MRS. KINKAID: No. No . . . How can you tell?
DAPHNE: There’s going to be all hell let loose. Like that time in Sarasota.
MRS. KINKAID (Rising, passionately): Then let’s go. Let’s go at once. If it’s going to be like that, I can’t stand it, I really can’t.
DAPHNE: Sit down! Stop making a fool of yourself.
MRS. KINKAID: This is the last time. I cannot go on with this any longer.
DAPHNE (Harshly): Cork it, will you!
(Mrs. Kinkaid sits down and sobs tonelessly into her handkerchief.)
Of course, we’ve got to take risks. If we didn’t take risks where’d we be? Do you want me to go back selling stockings? . . . I like risks . . . and if there’s going to be trouble, I like it. I like talking back to these old witches . . . Pull yourself together and learn your stuff. (Pause) Do you want to go back to that reception job in that hospital!?!
MRS. KINKAID (Low, but intense): Yes, I do, Daphne. Anything but this.
DAPHNE: Seventy a week! (She again fixes her eyes on the cabinet) Yes, that’s not bad. It could go with the table at Mrs. O’Hallohan’s. And the rugs at the Krantzes.
MRS. KINKAID: West Point, twelve. West Point, twelve. —Daphne, if you do see there may be trouble, give me the signal. You get so furious you forget to give me the signals. —Schofield Barracks. General Wilkins . . . 1909.
DAPHNE: (Eyebrows raised; she means she hears Mrs. McCullum coming): Hickey!
(Enter Mrs. McCullum carrying a tea tray.)
MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie says she’ll be happy to see you. She asked me to bring you some tea while you’re waiting.
MRS. KINKAID: That’s very kind, indeed. Isn’t that kind of Mrs. Beattie, Daphne?
MRS. MCCULLUM: The marmalade’s from our own oranges.
MRS. KINKAID: Imagine that? —I hope Mrs. Beattie is well. Mrs. Farnsborough spoke of her as . . . as convalescent.
MRS. MCCULLUM: Thank you, Mrs. Beattie’s pretty well.
(Silence.)
Now, I think you have everything.
MRS. KINKAID: Indeed, yes. Thank you very much.
(Mrs. McCullum goes out. Mrs. Kinkaid looks at her daughter’s face anxiously.)
DAPHNE (Looking out into space, scarcely moving her lips): Trouble!
MRS. KINKAID (Almost trembling; pouring the tea): The last time!
DAPHNE: Nonsense. Just do what you have to do and get it over.
MRS. KINKAID: You’re very difficult, Daphne. You’re cruel.—Well, there are only six more addresses in Florida . . . and that’s all.
DAPHNE (Blandly): California’s as full of them as blackberries.
MRS. KINKAID: We are not going to California.
(Daphne goes over to take her cup. She kisses her mother.)
DAPHNE: Poor dear mother! (Whispering) You forget so easily: our house . . . our car . . . my wedding . . .
MRS. KINKAID (Clasping her face): Oh, I wish you were married, Daphne, and this were all over.
DAPHNE: Well, find me the man, dear. Do I ever meet any men?
MRS. KINKAID: Charles is such a nice young man.
DAPHNE (Suddenly darkly irritated): Are you crazy? Who’s he? —Go back and study your notes. We’ve got to play our cards well today.
(Mrs. Kinkaid’s eyes have fallen on the photograph on the piano.)
MRS. KINKAID: Daphne! Do you see what I see?
DAPHNE: What?
MRS. KINKAID: That photograph. Dear—
DAPHNE: What?
MRS. KINKAID: . . . The resemblance. It—it looks just like you.
DAPHNE (A casual glance): No, it doesn’t.
MRS. KINKAID: It’s amazing. (Reopening her handbag) I know who it is, too.
(Reading some notes from a reference book) “A daughter: Lydia Westerveldt, born 1912, died 1930.” She’s beautiful. She hasn’t your eyes, dear . . . but the shape and the hair: it’s amazing.
(Daphne rises, stands before the photograph and gazes at it intently.)
DAPHNE: Lydia . . . general’s daughter . . .
“Miss Beattie, may I have the next dance?” . . .
“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant, but I’ve promised the next dance to Colonel Randolph.”
“My daughter’s away at finishing school. I don’t know when she’ll be back. She’s staying with friends all over New England.”
(Turning to her mother, sharply) She has a wedding ring on.
MRS. KINKAID: Do come and sit down, dear.
