The Cabala and the Woman of Andros, page 21
Suddenly a light dawned upon Mysis: “He is at the temple! How could I have forgotten that he was under the vow of silence and that he must be there!” And turning she started to enter the road.
“You must not go to him at the temple,” said Simo sharply. “I shall come down to the harbor with you now and buy your mistress from the Leno.”
He returned to the house for his cloak, then walked into the town with Mysis hurrying at his heels. Dawn was breaking as he descended the winding stairs to the square. Against the streaked sky he saw the mast of the Leno’s boat. The Leno was not only a dealer in slaves; he was a wandering bazaar and sold foreign foods and trinkets and cloths. If an island were large enough he came ashore and conducted a fair and a circus. And now in the first cold light of morning Simo could see on the raised portion of the deck a brightly colored booth, a chained bear, an ape, two parrots, and other samples of the Leno’s stock in trade, including the household of Chrysis. Philocles had remained on shore and for two hours had been standing at the parapet uttering short broken cries towards his companions. Being a Greek citizen he could not be sold into slavery and was to be transported later to Andros.
Simo descended the steps of the landing with Mysis and was rowed out to the boat. While he concluded his transaction with the black and smiling Leno Mysis sank upon her knees before Glycerium, telling her of this good fortune. But Glycerium derived no joy from the news. She sat between Apraxine and the Ethiopian girl, amid the bundles of their clothes, and for weariness she could scarcely raise her eyes or move her lips. “No,” she said, “I shall stay here with you. I do not wish to go anywhere.”
Simo approached them. “My child,” he said to Glycerium, “you are to come with me now.”
“Yes, my beloved,” Mysis repeated into her ear, “you must go with him. All will be well. He is taking you ashore to Pamphilus.”
Still Glycerium remained with bent head. “I do not wish to move. I do not wish to go anywhere,” she said.
“I am the father of Pamphilus. You must come with me and good care will be taken of you.”
At last and with great difficulty she arose. Mysis supported her to the side of the boat and there taking her farewell she whispered to her: “Goodbye, my dear love. Now may the gods bring you happiness. I shall never see you again, but I pray you to remember me, for I have loved you well. And wherever we are, let us remember our dear Chrysis.”
The two women embraced one another in silence, Glycerium with closed eyes. At last she said: “I would that I were dead, Mysis. I would that I were long dead with Chrysis, my dear sister.”
“You are to come with us too,” said Simo to Mysis, who having known even greater surprises obediently followed him. The little group was rowed in silence to the shore. The Leno’s oarsmen struck the water, his bright colored sails were raised, and his merchandise left the harbor for other fortunes.
The sun had already risen when Pamphilus returned with swift and happy steps to his home. There he discovered Glycerium sleeping peacefully under his mother’s care. There was not a sound to be heard on the farm, for his mother, already invested with the dignity of her new duties as guardian and nurse to the outcast girl, had ordered a perfect quiet. Argo was sitting before the gate, her eyes wide with wonder and pleasure at the arrival of this new friend. Simo had gone to the warehouse and when he returned, for all his happiness, he moved about with lowered eyes, driven by the constraint in his nature to act as though nothing had happened.
In the two days that followed, all their thoughts were centred about the room where the girl lay and all their hearts were renewed under the fragile claims that Glycerium’s beauty and shyness made upon them. Simo seemed, after Pamphilus, to have best understood her reticence and to have been understood by her; a friendship beyond speech had grown up between them. This flowering of goodness, however, was not to be put to the trial of routine perseverance, nor to know the alternations of self-reproach and renewed courage; for on the noon of the third day Glycerium’s pains began and by sunset both mother and child were dead.
