The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume I

  WALBECK: Bernice: when she comes, give her her choice. I’ll go upstairs.

  BERNICE: Young people can’t make choices. They don’t know what they’re choosing.

  WALBECK (With increasing almost choked urgency): Then tell her . . . she and I’ll go away together. Somewhere. We’ll start a new life.

  (Bernice is silent a moment. Then her mood changes. For the first time she brings a long deep gaze toward him.)

  BERNICE: No! —These are just fancies. We’re a stone around their necks now! If we were with them we’d be a bigger stone. Sometimes I think death come into the world so we wouldn’t be a stone around young people’s necks. Besides you and I—we’re alone. We did what we did because we were that kind of person—the kind that chooses to think they’re smarter and better than other people . . . And people that think that way end up alone. We’re not company for anybody.

  (Pause. Walbeck’s mood also changes.)

  WALBECK (His mind made up): Then tell her that the doctors told me that I had only a few months to live . . . that I’ve gone off so as not to be a weight on anybody . . . on her, for instance. (He pulls the envelope from his pocket) If she’s not followed her mother to California, she’ll be needing some money. Give her this envelope. (His tormented urgency returns) And tell her . . . Tell her . . .

  BERNICE (Somberly but largely): I knows what else to tell her, Mr. Walbeck. You go upstairs and hide youself. You’s almost dead. You’s dyin’.

  (Walbeck goes out. Bernice sits in a chair facing the audience, waiting, her eyes on the distance.)

  END OF PLAY

  THREE

  The Wreck on the Five-Twenty-Five

  (Sloth)

  CHARACTERS

  MRS. HAWKINS, forty

  MINNIE, her daughter, almost sixteen

  MR. FORBES, a neighbor

  MR. HERBERT HAWKINS, Mrs. Hawkins’s husband

  SETTING

  Today. The Hawkins home.

  Six o’clock in the evening. Mrs. Hawkins, forty, and her daughter Minnie, almost sixteen, are sewing and knitting. At the back is a door into the hall and beside it a table on which is a telephone.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Irish stew doesn’t seem right for Sunday dinner, somehow. (Pause) And your father doesn’t really like roast or veal. (Pause) Thank Heaven, he’s not crazy about steak.

  (Another pause while she takes some pins from her mouth.)

  I must say it’s downright strange—his not being here. He hasn’t telephoned for years, like that—that he’d take a later train.

  MINNIE: Did he say what was keeping him?

  MRS. HAWKINS: No . . . something at the office, I suppose. (She changes pins again) He never really did like chicken, either.

  MINNIE: He ate pork last week without saying anything. You might try pork chops, Mama; I don’t really mind them.

  MRS. HAWKINS: He doesn’t ever say anything. He eats what’s there.—Oh, Minnie, men never realize that there’s only a limited number of things to eat.

  MINNIE: What did he say on the telephone exactly?

  MRS. HAWKINS: “I’ll try to catch the six-thirty.”

  (Both look at their wristwatches.)

  MINNIE: But, Mama, Papa’s not cranky about what he eats. He’s always saying what a good cook you are.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Men!

  (She has put down her sewing and is gazing before her.)

  They think they want a lot of change—variety and change, variety and change. But they don’t really. Deep down, they don’t.

  MINNIE: Don’t what?

  MRS. HAWKINS: You know for a while he read all those Wild Western magazines: cowboys and horses and silly Indians . . . two or three a week. Then, suddenly, he stopped all that. It’s as though he thought he were in a kind of jail or prison. —Keep an eye on that window, Minnie. He may be coming down the street any minute.

  (Minnie rises and, turning, peers through a window, back right.)

  MINNIE: No.—There’s Mr. Wilkerson, though. He came back on the five-twenty-five, anyway. Sometimes Papa stops at the tobacco shop and comes down Spruce Street.

  (She moves to the left and looks through another window.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: Do you feel as though you were in a jail, Minnie?

  MINNIE: What?!

  MRS. HAWKINS: As though life were a jail?

  MINNIE (Returning to her chair): No, of course not.—Mama, you’re talking awfully funny tonight.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I’m not myself. (Laughs lightly) I guess I’m not myself because of your father’s phone call—his taking a later train, like that, for the first time in so many years.