DAPHNE (To the photograph): Of course, I don’t like her. She had everything she wanted. She didn’t know what it was to know nobody, to have to spend all your time among common vulgar people, to skimp—
MRS. KINKAID: Daphne!
DAPHNE: . . . and she didn’t have to see her own mother insulted (Whirling about to face her mother) like you were by Mrs. Smith.
MRS. KINKAID: Dear, I wasn’t insulted—
DAPHNE (Back at the photograph): And you never knew what it was to be treated just ghastly by men, because you were poor; you didn’t know anything. (She spits at the picture) There! There!
MRS. KINKAID (Has risen; keeping her voice): Daphne, you stop that right now, and drink your tea. Sometimes I don’t know what comes over you . . .
(Daphne returns, grand and somber, to her chair.)
I never taught you to say things like that.
DAPHNE (Airily): I don’t like the way she looks at me.
(Rendered pleasurably light-headed by her outburst) I feel better. I’m glad I talked to her. . . . Mother-mousie, we’re going to be very successful today. I feel it in my bones . . . and tonight we’re going to a movie, and you know which one. (She hears a noise in the hall) Hickey!
(Both compose themselves for the entrance of Mrs. Beattie. Mrs. Beattie enters alone, walking with the greatest difficulty, but putting on a cordial smile.)
MRS. BEATTIE: Mrs. Kinkaid, good afternoon. I am Mrs. Beattie. Don’t get up, please.
MRS. KINKAID (Rising): Good afternoon, Mrs. Beattie. This is my daughter, Daphne.
MRS. BEATTIE (Stopping and looking at her hard): Good afternoon, Miss Kinkaid. Please sit down, both of you.
MRS. KINKAID: We want to thank you . . . for sending the tea. So kind.
MRS. BEATTIE (Sitting down): Mrs. McCullum tells me you knew my husband.
MRS. KINKAID: Mrs. Beattie . . . My husband, Major George Kinkaid, was in the Philippines at the same time as General Beattie. He was a lieutenant at that time—it was 1912 and 1913—and probably had very little opportunity to meet the General, but he knew very well a number of the members of your husband’s staff—General Ferguson—then Colonel Ferguson; and Colonel Fosdick.
(Mrs. Beattie nods.)
I was not there at the time. I was very ill for a number of years and the doctors thought it inadvisable that I should make the trip to the Far East.
MRS. BEATTIE: Were you ever in the Far East?
MRS. KINKAID: No, I wasn’t.
MRS. BEATTIE (To Daphne): And where were you born, Miss Kinkaid?
DAPHNE (Slight pause): In Philadelphia.
MRS. BEATTIE (Turning back to Mrs. Kinkaid): I assume that there is something that you wish to see me about?
MRS. KINKAID (She makes a pause, and clutching her handbag begins to speak with earnest candor): There is, Mrs. Beattie—I am faced with a problem and I have called on you in the hope that you will give me some advice. My daughter, Daphne (Mrs. Beattie turns her eyes on Daphne) is endowed with a most unusual singing voice. Qualified musicians have told me that she has indeed an extraordinary voice. And in addition to that voice, a deeply musical nature. Professor Boncianiani of New York, who is recognized as one of the leading teachers, has predicted a great career for her. Perhaps, if you wish—a little later—I shall ask Daphne to sing for you. My problem is this—where will I find the means to cultivate her voice? So far I have been barely able to afford a certain amount of instruction . . . naturally, in a very modest way.
(She pauses.)
MRS. BEA
TTIE: I see. You draw a pension, of course—
MRS. KINKAID: No, Mrs. Beattie, I do not. (She takes a handkerchief from her handbag) I do not. My husband’s career in the army began most promisingly. I have here letters from his superior officers expressing the highest opinion of his work. But my husband had . . . a weakness. (She touches the handkerchief to her nose) I find this very hard to say . . . he was intemperate . . .
MRS. BEATTIE: I beg your pardon?
MRS. KINKAID: Somehow . . . alone in the Far East . . . he took to drinking. And on one occasion . . . under the influence of alcohol . . . he forgot himself . . . He was, I believe, impertinent to a superior officer . . .
MRS. BEATTIE: To whom?
MRS. KINKAID: To General Foley.
(Pause. Mrs. Kinkaid dries her eyes.)
MRS. BEATTIE: How have you made your living, Mrs. Kinkaid?
MRS. KINKAID: For a while I assisted in a small dress shop in Miami Beach. Then I was a receptionist in a hotel.
MRS. BEATTIE: And now?