That night after many months of drought it began to rain. Slowly at first and steadily, the rain began to fall over all Greece. Great curtains of rain hung above the plains; in the mountains it fell as snow, and on the sea it printed its countless ephemeral coins upon the water. The greater part of the inhabitants were asleep, but the relief of the long-expected rain entered into the mood of their sleeping minds. It fell upon the urns standing side by side in the shadow, and the wakeful and the sick and the dying heard the first great drops fall upon the roofs above their heads. Pamphilus lay awake, face downward, his chin upon the back of his hand. He heard the first great drops fall upon the roof over his head and he knew that his father and mother, not far from him, heard them too. He had been repeating to himself Chrysis’s lesson and adding to it his Glycerium’s last faltering words: “Do not be sorry; do not be afraid,” and he had been remembering how with the faintest movement of her eyes to one side, she had indicated her child and said: “Wherever we are, we are yours.” He had been asking himself in astonishment wherein had lain his joy and his triumph of the few nights before: how could he have once been so sure of the beauty of existence? And some words of Chrysis returned to him. He recalled how she had touched the hand of a young guest who had returned from an absence, having lost his sister, and how she had said to him in a low voice, so as not to embarrass those others present who had never known a loss: “You were happy with her once; do not doubt that the conviction at the heart of your happiness was as real as the conviction at the heart of your sorrow.” Pamphilus knew that out of these fragments he must assemble during the succeeding nights sufficient strength, not only for himself, but for these others,—these others who so bewilderingly now turned to him and whose glances tried to read from his face what news there was from the last resources of courage and hope, to live on, to live by. But in confusion and with flagging courage he repeated: “I praise all living, the bright and the dark.”
On the sea the helmsman suffered the downpour, and on the high pastures the shepherd turned and drew his cloak closer about him. In the hills the long-dried stream-beds began to fill again and the noise of water falling from level to level, warring with the stones in the way, filled the gorges. But behind the thick beds of clouds the moon soared radiantly bright, shining upon Italy and its smoking mountains. And in the East the stars shone tranquilly down upon the land that was soon to be called Holy and that even then was preparing its precious burden.
A Nephew’s Note
Thornton Wilder’s three short novels, published in four years between 1926 and 1930, established his international reputation as a writer and made him, by his early thirties, a wealthy man.
The Cabala (1926), Wilder’s first novel and always one of his favorites, was a stunning critical success. His third, The Woman of Andros (1930), became a notable bestseller. Both novels, however, were quickly overshadowed by the staggering critical and popular success of the novel in the middle: the Pulitzer Prize–winning, worldwide-overnight-sensation, The Bridge of San Luis Rey (1927).
Thornton was in his midforties when I was born. Ever since I can remember, I was aware that my uncle was “famous”—far better known for his drama than his fiction. All I knew of The Cabala and The Woman of Andros was that they occupied shelf space in my father’s quiet, second-floor study.
My uncle, always of an acquisitive nature, was a potent mixture of the creative, scholarly and entertaining. He had taught French, the Classics (Greek, Roman, and our own), worked easily in four languages, read sheet music as a hobby, was always eager to see how you reacted to his reading of a new play-in-the-making, and even offered to read my term papers (an offer I gently passed up). Family gatherings were infrequent, yet highly anticipated when Thornton was present. His conversation, curiosity, and entertaining stories created an exhilarating buzz in the room. Thornton Wilder was theater.
I took over the care of his literary works in 1995. My first priority was to put out-of-print novels back in print. The Cabala and The Woman of Andros (which Harper & Row had first issued in a single volume in 1968) were on that list. As I learned more about Thornton’s works, I decided to add to each of the seven novels Afterwords that explored highlights of the “why, how, and where” of each story, their critical reception and sales, and the record of reader interest through the years. In researching The Cabala and The Woman of Andros, I discovered the magnificent literary explosion that Thornton experienced between 1926 and 1930. An added dividend of this discovery was having the opportunity to understand how Wilder used his profound knowledge of the classics and his religious questioning. In these early novels there was an artistic well that he would draw from again and again across his six-decade career as an artist.
