“Vituperare” | Skillshare Projects




Step 3 


"All is not as it seems in the life of Emeline Paniter a former Debutante and Socialite, who, fed up with her husband Benjamin’s secret alcoholism and in her opinion - questionable morals, decides to take matters into her own hands".

Step 2

Final Draft  


3rd Draft


Step 1

I have chosen "Mrs. Benjamin Pantier" from the Spoon River Anthology. I feel the character has great potenial for further developement. I want to explore what the underlying story of her marriage & family might be.There is a good deal of material to start the work with, as four other pieces from the anthology help put these characters together.

  • Anyone interested in my character developement, here is the link:   https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pVZZ3wO2jqkLYaoIVQB2v4xKvaLbMJehLd1gBWl0w4g/edit?usp=sharing

Mrs. Benjamin Pantier                                                                                          

I KNOW that he told that I snared his soul

With a snare which bled him to death.

And all the men loved him,

And most of the women pitied him.

But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes,

And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions,

And the rhythm of Wordsworth’s “Ode” runs in your ears,

While he goes about from morning till night

Repeating bits of that common thing;

“Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?”

And then, suppose;

You are a woman well endowed,

And the only man with whom the law and morality

Permit you to have the marital relation

Is the very man that fills you with disgust

Every time you think of it while you think of it

Every time you see him?

That’s why I drove him away from home

To live with his dog in a dingy room

Back of his office

Benjamin Pantier

TOGETHER in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law,

And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend.

Down the gray road, friends, children, men and women,

Passing one by one out of life, left me till I was alone

With Nig for partner, bed-fellow; comrade in drink.

In the morning of life I knew aspiration and saw glory,

Then she, who survives me, snared my soul

With a snare which bled me to death,

Till I, once strong of will, lay broken, indifferent,

Living with Nig in a room back of a dingy office.

Under my Jaw-bone is snuggled the bony nose of Nig

Our story is lost in silence. Go by, Mad world!

Reuben Pantier

WELL, Emily Sparks, your prayers were not wasted,

Your love was not all in vain.

I owe whatever I was in life

To your hope that would not give me up,

To your love that saw me still as good.

Dear Emily Sparks, let me tell you the story.

I pass the effect of my father and mother;

The milliner’s daughter made me trouble

And out I went in the world,

Where I passed through every peril known

Of wine and women and joy of life.

One night, in a room in the Rue de Rivoli,

I was drinking wine with a black-eyed cocotte,

And the tears swam into my eyes.

She thought they were amorous tears and smiled

For thought of her conquest over me.

But my soul was three thousand miles away,

In the days when you taught me in Spoon River.

And just because you no more could love me,

Nor pray for me, nor write me letters,

The eternal silence of you spoke instead.

And the Black-eyed cocotte took the tears for hers,

As well as the deceiving kisses I gave her.

Somehow, from that hour, I had a new vision

Dear Emily Sparks!


Trainor, the Druggist

ONLY the chemist can tell, and not always the chemist,

What will result from compounding

Fluids or solids.

And who can tell

How men and women will interact

On each other, or what children will result?

There were Benjamin Pantier and his wife,

Good in themselves, but evil toward each other;

He oxygen, she hydrogen,

Their son, a devastating fire.

I Trainor, the druggist, a miser of chemicals,

Killed while making an experiment,

Lived unwedded.


Emily Sparks

WHERE is my boy, my boy

In what far part of the world?

The boy I loved best of all in the school?—

I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,

Who made them all my children.

Did I know my boy aright,

Thinking of him as a spirit aflame,

Active, ever aspiring?

Oh, boy, boy, for whom I prayed and prayed

In many a watchful hour at night,

Do you remember the letter I wrote you



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