Off the Wall - The Life and Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman by Ann Timmons

This Play is the copyright of the Author and may not be performed, copied or sold without the Author's prior consent

Time: A mild night in late September, 1914

Place: A dimly-lit study on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The
room is comfortably furnished, somewhat cluttered, but not fussy.

A slightly worn Oriental rug is on the floor, a large fern in a brass
planter in the upstage left corner. A large wooden desk is placed at
an angle off-center. It is the focal point of the room. The desk
surface is filled with magazines, folders, papers, a pen. A chair is
behind the desk, with a shawl draped across the back. Downstage right
is a well-travelled flat-topped trunk, which represents the area where
CHARLOTTE's imagination plays out. Downstage left is a comfortable
chair with a small side table beside it, stacked with books. This area
represents memories of childhood, family.

CHARLOTTE enters carrying a coffee cup. Walks resolutely halfway to
desk. Stops. Hesitates. Turns her attention to coffee. Blows on it to
cool it off, smells it.

CHARLOTTE: Ah, coffee! Coffee! (lifting cup to the audience) I do
think it is my favorite eatable, or potable, rather. . . The aroma is
intoxicating, the taste. . . . mmmm . . (taking a sip) and the
effect-best of all! It gives a much-needed jolt to my poor muddled
brain. A stimulant, to be sure, but one I think I need just now if I'm
ever to finish this article by morning. One more sip. . . (sipping)
ah! . . then back to work. (sits at desk, reluctantly) Where was I?

(Picking up an unfinished manuscript and reading)

ah, yes . . . “The human mind has had a good many jolts since it
began to think, but after each upheaval it settles down as peacefully
as . . . . (thinking, then writing) the vine-growers on Vesuvius,
accepting the last lava crust as permanent ground. It is no easy
matter to deny-or reverse!-a universal assumption.” (putting pen
down) . . . No, it is not easy! That I have found out the hard way.
Oh Charlotte, Charlotte, why do you keep going? To cling to the naive
hope that you might ultimately reach the world?

(Pause, glancing at stack of books on desk, picking one up)

Yet there was a time, when Women and Economics was published and the
reviews poured forth; they loved me! Internationally! I was known; I
was on my way! I thought I was finally making a difference. . . Was
I? Did I? God knows I tried. Oh, Lord, why did you save me from
madness? That I might suffer the torture of repeated frustration?? I
might as well just-(standing) Stop it Charlotte!

(Escaping from the desk)

Don't. . .slip. . .now.

No, I will not look down that abyss. I have been given a purpose in
life. God knows it is hard, daring to cut loose and think alone. But
that is my life and life is work.

(Resolutely goes back to desk, sits)

So I must keep working. Working . . .

(Looking for manuscript, sees magazine)

Now what have we here?

(Showing magazine off to the audience)

The Forerunner, Volume 5, number 9, 1914. Entirely written by yours
truly, Charlotte Perkins Gilman-née Charlotte Anna Perkins, later
Charlotte Perkins Stetson-and that is a story in itself-now
thankfully, blessedly Gilman. Yes, I write every word A monthly
magazine, published here in New York City, sold to whomever is
interested in keeping up with the cutting edge of reform thought, I
say in all modesty.

(Gets up and crosses to down center. She is introducing herself to
the audience)

What doing here is what I have been doing throughout my career:
advocating equality for women and the reorganization of society into
an organic industrial collective dedicated to the advancement of the
human race. That's all. Mine is a simple premise, really. Society is
shocked by me; it has labeled me a Socialist and a feminist. (pause,
with a twinkle in her eye) Well. . . . the Socialist I admit to,
though I do think that Mr. Marx got it all wrong. But the feminist. .
. ? I rather think I am a humanist in a masculinist world. . .

(Crossing back to front of desk, picking up magazine)

And my little journal, though seemingly made up of articles, reviews,
short stories, serializations of novels, is really my revolutionary
manifesto, sent in covert monthly dispatches to my troops. . . and
picking up a few unwitting reinforcements along the way. And its
circulation is-well, respectable, as they say. Meaning large enough
to justify its continuation but scarcely able to turn a profit.

(She drops magazine on desk, turning quickly back to audience, with a
knowing look)

Now, I hear the business-minded among you chuckling, tsk-tsk-tsk-ing,
asking yourselves, “Why would the woman do such a thing?”

(Down center again, preparing to tell a really good story)

Well. . . it's partly . . . (pause) genetic.

My great grandfather Lyman Beecher was the eminent Christian
reformer, an eloquent and somewhat controversial preacher, famous in
his own right, but also the father of my great aunts and uncles: Aunt
Hettie, you know her as Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's
Cabin; Aunt Isabella Beecher Hooker, a suffragist and very close
friend of Susan B. Anthony's; and Uncle Henry, Henry Ward Beecher, the
provocative Congregational minister over there in Brooklyn Heights,
and also the first President of the American Women's Suffrage
Association. So, you see, I come from a long line of crusaders . . .

(Pause. Walking slowly up of chair left, she holds onto the back of
it to steady herself.)

It. . . skipped a generation with my father. My father, who did some
skipping of his own.