  MINNIE (With a little giggle): I don’t know what the five-twenty-five will have done without him.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Not sharply): And all those hoodlums he plays cards with every afternoon.

  MINNIE: And all the jokes they make.

  (Mrs. Hawkins has been looking straight before her—through a window—over the audience’s heads, intently.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: There’s Mrs. Cochran cooking her dinner.

  (They both gaze absorbedly at Mrs. Cochran a moment.)

  Well, I’m not going to start dinner until your father puts foot in this house.

  MINNIE (Still gazing through the window; slowly): There’s Mr. Cochran at the door . . . They’re arguing about something.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Well, that shows that he got in on the five-twenty-five, all right.

  MINNIE: Don’t people look foolish when you see them, like that—and you can’t hear what they’re saying? Like ants or something. Somehow, you feel it’s not right to look at them when they don’t know it.

  (They return to their work.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: Yes, those men on the train will have missed those awful jokes your father makes. (Minnie giggles) I declare, Minnie, every year your father makes worse jokes. It’s growing on him.

  MINNIE: I don’t think they’re awful, but, I don’t understand all of them. Do you? Like what he said to the minister Sunday. I was so embarrassed I didn’t want to tell you.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I don’t want to hear it—not tonight.

  (Her gaze returns to the window) I can’t understand why Mrs. Cochran is acting so strangely. And Mr. Cochran has been coming in and out of the kitchen.

  MINNIE: And they seem to keep looking at us all the time.

  (After a moment’s gazing, they return to their work.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: Well, you might as well tell me what your father said to the minister.

  MINNIE: I . . . I don’t want to tell you, if it makes you nervous.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I’ve lived with his jokes for twenty years. I guess I can stand one more.

  MINNIE: Mr. Brown had preached a sermon about the atom bomb . . . and about how terrible it would be . . . and at the church door Papa said to him: “Fine sermon, Joe. I enjoyed it. But have you ever thought of this, Joe”—he said—“suppose the atom bomb didn’t fall, what would we do then? Have you ever thought of that?” Mr. Brown looked terribly put out.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Puts down her sewing): He said that!! I declare, he’s getting worse. I don’t know where he gets such ideas. People will be beginning to think he’s bitter. Your father isn’t bitter. I know he’s not bitter.

  MINNIE: No, Mama. People like it. People stop me on the street and tell me what a wonderful sense of humor he has. Like . . . like . . . (She gives up the attempt and says merely) Oh, nothing.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Go on. Say what you were going to say.

  MINNIE: What did he mean by saying: “There we sit for twenty years playing cards on the five-twenty-five, hoping that something big and terrible and wonderful will happen—like a wreck, for instance?”

  MRS. HAWKINS (More distress than indignation): I say to you seriously, Minnie, it’s just self-indulgence. We do everything we know how to make him happy. He loves his home, you know he does. He likes his work—he’s proud of what he does at the office.

  (She rises and looks down the street through the window at the b
ack. Moved) Oh, it’s not us he’s impatient at: it’s the whole world. He simply wishes the whole world were different—that’s the trouble with him.

  MINNIE: Why, Mama, Papa doesn’t complain about anything.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Well, I wish he would complain once in a while.

  (She returns to her chair) For Sunday I’ll see if I can’t get an extra good bit of veal.

  (They sit in silence a moment. The telephone rings.)

  Answer that, will you, dear?—No, I’ll answer it.

  (Minnie returns to her work. Mrs. Hawkins has a special voice for answering the telephone, slow and measured.)

  This is Mrs. Hawkins speaking. Oh, yes, Mr. Cochran. What’s that? I don’t hear you.

  (A shade of anxiety) Are you sure? You must be mistaken.

  MINNIE: Mama, what is it? (Mrs. Hawkins listens in silence) Mama! Mama!! —What’s he saying? Is it about Papa?

  MRS. HAWKINS: Will you hold the line one minute, Mr. Cochran? I wish to speak to my daughter. (She puts her hand over the mouthpiece) No, Minnie. It’s not about your father at all.