It has been a great pleasure to live part of my life overseeing my uncle’s work, to have known people he touched during his lifetime, and to meet those inspired by his words since. On this journey with Thornton, I have come to recognize many autobiographical elements in the novels, plays, and nonfiction of this buoyant, entertaining, and yet lonely figure. And in the end, while I still wonder if I really knew him, I can always say, as I often do, that he is very good company.
Welcome to The Cabala and The Woman of Andros, where it all began—with a big bang!
For their defining contributions to this edition, I thank Barbara Hogenson, Thornton Wilder’s literary agent, Rosey Strub, manager of his intellectual property, and Patricia Bacon. It is also a special pleasure to salute Jennifer Civiletto who, in her role as Wilder’s HarperCollins editor, has led the Wilder novels and major dramas into the Thornton Wilder Library editions as well as their appearance in entrancing audio form. Sadly, Penelope Niven did not live to see this edition. But her invaluable Introduction to its first iteration more than stands the test of time. Dr. Stephen J. Rojcewicz Jr.’s new material in the Readings helps further elucidate Wilder’s use of the classics, and I am grateful to him for his addition to this edition. Citations for Dr. Rojcewicz’s study, Thornton Wilder, Classical Reception, and American Literature, and Niven’s definitive biography, Thornton Wilder: A Life, are included in the Afterword’s bibliographical note.
Tappan Wilder
Sausalito, CA
February 2022
Afterword
THE CABALA
I began writing my first novel [The Cabala] thirty-one years ago—in a small hotel on the left bank of the Seine, where so many American novels have been begun.
—Thornton Wilder on receiving the Gold Medal for Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, April 1952
Mr. Thornton Wilder’s publishers, Albert and Charles Boni, must have been in a fine frenzy of dismay and delight as the successive chunks of The Cabala made their tardy appearances in the office.
—Herbert Gorman, Introduction to the Modern Library edition of The Cabala, #155, May 1929
LATE TO HIS PARTY
Deeply impressed with his highly polished literary style, the recently established New York publishing house of Albert & Charles Boni, Inc., published Thornton Wilder’s novel The Cabala on April 21, 1926. The first printing was reliably reported at the time to have been 3,250 copies. Befitting a debut book, the dust jacket was unadorned with outside testimonials; the publisher’s endorsement on the back read:
It is seldom that publishers find an author whom they may recommend unreservedly. The biting irony and exquisite phrasing in which this young author couches his intimate story of the high aristocratic group in Rome today seems to us of the highest order. It is a book to delight every admirer of the exotic in writing.
It is a time-honored obligation of friends to come to the aid of an author, especially on the occasion of the first book. Whatever lay ahead, Boni had good reasons for believing that future printings of the dust jacket could contain quotable language from the author’s notable literary friends and admirers. Boni would not be disappointed. It is no surprise that a Yale tie was the common denominator for this anticipated publicity; Wilder, who had received his undergraduate degree there in 1920, had lit up the sky as an acclaimed prize-winning student author.
What amounted to a Wilder Yale alumni booster club included two of the author’s former teachers: William Lyon Phelps, perhaps the best-known popular lecturer on literature in the country during this era; and Henry Seidel Canby, who, in 1924, had traded the classroom for the New York literary scene where he became a founder and editor of The Saturday Review of Literature. The club also included such classmates and close friends as John Farrar, editor of The Bookman, an important literary monthly; Briton Hadden and Henry Luce, who cofounded Time magazine in 1923, and had garnered a circulation of more than 200,000 readers by 1926; and Norman Fitts, book reviewer for the influential Boston Evening Transcript. During his senior year in Yale College in 1919, Fitts had established a recognized “little magazine,” S.4.N., on whose editorial board Wilder served and in which he published occasionally until it closed down in 1924.