Abandoned. My mother, Thomas, and me as a toddler. We were
desperately poor, living off of the charity of those wealthy Beecher
kin until mother legally separated. And then our famous relatives
shunned us. Moving constantly-a dozen times before adolescence.
(angrily) What damage that could have done-

(Stops with the realization)

Did do! to a child.
Mother somehow remained loyal to Father, loved him even in his
absence, but would never give us her affection. She never cuddled me
as an infant or gave me any comfort later; she wanted me to be
skeptical of love, not to need it, so I would never be hurt by it.
(laughing bitterly) Oh, Mother, Mother, if you only knew how your
plan backfired. . .

(Getting an idea, skipping across stage to sit on trunk down right.)

Now Charlotte, you know what you sound like?

(Assuming the voice and movement of an energetic teenage girl)

One of those personal revelation books ''written by people who
wail to us from Paris and St. Petersburg and Butte, Montana, always
fussing and lamenting and blaming Providence or Fate or something. I
should think they would be ashamed! Why don't they do things! There
is always something you can do if you are any good. If you have an
active mind, a real active mind that likes to work, there is
profitable experience in most everything.”

(Stands up. Looks a trunk where she was sitting, as if still seeing
Benigna there. Looks at audience a tad sheepishly, then explains)

That's Benigna Machiavelli, the heroine of my latest story here in
The Forerunner. I quite like her; she's spunky and independent. And
that's part of her heritage; she thinks she's descended from the great
Niccolo Machiavelli himself! (chuckling) I put a lot of my early
girlhood resolution into Benigna. For whether in spite of, or because
of, my less than perfect home life, I knew that life was for living
and no good things would come to those who wait. . .

(Sits left side of trunk)

“There have been infant prodigies before now, in music or arithmetic
or things like that. I was an infant prodigy in common sense, that's
all; just plain old intelligence, with of course that splendid
Machiavellian streak thrown in.

(Scooting to downstage end of trunk and speaking to audience
conspiratorially)

''I have a big, clear, definite purpose now, stretching through
life. I want to be big-Big-BIG!

(Up, with arms spread wide)

"I want to be strong, skillful, an armory of concealed weapons.

(Hands behind back, in s mock-conspiritorial tone)

"I want to be far more able than anybody knows. And then I'll
learn how to play the game, the best game of all, the big one-life!

(Skipping around the trunk)

"What fun it is-how wide and endless-and what poor players most
people are! (sitting, in resignation) Making people like you is a
game. Learning to like people is a game, too. You see, at first I was
very critical of other people's foolishness, but it came over me all
at once-why they are people, that's all. This is the way they act.
If I wait for a lot of wise, careful people to love I shall be very
lonesome.”

(Momentarily, burying head on hands. Then up quickly as CHARLOTTE
again, looking at, and laughing at, Benigna.)

Ah, Benigna!

(Turning to audience, offering an explanation)

Well, what is fiction writing, really, if not a chance to re-make the
tale of our own lives? I did not have such clarity of vision as
Benigna, but my determination was the same. And sometime during my
adolescence it became clear to me that if I couldn't make my mother
and brother love me (and it seemed I couldn't), I could work to make
myself a better person. So I embarked on a routine for physical and
mental well-being:

("Acting" this out for audience)

two miles of brisk walking, daily workouts in the gymnasium, still a
novelty for a young woman at that time (especially in Rhode Island).
It was called “physical culture” and I embraced it as an alternative
to the silly society things other girls were doing. And I set out to
acquire two desirable traits yearly; I made that my New Year's
resolution (and I still do)! Poor as we were and with no father to
depend on, I knew I had to take charge of my own life if I was ever to
amount to anything. And I was determined to make a difference, like
all the Beechers before me.

(Back to trunk, as Benigna, sitting downstage end, with an air of sad
puzzlement)

“But life is a complicated thing, I find. There was one thing I never
thought of : that was anybody's falling in love with me. Though I did
not mean to marry I had no objection in being asked. And then it was
rather pleasant having someone always considering one's wishes and
doing nice little things. A man is very useful after all-when he's
willing. I had always thought of them chiefly as obstacles. I began to
feel a sort of change in my own mind. It was a funny, quicksandy sort
of feeling. Here I was, just starting out in life -ready to break
loose and go-

(Quickly rises, tries to run but is stopped on the spot by an
imaginary barrier)

and here was this nice boy offering me a cage. The worst of it was
that cages began to look almost attractive! 'This won't do' said I,
'This will not do. Am I, with all the determination of years of
planning, to be changed by the first nice boy who is nice to me?' Then
I remembered from all my reading that when a man was drifting in a
direction he did not wish to go, his friends always told him there was
no safety but in flight:

("Acting" this out for audience)

'He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.' So I made
up my mind; I would fly.”

(Drops "flight" pose, pauses to regain composure, crosses center
to address audience.)

No, my world was no so easy to manipulate as Benigna's. I could not
fly Walter's love. Charles Walter Stetson, an underrated genius of a
painter and quite the most dashing man in Providence. In him I
recognized my own high-minded determination . . . and palpably
unbearable loneliness. I was . . . attracted to him. But I declined
the first time he proposed and remained ambivalent about the
proposition for two more years.