  MINNIE (Rising): Then what is it?

  MRS. HAWKINS (In a low, distinct and firm voice): Now you do what I tell you. Sit down and go on knitting. Don’t look up at me and don’t show any surprise.

  MINNIE (A groan of protest): Mama!

  MRS. HAWKINS: There’s nothing to be alarmed about—but I want you to obey me.

  (She speaks into the telephone) Yes, Mr. Cochran . . . No . . . Mr. Hawkins telephoned that he was taking a later train tonight. I’m expecting him on the six-thirty.

  You do what you think best.

  I’m not sure that’s necessary but . . . you do what you think best.

  We’ll be right here.

  (She hangs up and stands thinking a moment)

  MINNIE: Mama, I’m almost sixteen. Tell me what it’s about.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Returns to her chair; bending over her work, she speaks as guardedly as possible): Minnie, there’s probably nothing to be alarmed about. Don’t show any surprise at what I’m about to say to you. Mr. Cochran says that there’s been somebody out on the lawn watching us—for ten minutes or more. A man. He’s been standing in the shadow of the garage, just looking at us.

  MINNIE (Lowered head): Is that all!

  MRS. HAWKINS: Well, Mr. Cochran doesn’t like it. He’s . . . he says he’s going to telephone the police.

  MINNIE: The police!!

  MRS. HAWKINS: Your father’ll be home any minute, anyway. (Slight pause) I guess it’s just some . . . some moody person on an evening walk. Maybe Mr. Cochran’s done right to call the police, though. He says that we shouldn’t pull the curtains or anything like that—but just act as though nothing has happened. —Now, I don’t want you to get frightened.

  MINNIE: I’m not, Mama. I’m just . . . interested. Most nights nothing happens.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Sharply): I should hope not!

  (Slight pause.)

  MINNIE: Mama, all evening I did have the feeling that I was being watched . . . and that man was being watched by Mrs. Cochran; and (Slight giggle) Mrs. Cochran was being watched by us.

  MRS. HAWKINS: We’ll know what it’s all about in a few minutes.

  (Silence.)

  MINNIE: But Mama, what would the man be looking at? —Just us two sewing.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I think you’d better go in the kitchen. Go slowly—and don’t look out the window.

  MINNIE (Without raising her head): No! I’m going to stay right here. But I’d like to know why a man would do that—would just stand and look. Is he . . . a crazy man?

  MRS. HAWKINS: No, I don’t think so.

  MINNIE: Well, say something about him.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Minnie, the world is full of people who think that everybody’s happy except themselves. They think their lives should be more exciting.

  MINNIE: Does that man think that our lives are exciting, Mama?

  MRS. HAWKINS: Our lives are just as exciting as they ought to be, Minnie.

  MINNIE (With a little giggle): Well, they are tonight.

  MRS. HAWKINS: They are all the time; and don’t you forget it.

  (The front door bell rings.)

  Now, who can that be at the front door? I’ll go, Minnie.

  (Weighing the dangers) No, you go. —No, I’ll go.

  (She goes into the hall. The jovial voice of Mr. Forbes is heard.)

  MR. FORBES’S VOICE: Good evening, Mrs. Hawkins. Is Herb home?

  MRS. HAWKINS’S VOICE: No, he hasn’t come home yet, Mr. Forbes. He telephoned that he’d take a later train.

  (Enter Mr. Forbes, followed by Mrs. Hawkins.)

  MR. FORBES: Yes, I know. The old five-twenty-five wasn’t the same without him. Darn near went off the rails.

  (To Minnie) Good evening, young lady.

  MINNIE (Head bent; tiny voice): Good evening, Mr. Forbes.

  MR. FORBES: Well, I thought I’d drop in and see Herb for a minute. About how maybe he’d be wanting a new car—now that he’s come into all that money.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Come into what money, Mr. Forbes?

  MR. FORBES: Why, sure, he telephoned you about it?

  MRS. HAWKINS: He didn’t say anything about any money.

