) Surely my sweet
tooth hasn’t been
running riot in town today, has she?
NORA: No. Why do you imagine that?
HELMER: My sweet tooth really didn’t make a little detour
through the
confectioner’s?
NORA: No, I assure you, Torvald—
HELMER: Hasn’t nibbled some pastry?
NORA: No, not at all.
HELMER: Nor even munched a macaroon or two?
NORA: No, Torvald, I assure you, really—
HELMER: There, there now. Of course I’m only joking.
NORA: (going to the table, right) You know I could never think
of going
against you.
HELMERHELMERH : No, I understand that; and you have
given me your word. (Going
over to her.) Well, you keep your little Christmas secrets to
yourself, Nora
darling. I expect they’ll come to light this evening, when the
tree is lit.

NORA: Did you remember to ask Dr. Rank?
HELMER: No. But there’s no need for that; it’s assumed he’ll
be dining with
us. All the same, I’ll ask him when he stops by here this
morning. I’ve
ordered some �ne wine. Nora, you can’t imagine how I’m
looking for-
ward to this evening.
NORA: So am I. And what fun for the children, Torvald!
HELMER: Ah, it’s so gratifying to know that one’s gotten a
safe, secure job,
and with a comfortable salary. It’s a great satisfaction, isn’t it?
NORA: Oh, it’s wonderful!
HELMER: Remember last Christmas? Three whole weeks
before, you shut
yourself in every evening till long after midnight, making
�owers for
the Christmas tree, and all the other decorations to surprise us.
Ugh,
that was the dullest time I’ve ever lived through.
NORA: It wasn’t at all dull for me.
HELMER: (smiling) But the outcome was pretty sorry, Nora.
NORA: Oh, don’t tease me with that again. How could I help it
that the
cat came in and tore everything to shreds.
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HELMER: No, poor thing, you certainly couldn’t. You wanted
so much to
please us all, and that’s what counts. But it’s just as well that
the hard
times are past.
NORA: Yes, it’s really wonderful.
HELMER: Now I don’t have to sit here alone, boring myself,
and you don’t
have to tire your precious eyes and your fair little delicate
hands—
NORA: (clapping her hands) No, is it really true, Torvald, I
don’t have to?
Oh, how wonderfully lovely to hear! (Taking his arm.) Now I’ll
tell you
just how I’ve thought we should plan things. Right after
Christmas—
(The doorbell rings.) Oh, the bell. (Straightening the room up a
bit.)
Somebody would have to come. What a bore!
HELMER: I’m not at home to visitors, don’t forget.
MAID: (from the hall doorway) Ma’am, a lady to see you—
NORA: All right, let her come in.
MAID: (to Helmer) And the doctor’s just come too.
HELMER: Did he go right to my study?
MAID: Yes, he did.
Helmer goes into his room. The Maid shows in Mrs. Linde,
dressed in traveling
clothes, and shuts the door after her.

MRS. LINDE: (in a dispirited and somewhat hesitant voice)
Hello, Nora.
NORA: (uncertain) Hello—
MRS. LINDE: You don’t recognize me.
NORA: No, I don’t know—but wait, I think—(Exclaiming.)
What!
Kristine! Is it really you?
MRS. LINDE: Yes, it’s me.
NORA: Kristine! To think I didn’t recognize you. But then, how
could I?
(More quietly.) How you’ve changed, Kristine!
MRS. LINDE: Yes, no doubt I have. In nine—ten long years.
NORA: Is it so long since we met! Yes, it’s all of that. Oh,
these last eight
years have been a happy time, believe me. And so now you’ve
come in
to town, too. Made the long trip in the winter. That took
courage.
MRS. LINDE: I just got here by ship this morning.
NORA: To enjoy yourself over Christmas, of course. Oh, how
lovely! Yes,
enjoy ourselves, we’ll do that. But take your coat off. You’re
not still
cold? (Helping her.) There now, let’s get cozy here by the
stove. No, the
easy chair there! I’ll take the rocker here. (Seizing her hands.)
Yes, now
you have your old look again; it was only in that �rst moment.
You’re a
bit more pale, Kristine—and maybe a bit thinner.

MRS. LINDE: And much, much older, Nora.
NORA: Yes, perhaps a bit older; a tiny, tiny bit; not much at
all. (Stopping
short; suddenly serious.) Oh, but thoughtless me, to sit here,
chattering
away. Sweet, good Kristine, can you forgive me?
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MRS. LINDE: What do you mean, Nora?
NORA: (softly) Poor Kristine, you’ve become a widow.
MRS. LINDE: Yes, three years ago.
NORA: Oh, I knew it, of course: I read it in the papers. Oh,
Kristine, you
must believe me; I often thought of writing you then, but I kept
post-
poning it, and something always interfered.
MRS. LINDE: Nora dear, I understand completely.
NORA: No, it was awful of me, Kristine. You poor thing, how
much you
must have gone through. And he left you nothing?
MRS. LINDE: No.
NORA: And no children?
MRS. LINDE: No.
NORA: Nothing at all, then?
MRS. LINDE: Not even a sense of loss to feed on.
NORA: (looking incredulously at her) But Kristine, how could
that be?