(Talking to herself in dialogue, first speaker is impatient, second
is very calm and has all the answers)

Charlotte Anna Perkins, how can you even consider marriage? How can
you possibly keep a house and feed a husband and raise-children!
while continuing with your world-work??

Well, hasn't it been done before? Didn't Great-grandfather Lyman
have 12 children while he was shaking up the world for God?

Great-grandfather had three wives to bear those children and keep his
house for him!

Well then. . . one husband and two or three children should be that
much easier.

Aargh! (stamping feet)

I am a Beecher and very strong, very determined. I will make it
work. And Walter is the most amazing man…

(Pause, reflecting on the image of a young, virile Walter)

Walter was an . . . ardent . . .suitor and I finally agreed to marry
him. (beat) Whatever possessed me?

(Sweeping upstage to just in front of desk, arms outstretched in a
welcoming gesture, she throws herself into the role of Lady of the
House)

In May, 1884 we moved into our sunny second floor flat in Providence:
newlyweds! 'This will be an adventure,' I thought. . . I will take
myself in hand and learn what exciting things I can about being a
housewife. (pause.) Well. . . (feigning brightness) I learned to
cook!

(Pause. Looks at audience, shrugs shoulders, drops enthusiastic tone.
Sits downstage edge of desk)

Walter was a caring husband, but often our moods and appetites did
not coincide. (pause) I was, after all, used to being very . . .
.physically . . . active! (sighs. Pause, shakes head)

His career was being established, for which I was grateful, but I
wasn't doing anything.
Domestic life did not fulfill me, but I had no energy to do anything
else. The misgivings I had felt during our courtship grew into a
pattern of low spirits and ill health. (slowly) I was suffocating,
drowning. Days of bleak blankness followed one another. Walter was a
dear, of course, and stood by me as these periods of . . . nervous
exhaustion . . . increased in frequency and duration. (pause.
rallies)

In late March of the following year my daughter Katherine was born.
Family and friends were relieved; they thought that was what had been
wrong with me. And all would be well as I slipped easily, naturally,
ignorantly into the role of mother.

(Up with energetic anger and down center to audience)

Well it was not, because I did not. And I did not 'improve'. I went
to the expert, the neurologist Silas Weir Mitchell in Philadelphia.
Dr. Mitchell thought I was just another silly spoiled housewife unable
to cope with new demands at home. And so he put me on his famous 'rest
cure': bed rest, baths, massages, bland food. I was young and in
excellent physical health, so after a month, I looked cured and was
sent home.

(Circling back to above desk)

I was ordered by the great doctor henceforth to: nap after every
meal; only to think two hours a day; in short to lead as purely a
domestic life as possible. Oh! And above all. . . (picking up pen),
never to write again (slamming down pen). This did not help; it very
nearly drove me mad. I recorded this living nightmare in an early
short story I wrote, The Yellow Wallpaper:

(Deliberately grabs shawl from chair back, walks purposefully toward
trunk, sits on downstage end. Taking a deep breath, CHARLOTTE chooses
to share with the audience the character of her most famous story.
This character the Young Wife, becomes more and more mentally unstable
as CHARLOTTE's re-enactment of the story progresses. In this first
sequence, she is seems to be more than usually nervous, with hands
fluttering to her hair, fiddling with her shawl, etc)

“You see, he does not believe I am ill! And what can one do? If a
physician of high standing assures friends and relatives that there is
nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous exhaustion-a
slightly hysterical tendency-what can one do? So I take phosphates
or phosphites-whichever it is-and tonics and air and exercise and
journeys and am absolutely forbidden to work until I am well again
(pause. angrily)

"Personally, I disagree. . . I get unreasonably angry with my
husband John sometimes. He is very careful and loving and so I feel
basely ungrateful not to value him more.

(Pause. Trying to brighten up)

"I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery in
the house John rented so I could get away. He does not know how much I
really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer and that
satisfies him. Of course it is only nervousness. (nervous laugher) I
suppose John was never nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about
this wallpaper! He said that I was letting it get the better of me and
that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such
fancies.

(Looking intently at paper)

"But this paper looks to me as if it knew what a vicious influence
it had. . . . The color is repellant, almost revolting: a smoldering
unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. . . But
in places where it isn't faded and the sun is just so-I can see a
strange, provoking formless sort of figure that seems to skulk about
behind that silly and conspicuous front design.

(To the audience, conspiratorially)
"There are things in that wallpaper that nobody knows about but me
or ever will. Of course I don't tell them. I am too wise-but I
keep watch for it all the same.

(Back to examining the wallpaper)
"Behind that outside pattern the dim shape gets clearer every day.
It is always the same shape, only very numerous. And it is like a
woman, stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. The
figure behind seems to shake the pattern just as if she wanted to get
out.”

(Shaking imaginary bars in front of her. Beat. Stands up with energy,
throwing shawl onto trunk and crossing down center.)

I wanted out!

[end of extract]

Price $7.99 Add to cart