August 6, 1916
Just a few thoughts today. Last night was our final rehearsal. All went well, which is a great relief to my mind. Floyd (2) was a dear, and Louise (3) was in good spirits. Jig was joyful and helpful. Eugene (4) and John(5) were full of praise. What a delight to be engaged in such an enterprise with such kind and brilliant company. Even the tides complied, rolling in under the wharf just as we finished. There was wine, singing, laughter, and a pale full moon over the bay. It was [illegible] I slept soundly at last.
Today I vowed to stay away from our Playhouse. Since the fire in July, I think I have been there everyday. I went instead to the Pilgrim's Monument. The grantite spire gleamed in the morning sun. I was strong these days, my sickness behind me. I fancied the view would be fine from the top, and the effort of climbing the stairs would crowd out my anxiety as opening night approaches. But once inside, it was a gloomy place. The light was dim, the stones wet and cool. Something about it was familiar, and a sudden rush of memory was on me. I was back at the Hossack farm, the rooms dim and bare. There was a certain sterness to the house, as if the rigid nature of John Hossack had [illegible] into the walls. It was a feeling I tried to capture in Trifles, the "uncheerfulness" that Mrs. Hale speaks of. The farmhouse was a lonely feeling place. I remember thinking that it was unusual, since so many children had been raised there. I felt it was important to make Minnie and John Wright childless. It would add to the sense of isolation. I remembered feeling different about Margaret once I had visited the home. Not about her guilt or innocence, but about her plight. A life of fear, unfillment, isolation. A misery she was forbidden to discuss. I felt sympathy for her, and other women did as well. We were powerless, as the cold wheels of justice rolled on. But if we were not powerless? What if our sympathy, our emotional connections, the strengths of women could be somehow harnessed. This was the idea in me that grew into Trifles.
I was surpised to find myself at the top, breathing hard, sweating, blinded by the sun. It was a rare, windless day. I was alone, and I had secreted away a treat for myself. I had taken one of Jig's cigars and some matches. He would not miss it. It seemed a fine and appropriate thing for me to do. A lone woman, on top of the world, smoking a cigar. A small protest, perhaps, but it was mine.
Today I vowed to stay away from our Playhouse. Since the fire in July, I think I have been there everyday. I went instead to the Pilgrim's Monument. The grantite spire gleamed in the morning sun. I was strong these days, my sickness behind me. I fancied the view would be fine from the top, and the effort of climbing the stairs would crowd out my anxiety as opening night approaches. But once inside, it was a gloomy place. The light was dim, the stones wet and cool. Something about it was familiar, and a sudden rush of memory was on me. I was back at the Hossack farm, the rooms dim and bare. There was a certain sterness to the house, as if the rigid nature of John Hossack had [illegible] into the walls. It was a feeling I tried to capture in Trifles, the "uncheerfulness" that Mrs. Hale speaks of. The farmhouse was a lonely feeling place. I remember thinking that it was unusual, since so many children had been raised there. I felt it was important to make Minnie and John Wright childless. It would add to the sense of isolation. I remembered feeling different about Margaret once I had visited the home. Not about her guilt or innocence, but about her plight. A life of fear, unfillment, isolation. A misery she was forbidden to discuss. I felt sympathy for her, and other women did as well. We were powerless, as the cold wheels of justice rolled on. But if we were not powerless? What if our sympathy, our emotional connections, the strengths of women could be somehow harnessed. This was the idea in me that grew into Trifles.
I was surpised to find myself at the top, breathing hard, sweating, blinded by the sun. It was a rare, windless day. I was alone, and I had secreted away a treat for myself. I had taken one of Jig's cigars and some matches. He would not miss it. It seemed a fine and appropriate thing for me to do. A lone woman, on top of the world, smoking a cigar. A small protest, perhaps, but it was mine.