Wilder referred to his fans collectively as “Gossip Fair,” noting that they had been waiting for his literary debut for years. Gossip Fair had grounds for its opinion; so stunning had been Thornton Wilder’s undergraduate literary record that although he was only twenty-nine when The Cabala was published, he was judged “unacceptably late to his own party.” While aware of this view it appears never to have represented a burden for Wilder. As he was frantically pulling together the manuscript of his first book in June 1925, he wrote to his close friend Les Glenn, “My emergence is long delayed, dear Les, but irresistible!” To his brother, Amos, he assigned a hard number: “Excuse me saying that I waited six years beyond the time when Gossip Fair assigned me a debut.”
A RATHER SOPHISTICATED LITERARY CURIOSITY
Books from Yale men ornament the spring lists with persistence. Thornton Wilder, whose undergraduate days were marked with brilliance, has written what promises to be a rather sophisticated literary curiosity in “Cabala,” which will be his first published book.
—The Bookman, April 1926
Talent and notoriety aside, how did Boni view the marketplace prospects for a novel The Bookman hailed “a rather sophisticated literary curiosity”? The answer is no surprise. Despite his publishers’ enthusiasm about Wilder’s style and faith that friends in high places would work hard for the book, Boni saw its new author’s appeal limited to a highly cultivated readership. In short, they assumed that The Cabala would not be a bestseller.
The author’s background reflected the esoteric. The biographical note on the dust jacket offered this description:
THORNTON WILDER was born on April 17, 1897, Madison, Wisconsin. He spent his early years in China where his father was Consul General, and later prepared for college in California. He was graduated from Yale in 1920, after which he spent two years in Rome. The Cabala grew out of that experience of these two years. After this he taught at Lawrenceville and is now devoting his time to studying and writing at Princeton Graduate School.
For the record, Wilder spent a total of two years in China as a boy and only eight months, not two years, in Rome, after college. But give or take a publisher’s exaggeration, there did appear to be more than a tincture of the exotic about his life to go along with his educational credentials.
One fact in this biography was accurate: The Cabala was inspired by his stay in Rome after Yale, as reflected in Wilder’s dedication of the book: “To my friends at the American Academy in Rome, 1920–1921.” Although neither his formal training nor vocational interests qualified him for full admission to one of the American Academy’s two established programs, his credentials were strong enough for him to obtain a self-paid place, thanks to the Academy’s lean times, and empty beds following World War I. This allowed him to participate in the life of an institution with a notable address on a notable hill in Rome to the degree that he wished. Many years after, he recalled his position and the freedom it offered:
The students on the Janiculum Hill were divided into two disparate and even inimical groups. There were on the one hand the Prix de Rome men who had been carefully selected for great promise in architecture, painting and sculpture, and music. In my time there were no women among the artists. And there were the classical students, men and women, also selected from among scores of applicants to work in archeology, Latin literature, and Roman history. With very few exceptions these two groups kept to themselves, sat at meals themselves, and enjoyed parties and excursions by themselves. The two groups were often designated as “geniuses” and the “grinds.”
I was neither a prize man nor a qualified classical scholar. I was a fish who swam in both waters.
And we know from letters to friends and home, Wilder not only swam with both geniuses and grinds, but also explored the city on his own, sat at many a non-Academy table, and attended many a party. To his sister Isabel, he wrote in the spring of 1921:
I seem to be living in Italy for the sole purpose of receiving the confidences of ladies in distress. The details of woe, broken engagements, insult and injury I’ve had to listen to from grand dame to servant-girl would freeze your spine. There’s something in the air over here: everyone is unhappily in love every minute of their lives, and only too glad to find a sympathetic eye and ear.
Wilder, pen always at hand, left Rome for Paris, where he stayed for several months in the spring and summer of 1921. Here, in a hotel on the left bank, followed by a cold-water flat on the Rue St. Jacques, Wilder began a work of prose about a group of fascinating and very unhappy individuals in Rome, including a prince of the Church. The writing did not go easily. As he wrote his mother, “I struggle over the descriptive passages in Romans and despair of ever writing prose.”
