The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume I

  HAWKINS: Well, Bennsville and East Laidlaw don’t look different through the windows of another train. It’s not by looking through a train window that you can get at the heart of Bennsville.

  (Pause.)

  There all we fellows sit every night on the five-twenty-five playing cards and hoping against hope that there’ll be that wonderful, beautiful—

  MINNIE (Laughing delightedly): Wreck!!

  MRS. HAWKINS: Herbert! I won’t have you talking that way!

  HAWKINS: A wreck, so that we can crawl out of the smoking, burning cars . . . and get into one of those houses. Do you know what you see from the windows of the train? Those people—those cars—that you see on the streets of Bennsville—they’re just dummies. Cardboard. They’ve been put up there to deceive you. What really goes on in Bennsville—inside those houses—that’s what’s interesting. People with six arms and legs. People that can talk like Shakespeare. Children, Minnie, that can beat Einstein. Fabulous things.

  MINNIE: Papa, I don’t mind, but you make Mama nervous when you talk like that.

  HAWKINS: Behind those walls. But it isn’t only behind those walls that strange things go on. Right on that train, right in those cars. The damndest things. Fred Cochran and Phil Forbes—

  MRS. HAWKINS: Mr. Forbes was here to see you.

  HAWKINS: Fred Cochran and Phil Forbes—we’ve played cards together for twenty years. We’re so expert at hiding things from one another—we’re so cram-filled with things we can’t say to one another that only a wreck could crack us open.

  MINNIE (Indicating her mother, reproachfully): Papa!

  MRS. HAWKINS: Herbert Hawkins, why did you stand out in the dark there, looking at us through the window?

  HAWKINS: Well, I’ll tell you . . . I got a lot of money today. But more than that I got a message. A message from beyond the grave. From the dead. There was this old lady—I used to do her income tax for her—old lady. She’d keep me on a while—God, how she wanted someone to talk to . . . I’d say anything that came into my head . . . I want another drink.

  (He goes into the kitchen. Again we hear him singing “Valencia.”)

  MINNIE (Whispering): Eighteen thousand dollars!

  MRS. HAWKINS: We’ve just got to let him talk himself out.

  MINNIE: But Mama, why did he go and stand out on the lawn?

  MRS. HAWKINS: Shh!

  (Hawkins returns.)

  HAWKINS: I told her a lot of things. I told her—

  MINNIE: I know! You told her that everything looked as though it were seen through glass.

  HAWKINS: Yes, I did. (Pause) You don’t hear the words, or if you hear the words, they don’t fit what you see. And one day she said to me: “Mr. Hawkins, you say that all the time: why don’t you do it?” “Do what?” I said. “Really stand outside and look through some windows.”

  (Pause.)

  I knew she meant my own . . . Well, to tell the truth, I was afraid to. I preferred to talk about it.

  (He paces back and forth.)

  She died. Today some lawyer called me up and said she’s left me twenty thousand dollars.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Herbert!

  HAWKINS (His eyes on the distance): “To Herbert Hawkins, in gratitude for many thoughtfulnesses and in appreciation of his sense of humor.” From beyond the grave . . . It was an order. I took the four o’clock home . . . It took me a whole hour to get up the courage to go and stand (He points) out there.

  MINNIE: But Papa, you didn’t see anything! Just us sewing!

  (Hawkins stares before him, then, changing his mood, says briskly:)

  HAWKINS: What are we going to have for Sunday dinner?

  MINNIE: I know!

  HAWKINS (Pinching her ear): Buffalo steak?

  MINNIE: No.

  HAWKINS: I had to live for a week once on rattlesnake stew.

  MINNIE: Papa, you’re awful.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Putting down her sewing; in an even voice): Were you planning to go away, Herbert?

  HAWKINS: What?

  MRS. HAWKINS: (For the first time, looking at him): You were thinking of going away.

  HAWKINS (Looks into his glass a moment): Far away.

  (Then again putting his face over her shoulder teasingly, but in a serious voice) There is no “away.” . . . There’s only “here.” —Get your hats; we’re going out to dinner. —I’ve decided to move to “here.” To take up residence, as they say. I’ll move in tonight. I don’t bring much baggage. —Get your hats.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Rising): Herbert, we don’t wear hats any more. That was in your mother’s time. —Minnie, run upstairs and get my blue shawl.