MRS. LINDE: (smiling wearily and smoothing her hair) Oh,
sometimes it
happens, Nora.
NORA: So completely alone. How terribly hard that must be for
you. I have
three lovely children. You can’t see them now; they’re out with
the
maid. But now you must tell me everything—
MRS. LINDE: No, no, no, tell me about yourself.
NORA: No, you begin. Today I don’t want to be sel�sh. I want
to think
only of you today. But there is something I must tell you. Did
you hear
of the wonderful luck we had recently?
MRS. LINDE: No, what’s that?
NORA: My husband’s been made manager in the bank, just
think!
MRS. LINDE: Your husband? How marvelous!
NORA: Isn’t it? Being a lawyer is such an uncertain living, you
know, espe-
cially if one won’t touch any cases that aren’t clean and decent.
And
of course Torvald would never do that, and I’m with him
completely
there. Oh, we’re simply delighted, believe me! He’ll join the
bank right
after New Year’s and start getting a huge salary and lots of
commis-
sions. From now on we can live quite differently—just as we
want. Oh,

Kristine, I feel so light and happy! Won’t it be lovely to have
stacks of
money and not a care in the world?
MRS. LINDE: Well, anyway, it would be lovely to have enough
for
necessities.
NORA: No, not just for necessities, but stacks and stacks of
money!
MRS. LINDE: (smiling) Nora, Nora, aren’t you sensible yet?
Back in school
you were such a free spender.
NORA: (with a quiet laugh) Yes, that’s what Torvald still says.
(Shaking her
�nger.) But “Nora, Nora” isn’t as silly as you all think. Really,
we’ve been
in no position for me to go squandering. We’ve had to work,
both of us.
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MRS. LINDE: You too?
NORA: Yes, at odd jobs—needlework, crocheting, embroidery,
and such—
(casually) and other things too. You remember that Torvald left
the
department when we were married? There was no chance of

promotion
in his of�ce, and of course he needed to earn more money. But
that �rst
year he drove himself terribly. He took on all kinds of extra
work that
kept him going morning and night. It wore him down, and then
he fell
deathly ill. The doctors said it was essential for him to travel
south.
MRS. LINDE: Yes, didn’t you spend a whole year in Italy?
NORA: That’s right. It wasn’t easy to get away, you know. Ivar
had just
been born. But of course we had to go. Oh, that was a beautiful
trip,
and it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost a frightful sum, Kristine.
MRS. LINDE: I can well imagine.
NORA: Four thousand, eight hundred crowns it cost. That’s
really a lot of
money.
MRS. LINDE: But it’s lucky you had it when you needed it.
NORA: Well, as it was, we got it from Papa.
MRS. LINDE: I see. It was just about the time your father died.
NORA: Yes, just about then. And, you know, I couldn’t make
that trip out
to nurse him. I had to stay here, expecting Ivar any moment, and
with
my poor sick Torvald to care for. Dearest Papa, I never saw him
again,
Kristine. Oh, that was the worst time I’ve known in all my
marriage.

MRS. LINDE: I know how you loved him. And then you went
off to Italy?
NORA: Yes. We had the means now, and the doctors urged us.
So we left a
month after.
MRS. LINDE: And your husband came back completely cured?
NORA: Sound as a drum!
MRS. LINDE: But—the doctor?
NORA: Who?
MRS. LINDE: I thought the maid said he was a doctor, the man
who came
in with me.
NORA: Yes, that was Dr. Rank—but he’s not making a sick
call. He’s our
closest friend, and he stops by at least once a day. No, Torvald
hasn’t
had a sick moment since, and the children are �t and strong,
and I am,
too. (Jumping up and clapping her hands.) Oh, dear God,
Kristine, what
a lovely thing to live and be happy! But how disgusting of me—
I’m
talking of nothing but my own affairs. (Sits on a stool close by
Kristine,
arms resting across her knees.) Oh, don’t be angry with me! Tell
me, is
it really true that you weren’t in love with your husband? Why
did you
marry him, then?
MRS. LINDE: My mother was still alive, but bedridden and
helpless—and
I had my two younger brothers to look after. In all conscience, I

didn’t
think I could turn him down.
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NORA: No, you were right there. But was he rich at the time?
MRS. LINDE: He was very well off, I’d say. But the business
was shaky,
Nora. When he died, it all fell apart, and nothing was left.
NORA: And then—?
MRS. LINDE: Yes, so I had to scrape up a living with a little
shop and a
little teaching and whatever else I could �nd. The last three
years have
been like one endless workday without a rest for me. Now it’s
over,
Nora. My poor mother doesn’t need me, for she’s passed on.
Nor the
boys, either; they’re working now and can take care of
themselves.
NORA: How free you must feel—
MRS. LINDE: No—only unspeakably empty. Nothing to live for
now.
(Standing up anxiously.) That’s why I couldn’t take it any
longer out in
that desolate hole. Maybe here it’ll be easier to �nd something
to do
and keep my mind occupied. If I could only be lucky enough to
get a