MRS. KINKAID: I have not come to you with any problem about our livelihood, Mrs. Beattie. I hope to be able to sustain ourselves; it is Daphne’s career—her God-given voice—that I feel to be my responsibility. —I would like you to hear Daphne sing. She is able to accompany herself.
(She looks inquiringly at Mrs. Beattie who remains silent.)
Daphne, do that French song.
(Daphne has felt Mrs. Beattie’s weighted glance.)
DAPHNE: Mother, I don’t feel like singing. I think we should thank Mrs. Beattie for the tea and go.
MRS. KINKAID: Do make an effort, Daphne. Mrs. Beattie has been so kind.
(Daphne turns and looks at Mrs. Beattie who meets her gaze.)
DAPHNE (Under her breath): Mrs. Beattie has not asked me to sing.
MRS. BEATTIE: I should very much like to hear you sing, Miss Kinkaid.
DAPHNE (Rising): Very well, I will.
MRS. BEATTIE (Distinctly): It will not be necessary to faint.
MRS. KINKAID (Bridling): To faint!?
MRS. BEATTIE: It will not be necessary to faint. I have understood the problem. —Sit down, Miss Kinkaid. (Turning to Mrs. Kinkaid, with decision) How much of what you have told me is true?
MRS. KINKAID (Rising; with indignation): I do not know what you mean. I have never been spoken to in such a way. Come with me, Daphne.
(To Mrs. Beattie) Every word I have said is true.
(Mrs. Beattie remains impassive, her eyes on Daphne, who has not moved from where she stopped on her way to the piano.)
MRS. BEATTIE: I shall not telephone the police unless you force me to.
MRS. KINKAID (About at the door): The police! We have done nothing that concerns the police.
MRS. BEATTIE: They could ask you to give an account of the money you have received. —Have you an unusual voice, Miss Kinkaid?
DAPHNE (Beginning with low contempt): Oh, you can talk. You don’t know what other people’s lives are like. Our lives are just awful. You’ve got everything you want and you’ve always had everything you want. You don’t know what it is for me to see my mother treated just like dirt by people she shouldn’t even have to speak to.
MRS. KINKAID: Daphne! You know I’ve never complained—
DAPHNE: And everybody else has cars . . . and when they eat they eat things fit to eat. You don’t know what it is to see your own mother—
(Mrs. McCullum has come to the door.)
MRS. MCCULLUM: Mrs. Beattie, you remember what the doctor said . . . You’re not to have any excitement. I must ask these ladies to go.
MRS. BEATTIE (Raising her hand): I wish to hear what they have to say.
MRS. KINKAID (Comes forward as if there had been no interruption): Daphne has not expressed our intention correctly. Daphne is a very imaginative child and is given to exaggeration. I have never made any complaint about our lives, as far as I am concerned; but you cannot know what it is, Mrs. Beattie, to bring up a refined and sensitive girl like Daphne . . . without money and without . . . any social situation. The only girls and young men we have any opportunity to meet are coarse, and vulgar . . . often unspeakably vulgar. Daphne’s place is among ladies and gentlemen. I have spent sleepless nights—many sleepless nights—trying to find some way to better our situation.
DAPHNE (Now going to the door): Come, Mother, she doesn’t know what we’re talking about. She was born ignorant . . . and her daughter went from one dance to another dance . . . and her children would have the same thing. And what right did you have to a life like that? None at all. You were born into the right cradle. That’s all you did to earn it.
MRS. BEATTIE: (Firmly but not sharply to Daphne): Have you a remarkable voice?
DAPHNE: No.
MRS. KINKAID: Daphne!
[(Mrs. Beattie and Daphne look at one another. Mrs. Kinkaid and Mrs. McCullum are frozen where they stand. Mrs. Beattie glances at Mrs. Kinkaid and then toward the antique cabinet on which stand the telephone and a writing kit with a pen holder and a checkbook. She moves carefully to the cabinet and pauses as if coming to an important decision.)]
MRS. BEATTIE: [Alive and together . . . that’s the point.]
[(Mrs. Beattie picks up the pen and checkbook and turns back to face Daphne and Mrs. Kinkaid, as the lights fade.)]
END OF PLAY
This play became available through the research and editing of F. J. O’Neil of manuscripts in the Thornton Wilder Collection at Yale University.
In June 1957, Thornton Wilder wrote in his journal that In Shakespeare and the Bible and A Ringing of Doorbells were plays he could “terminate any day, but which will never be finished.”1
The author’s manuscript of A Ringing of Doorbells ended abruptly with this exchange:
MRS. BEATTIE (Firmly but not sharply to Daphne): Have you a remarkable voice?