  HAWKINS: I’ll go and get one more drop out in the kitchen.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Herbert, I don’t like your old lady.

  HAWKINS (Turning at the door in surprise): Why, what’s the matter with her?

  MRS. HAWKINS: I can understand that she was in need of someone to talk to. —What business had she trying to make you look at Minnie and me through windows? As though we were strangers.

  (She crosses and puts her sewing on the telephone table.)

  People who’ve known one another as long as you and I have are not supposed to see one another. The pictures we have of one another are inside. —Herbert, last year one day I went to the city to have lunch with your sister. And as I was walking along the street, who do you think I saw coming toward me? From quite a ways off? You! My heart stopped beating and I prayed—I prayed that you wouldn’t see me. And you passed by without seeing me. I didn’t want you to see me in those silly clothes we wear when we go to the city—and in that silly hat—with that silly look we put on our face when we’re in public places. The person that other people see.

  HAWKINS (With lowered eyes): You saw me—with that silly look.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Oh, no. I didn’t look long enough for that. I was too busy hiding myself.—I don’t know why Minnie’s so long trying to find my shawl.

  (She goes out. The telephone rings.)

  HAWKINS: Yes, this is Herbert Hawkins.—Nat Fischer? Oh, hello, Nat . . . Oh! . . . All right. Sure, I see your point of view . . . Eleven o’clock. Yes, I’ll be there. Eleven o’clock.

  (He hangs up. Mrs. Hawkins returns wearing a shawl.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: Was that call for me?

  HAWKINS: No. It was for me all right. —I might as well tell you now what it was about.

  (He stares at the floor.)

  MRS. HAWKINS: Well?

  HAWKINS: A few minutes ago the police tried to arrest me for standing on my own lawn. Well, I got them over that. But they found a revolver on me—without a license. So I’ve got to show up at court tomorrow, eleven o’clock.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Short pause; thoughtfully): Oh . . . a revolver.

  HAWKINS (Looking at the floor): Yes . . . I thought that maybe it was best . . . that I go away . . . a long way.

  MRS. HAWKINS (Looking up with the beginning of a smile): To Bennsville?

  HAWKINS: Yes.

  MRS. HAWKINS: Where life’s so exciting.

  (Suddenly briskly) Well, you get the license for that revolver, Herbert, so that you can prevent people looking in at us through the window, when they have no business to. —Turn out the lights when you come.

  END OF PLAY

  FOUR

  A Ringing of Doorbells

  (Envy)

  CHARACTERS

  MRS. BEATTIE, sixty-five, crippled with arthritis

  MRS. MCCULLUM, her housekeeper

  MRS. KINKAID, a caller, forty-five

  DAPHNE, Mrs. Kinkaid’s daughter, eighteen

  SETTING

  The front room of Mrs. Beattie’s small house in Mount Hope, Florida, circa 1939.

  Mrs. Beattie, sixty-five, crippled with arthritis, ill, of a bad color, but proud, stoical and every inch the “General’s Widow,” wheels herself carefully into the room in her invalid’s chair. She comes to a halt beside her worktable and starts to spread out the material for her knitting. A ball of yarn fal
ls to the ground. She eyes it resentfully. Presently, and with great precautions, she gets out of her chair, stoops over and retrieves the wool. She has just regained her seat in the chair when Mrs. McCullum, her housekeeper, can be heard offstage.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie, Mrs. Beattie! (She puts her head in the door) I have the most extraordinary thing to tell you. I mean it’s perfectly terrible. I’ll put the groceries in the kitchen. (She enters from the back, her hands full of parcels and herself breathless with excitement) —And they’ll be here any minute! (She comes to the front of the stage and peers through a window toward the right) They’ll be coming down that street in a minute.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Now, do catch your breath, Mrs. McCullum, and tell me calmly what you have to say.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: I recognized them at once—both the mother and daughter. You won’t believe what I have to tell you.

  MRS. BEATTIE (Calmly): I think you’d better sit down.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: But they’ll be here any minute.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Who’ll be here?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: These dreadful people . . . I know you won’t want to see them. I’ll just send them away.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Did you get my medicine?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Yes, I did. —Here’s the bottle. And here’s the change. —There I was sitting in Mr. Goheny’s drugstore—and they came in.—The medicine was two-forty; you gave me a ten-dollar bill. Here’s . . . seven . . . sixty . . . The mother asked Mr. Goheny where Willow Street was . . . and asked him if Mrs. Beattie was in town!! And she asked him if Mrs. Brigham lived in Mount Hope, too. —You see, that’s what she does; she goes to people’s houses. —People that have been in the army. High up in the army.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Did you cash my check?