steady job, some of�ce work—
NORA: Oh, but Kristine, that’s so dreadfully tiring, and you
already look so
tired. It would be much better for you if you could go off to a
bathing
resort.
MRS. LINDE: (going toward the window) I have no father to
give me travel
money, Nora.
NORA: (rising) Oh, don’t be angry with me.
MRS. LINDE: (going to her) Nora dear, don’t you be angry with
me. The
worst of my kind of situation is all the bitterness that’s stored
away. No
one to work for, and yet you’re always having to snap up your
oppor-
tunities. You have to live; and so you grow sel�sh. When you
told me
the happy change in your lot, do you know I was delighted less
for your
sakes than for mine?
NORA: How so? Oh, I see. You think Torvald could do
something for you.
MRS. LINDE: Yes, that’s what I thought.
NORA: And he will, Kristine! Just leave it to me; I’ll bring it
up so
delicately—�nd something attractive to humor him with. Oh,
I’m so
eager to help you.

MRS. LINDE: How very kind of you, Nora, to be so concerned
over me—
doubly kind, considering you really know so little of life’s
burdens
yourself.
NORA: I—? I know so little—?
MRS. LINDE: (smiling) Well my heavens—a little needlework
and such—
Nora, you’re just a child.
NORA: (tossing her head and pacing the �oor) You don’t have
to act so
superior.
MRS. LINDE: Oh?
NORA: You’re just like the others. You all think I’m incapable
of anything
serious—
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MRS. LINDE: Come now—
NORA: That I’ve never had to face the raw world.
MRS. LINDE: Nora dear, you’ve just been telling me all your
troubles.
NORA: Hm! Trivial! (Quietly.) I haven’t told you the big thing.
MRS. LINDE: Big thing? What do you mean?
NORA: You look down on me so, Kristine, but you shouldn’t.
You’re proud
that you worked so long and hard for your mother.
MRS. LINDE: I don’t look down on a soul. But it is true: I’m
proud—and

happy, too—to think it was given to me to make my mother’s
last days
almost free of care.
NORA: And you’re also proud thinking of what you’ve done for
your
brothers.
MRS. LINDE: I feel I’ve a right to be.
NORA: I agree. But listen to this, Kristine—I’ve also got
something to be
proud and happy for.
MRS. LINDE: I don’t doubt it. But whatever do you mean?
NORA: Not so loud. What if Torvald heard! He mustn’t, not for
anything
in the world. Nobody must know, Kristine. No one but you.
MRS. LINDE: But what is it, then?
NORA: Come here. (Drawing her down beside her on the sofa.)
It’s true—I’ve
also got something to be proud and happy for. I’m the one who
saved
Torvald’s life.
MRS. LINDE: Saved—? Saved how?
NORA: I told you about the trip to Italy. Torvald never would
have lived if
he hadn’t gone south—
MRS. LINDE: Of course; your father gave you the means—
NORA: (smiling) That’s what Torvald and all the rest think,
but—
MRS. LINDE: But—?

NORA: Papa didn’t give us a pin. I was the one who raised the
money.
MRS. LINDE: You? That whole amount?
NORA: Four thousand, eight hundred crowns. What do you say
to that?
MRS. LINDE: But Nora, how was it possible? Did you win the
lottery?
NORA: (disdainfully) The lottery? Pooh! No art to that.
MRS. LINDE: But where did you get it from then?
NORA: (humming, with a mysterious smile) Hmm, tra-la-la-la.
MRS. LINDE: Because you couldn’t have borrowed it.
NORA: No? Why not?
MRS. LINDE: A wife can’t borrow without her husband’s
consent.
NORA: (tossing her head) Oh, but a wife with a little business
sense, a wife
who knows how to manage—
MRS. LINDE: Nora, I simply don’t understand—
NORA: You don’t have to. Whoever said I borrowed the
money? I could
have gotten it other ways. (Throwing herself back on the sofa.) I
could
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have gotten it from some admirer or other. After all, a girl with
my
ravishing appeal—
MRS. LINDE: You lunatic.
NORA: I’ll bet you’re eaten up with curiosity, Kristine.
MRS. LINDE: Now listen here, Nora—you haven’t done
something
indiscreet?
NORA: (sitting up again) Is it indiscreet to save your husband’s
life?
MRS. LINDE: I think it’s indiscreet that without his knowledge
you—
NORA: But that’s the point: he mustn’t know! My Lord, can’t
you under-
stand? He mustn’t ever know the close call he had. It was to me
the
doctors came to say his life was in danger—that nothing could
save him
but a stay in the south. Didn’t I try strategy then! I began
talking about
how lovely it would be for me to travel abroad like other young
wives;
I begged and I cried; I told him please to remember my
condition, to
be kind and indulge me; and then I dropped a hint that he could
easily
take out a loan. But at that, Kristine, he nearly exploded. He
said I was
frivolous, and it was his duty as man of the house not to indulge
me in
whims and fancies—as I think he called them. Aha, I thought,
now
you’ll just have to be saved—and that’s when I saw my chance.

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