DAPHNE: No.
MRS. KINKAID: Daphne!
MRS. BEATTIE:
Just how “terminated” is the play? The answer would appear to be: all but Mrs. Beattie’s last line. After dinner one evening at his home in Hamden, Connecticut, Thornton Wilder read aloud to me a nearly complete draft of this play and spoke of his plan to bring the story to a logical, but unconventional, conclusion. Mrs. Beattie, as envious of the Kinkaids as they are of her, wants to help them in spite of their attempt to trick her. A fair solution then to the missing last line seemed to be a reprise of Mrs. Beattie’s earlier line: “Alive and together . . . that’s the point,” as her summing up at the point of decision. The stage directions that I added are consistent with what appears to be Wilder’s intention. Combining the antique cabinet and the telephone, both already established in the text, with a writing kit and checkbook, allows a moment of suspense as Mrs. Beattie moves toward the desk, and then a final tableau as she turns back to face the Kinkaids, checkbook in hand.
F. J. O’Neil
April 1997
1 The Journals of Thornton Wilder 1939–1961, entry 749, page 266, selected and edited by Donald Gallup, Yale University Press, 1985.
FIVE
In Shakespeare and the Bible
(Wrath)
CHARACTERS
MARGET, a maid
JOHN LUBBOCK, a young attorney, twenty-seven, Katy Buckingham’s fiancé
MRS. MOWBREY, Katy Buckingham’s aunt, late fifties
KATY BUCKINGHAM, twenty-one
SETTING
An oversumptuous parlor, New York, 1898.
All we need see are three chairs, a low sofa and a taboret. Two steps descend from the hall at the back into the room. A Swedish maid, Marget, introduces John Lubbock, twenty-seven, self-assured; face and bearing under absolute control.
LUBBOCK: Mrs. Mowbrey wrote me, asking me to call. My name is Lubbock.
MARGET: Yes, sir. Mrs. Mowbrey is expecting you. She will be down in a moment, sir. She says I’m to bring you some port. I’ll go and get it.
(Exit Marget.
Lubbock, hands in his pockets, whistling under his
breath, strolls about examining closely, one by one, the pictures hanging on the wall invisible to us.
Marget returns bearing a small tray on which are two decanters and two goblets. She puts them on the taboret.)
There’s port in this one, sir, and sherry in this. Mrs. Mowbrey says you’re to help yourself.
LUBBOCK: Thank you. (Still examining the pictures) These are relatives and ancestors of Mrs. Mowbrey?
MARGET: Oh, yes. Mrs. Mowbrey comes of a very fine family. I’ve heard her say that that is her father. As you can see, a clergyman.
LUBBOCK (Casually): She lives alone here?
MARGET: Oh, yes. She’s a widow, poor lady. And very much alone. Would you believe it, if I said that no one’s come to the house to call for the whole time I’ve been here, except her lawyer man. And, oh yes, the minister of her church.
LUBBOCK: For several months.
MARGET: Oh, I’ve been here about a year. But today we’re going to have two callers—you, sir, and a young lady that’s coming later. Yes, and I mustn’t forget: when the doorbell rings for the young lady, I’m to take out the decanters before I open the door. Now I mustn’t forget that. And then I’m to bring in the tea. Now, you’ll help yourself, won’t you?
(Marget goes out.
Lubbock, thoughtfully, pours himself a considerable amount of sherry and, sipping it, returns to his examination of the room and the pictures.
Enter Mrs. Mowbrey, late fifties, handsome, florid, powdered. She wears a black satin dress covered with bugles and jet. She addresses Lubbock from the hall before descending into the room.)
MRS. MOWBREY: Mr. Lubbock, I am Mrs. Mowbrey.
LUBBOCK: Good afternoon, ma’am.
MRS. MOWBREY: You don’t know who I am?
LUBBOCK: No, ma’am. I got your letter asking me to call.
MRS. MOWBREY (Coming forward): Won’t you sit down?
(They sit, Mrs. Mowbrey behind the taboret.)
Mr. Lubbock, I had two reasons for asking you to call today. In the first place, I wish to engage a lawyer. I thought we might take a look at one another and see if we could work together. (She pauses. He bows his head slightly and impersonally) I mean a lawyer to handle my affairs in general and to advise me. (Same business) My second reason for asking to see you is that I am your fiancée’s aunt.