  MR. FORBES (Laughing loudly): Well, maybe I’ve gone and put my foot in it again. So he didn’t tell you anything about it yet? Haw-haw-haw. (Confidentially) If he’s got to pay taxes on it we figgered out he’d get about eighteen thousand dollars.—Well, you tell him I called, and tell him that I’ll give him nine hundred dollars on that Chevrolet of his—maybe a little more after I’ve had a look at it.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I’ll tell him.—Mr. Forbes, I’m sorry I can’t ask you to sit down, but my daughter’s had a cold for days now and I wouldn’t want you to take it home to your girls.

  MR. FORBES: I’m sorry to hear that. —Well, as you say, I’d better not carry it with me.

  (He goes to the door, then turns and says confidentially) Do you know what Herb said when he heard that he’d got that money? Haw-haw-haw. I’ve always said Herb Hawkins has more sense of humor than anybody I know. Why, he said, “All window glass is the same.” Haw-haw. “All window glass is the same.” Herb! You can’t beat him.

  MRS. HAWKINS: “All window glass is the same.” What did he mean by that?

  MR. FORBES: You know: that thing he’s always saying. About life. He said it at Rotary in his speech. You know how crazy people look when you see them through a window—arguing and carrying on—and you can’t hear a word they say? He says that’s the way things look to him. Wars and politics . . . and everything in life.

  (Mrs. Hawkins is silent and unamused.)

  Well, I’d better be going. Tell Herb there’s real good glass—unbreakable—on the car I’m going to sell him. Good night, miss; good night, Mrs. Hawkins.

  (He goes out. Mrs. Hawkins does not accompany him to the front door. She stands a moment looking before her. Then she says, from deep thought:)

  MRS. HAWKINS: That’s your father who’s been standing out by the garage.

  MINNIE: Why would he do that?

  MRS. HAWKINS: Looking in. —I should have known it.

  MINNIE (Amazed but not alarmed): Look! All over the lawn!

  MRS. HAWKINS: The police have come. Those are their flashlights.

  MINNIE: All over the place! I can hear them talking . . . (Pause) . . . Papa’s angry . . . Papa’s very angry.

  (They listen.)

  Now they’re driving away.

  MRS. HAWKINS: I should have known it.

  (She returns to her seat. Sound of the front door opening and closing noisily.)

  That’s your father. Don’t mention anything unless he mentions it first.

  (They bend over their work. From the hall sounds of Hawkins singing the first phrase of “Valencia.” Enter Hawkins, a commuter. His manner is of loud, forced geniality)

  HAWKINS: Well—HOW are the ladies?

  (He kisses each lightly on the cheek.) br />
  MRS. HAWKINS: I didn’t start getting dinner until I knew when you’d get here.

  HAWKINS (Largely): Well, don’t start it. I’m taking you two ladies out to dinner. —There’s no hurry, though. We’ll go to Michaelson’s after the crowd’s thinned out.

  (Starting for the hall on his way to the kitchen) Want a drink, anybody?

  MRS. HAWKINS: No. The ice is ready for you on the shelf.

  (He goes out. From the kitchen he can be heard singing “Valencia.” He returns, glass in hand.)

  What kept you, Herbert?

  HAWKINS: Nothing. Nothing. I decided to take another train.

  (He walks back and forth, holding his glass at the level of his face.)

  I decided to take another train. (He leans teasingly a moment over his wife’s shoulder, conspiratorially) I thought maybe things might look different through the windows of another train. You know: all those towns I’ve never been in? Kenniston—Laidlaw—East Laidlaw—Bennsville. Let’s go to Bennsville some day. Damn it, I don’t know why people should go to Paris and Rome and Cairo when they could go to Bennsville. Bennsville! Oh, Bennsville—

  MRS. HAWKINS: Have you been drinking, Herbert?

  HAWKINS: This is the first swallow I’ve had since last night. Oh, Bennsville . . . breathes there a man with soul so dead—

  (Minnie’s eyes have followed her father as he walks about with smiling appreciation.)

  MINNIE: I know a girl who lives in Bennsville.

  HAWKINS: They’re happy there, aren’t they? No, not exactly happy, but they live it up to the full. In Bennsville they kick the hell out of life.

  MINNIE: Her name’s Eloise Brinton.