  MRS. MCCULLUM (Fumbles in her handbag; brings out an envelope, which she gives to Mrs. Beattie): Yes, I did. Here it is. Mr. Spottswood sends his regards and hopes that you are feeling better. —Oh, Mrs. Beattie, they’re just common adventuresses. Don’t see them.

  MRS. BEATTIE (She verifies the contents of the envelope; then says with decision): Mrs. McCullum, I don’t like fluster. Now, you go over there and sit by the piano; and you don’t say a word until I’ve counted to five. —Then you tell me what this is all about—starting from the beginning.

  (Mrs. McCullum goes to the front of the stage and sits by an—invisible—piano, containing herself. Mrs. Beattie, calmly adjusting her knitting and starting a row, slowly counts to five.)

  One . . . two . . . breathe tranquilly, Mrs. McCullum . . . three . . . four . . . Where did you first see or know about this mother and daughter?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: I do want to apologize, Mrs. Beattie, for being so excited, but (Again peering through the window) I wanted you—

  MRS. BEATTIE: Yes, Mrs. McCullum. You first met them—?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: When I was working for Mrs. Ferguson in Winter Park two years ago, they came to the door. She said that her husband had been in the army under General Ferguson . . . in Panama . . . no, in Hawaii . . . and what good friends they’d been. They don’t beg. I mean they don’t seem to beg. She says that the daughter has a beautiful voice and that she hasn’t the money to train this girl’s beautiful voice. And the girl gets up to sing and she faints.

  MRS. BEATTIE: What?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie, the girl gets up as though she’s about to sing, but she doesn’t sing. She crumples up and falls on the floor. And the mother tells a whole story about how they’re starving, and Mrs. Ferguson gave her two hundred dollars. But that’s not all. The next day Mrs. Ogilvie called Mrs. Ferguson on the telephone and said that these two adventuresses had called at her house and the girl had fainted and she gave them one hundred dollars.

  MRS. BEATTIE (Knitting impassively): Thank you. Did Mrs. Ferguson and Mrs. Ogilvie remember the names of these people?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: No . . . but this mother seemed to know all about General Ferguson and General Ogilvie . . . They go everywhere and get money.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Now be quiet and let me think a minute!

  (Pause.)

  Do you remember their name?

  MRS. MCCULLUM (Peering out the window): No, I’m sorry I don’t. But Mrs. Ferguson looked it up in the army register and it was there.

  MRS. BEATTIE: How old is the girl?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Well, that’s the funny part about it. I think she must be all of eighteen, now, but her mother dresses her up as though she were much younger—so that she’ll be more pathetic when she faints.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Does the mother look like a lady?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Yes . . . pretty much.

  MRS. BEATTIE (Her eyes on Mrs. McCullum with a sort of sardonic brooding): Think of how full their lives must be! —Full . . . occupied!

  MRS. MCCULLUM (With a start): What? What’s that you said, Mrs. Beattie? Occupied!—But what they’re doing is immoral.

  MRS. BEATTIE: I’d exchange places with them like that!

  MRS. MCCULLUM: You’re in one of those moods when I don’t begin to understand a word you say! Anyway, you’re not going to see them, are you?

  MRS. BEATTIE (Calmly): Of course, I’m going to see them. —Mrs. McCullum, will you kindly get the hot water bottle for my knees?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: I’ll do that right now. But they’ll be here in a minute. Won’t you let me wheel you into your bedroom and bring you the bottle there?

  MRS. BEATTIE: In the first place, I don’t like to be wheeled anywhere. And whether they come at once or later, I’d like the hot water bottle now.

  MRS. MCCULLUM (Starting): Yes, Mrs. Beattie.

  MRS. BEATTIE: One minute: tell me about the girl. She has lots of spirit. —Is this daughter pretty?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Yes. —Yes, she is . . . and that reminds me: will you excuse, Mrs. Beattie, if I make a suggestion?

  MRS. BEATTIE: Yes, indeed, what is it?

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Excuse me . . . but I think I should prepare you. The daughter—it struck me at once—resembles, very much resembles, that . . . dear photograph on the piano. I mean I couldn’t help noticing it. Will you let me take the photograph into your bedroom?

  MRS. BEATTIE (Impassive, only her eyes concentrated): I see no need to change anything in this room, Mrs. McCullum.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: I’ll get the hot water bottle.

  (She goes out. Again Mrs. Beattie painfully descends from the chair. She moves to the piano and gazes long at the photograph. Then she moves farther forward on the stage and turns her head down the street. She sees the couple. She stares at them fixedly and somberly. Mrs. McCullum enters with a hot water bottle.)

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie! You’re up!

  (Mrs. Beattie indicates with a gesture the couple up the street. Mrs. McCullum rushes to her side.)

  Yes! That’s they. She has that sort of list in her hand she studies all the time.—Oh, let me send them away. They’re just swindlers—common swindlers.

  MRS. BEATTIE: Look!—She’s studying her notes. —Yes, the girl—there is a resemblance . . . Isn’t it strange . . . (Broodingly, with a touch of bitterness) Young . . . and beautiful . . . occupied . . .

  MRS. MCCULLUM: And wicked!

  MRS. BEATTIE (Dismissing this): Oh! . . . Alive . . . (Starting to hobble off) Alive and together . . . Bring them in here. Be very polite to them. Tell them I’m lying down. We’ll make them wait a bit . . . If they don’t have calling cards, get their names very carefully and bring them in to me . . . I’m going to receive them without my wheelchair.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie!

  MRS. BEATTIE: And while they’re waiting for me I’m going to ask you to bring some tea in to them.

  MRS. MCCULLUM (Looking out the window): Oh! They’re almost here!

  MRS. BEATTIE: Alive and together—that’s the point.

  (She goes out.)

  MRS. MCCULLUM (Picking up her parcels and pushing the empty chair): Why, Mrs. Beattie, you’re better every day. You know you are. [(She is out)]

 
(The doorbell rings.)

  (Offstage) Mrs. Beattie? Yes. Will you come in, please? Who shall I say is calling?

  (Enter Mrs. Kinkaid and Daphne. Mrs. Kinkaid is about forty-five, simply and tastefully dressed. She was once very pretty, but is now pinched, tense and unhappy. Daphne is eighteen, dressed for sixteen; she is cool, arrogant and sullen. Mrs. Kinkaid selects a calling card from her handbag.)

  MRS. KINKAID (Giving the card, without effusiveness): Will you say Mrs. Kinkaid, the widow of Major George Kinkaid, a friend of General Beattie! And our daughter Daphne.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Kin . . . kaid. Will you sit down, please. Mrs. Beattie is resting. I’ll ask if she can see you.

  MRS. KINKAID: Thank you.

  MRS. MCCULLUM: There are some magazines here, if you wish to look at them.

  MRS. KINKAID: Thank you.

  (Mrs. McCullum goes out. The visitors sit very straight, scarcely turning their heads. Their eyes begin to appraise the room. When they speak, they move their lips as little as possible.)

  DAPHNE (After a considerable pause, contemptuously): Just junk.

  MRS. KINKAID: The cabinet’s very good.

  (They both gaze at it appraisingly.)

  When you fall, fall that side.

  DAPHNE: We won’t get fifty dollars.

  MRS. KINKAID: And do that sigh—that sort of groan you did in Orlando. You’ve been forgetting to do that lately. Daphne! You’ve forgotten to take your wristwatch off. Really, you’re getting awfully careless lately.

  (Daphne removes her wristwatch and puts it in her handbag. She rises stealthily and goes tiptoe to the back and listens. Mrs. Kinkaid has taken a piece of notepaper from her handbag, but watches Daphne’s movements anxiously. As Daphne continues to listen, Mrs. Kinkaid applies herself to the notes in her hand, murmuring the words as though for memorization.)

  Manila, 1912 to 1913 with General Beattie and General Holabird . . . 1907 to 1911 . . . Do you remember Mrs. Holabird in West Palm Beach . . . The Presidio, 1910 . . . Oh, dear . . .

  DAPHNE (Returning to her chair, cool): Something’s going to go wrong today.

  MRS. KINKAID (Deeply alarmed): What do you mean, Daphne?

  DAPHNE: I can always tell.