The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume I

  (Silence)

  (Then broodingly to herself) The king will look for me. “Where is my queen?” I’ll hide where he can’t find me. —And I had something to tell him.

  (Clara enters swiftly with water and a cloth. She kneels before Mona.)

  CLARA: Hold your face up, Mona Lucrezia.

  MONA: Don’t touch me! You are a holy woman. I will do it myself. Or let that log do it—that worthless John.

  (As though overcoming a powerful repulsion, Francis applies the wet cloth to Mona’s forehead.)

  MONA (Striking him): That hurts.

  FRANCIS: Yes, it will hurt for a minute. Sit quiet. Sit quiet.

  MONA (With a sob, but submitting): That hurts.

  (At a signal from Francis, Clara leaves.)

  FRANCIS: There, that’s better. Now your hands . . .

  MONA (With closed eyes): They wash the dead. They washed us when we were born.

  (Silence.)

  FRANCIS: Now your face again.

  MONA: No! Don’t touch me again. I don’t like to be touched. (She takes the cloth)

  (Grumbling as though to herself) On an important day like this! . . . And you one of those great good-for-nothing monks, filling your big belly with meals at other people’s tables. (Directly at him, fiercely) God must weep!

  FRANCIS: Yes.

  MONA: Francis the Frenchman became a monk. I knew him. I never said to him what I should have said. It was clear in my mind, like writing on the wall; but I never said it. Whatever Francis the Frenchman wanted to do, oh, he did it. His will was like . . . ! It was that that made us break our vows. I had never deceived my husband. I told him I was afraid of God. What do you suppose he said? I told him I was afraid of losing God’s love.

  (She stares at him.)

  He said: all love is one!

  FRANCIS: No-o!

  MONA: He said that he would make me the lady of his life and that he would do anything that I ordered him to do . . . I should have ordered him to do . . . that though that was like writing on the wall. Even then, though I was a girl, I knew that the world was a valley without rain . . . a city without food. I knew . . . I felt . . . he could . . . (She becomes confused)

  FRANCIS (Low): What would you have said, Lucrezia?

  MONA (Rising): I shall be your lady. And I command you: OWN NOTHING. No one will listen to you, if you have a roof over your head. No one will listen to you if you know where you will eat tomorrow. It is fear that has driven love out of the world and only a man without fear can bring it back.

  (She glares at him a moment, then sinks back on the bench.)

  But I never said it!

  FRANCIS: Lucrezia, do you know me? I am Francis.

  MONA (Without interest): No, you are some other Francis. I am going now.

  FRANCIS (Calling): Pica! Pica!

  MONA (Starting to the town): I’m tired . . . but I’m afraid of the butcher’s dog . . . and the mayor’s—

  FRANCIS: Pica!

  (Pica rushes in.)

  I am taking Mona Lucrezia to her home. (He indicates with his eyes) I will need you to show me the way.

  PICA: Father Francis, the sisters are ready to sit down at the table. You will break their hearts.

  MONA (Starting): I had a stick. The boys are always taking away my stick.

  (Stopping.)

  Someone was coming to town today . . .

  PICA (Spitefully): Yes! Father Francis himself. And you’ve spoiled everything!

  FRANCIS (To Pica): Hsh! —I cannot see the path. Give me your hand.

  MONA (Turning): Those dogs—the butcher’s Rufus. Brother John, haven’t you got a stick?

  PICA (Giggling): She doesn’t even know that dogs don’t bite Father Francis!

  MONA (Stopping and peering at Francis): Haven’t you got a stick?

  FRANCIS: No, Mona Lucrezia. I have nothing.

  (They go out.)

  END OF PLAY

  SEVEN

  Cement Hands

  (Avarice)

  CHARACTERS

  EDWARD BLAKE, a lawyer, fifty

  PAUL, a waiter, fifty-five

  DIANA COLVIN, Blake’s niece, twenty-one

  ROGER OSTERMAN, Diana’s fiancé, twenty-seven

  SETTING

  Corner in the public rooms of a distinguished New York hotel.

  A screen has been placed at the back (that is, at the actors’ entrance) to shut this corner off from the hotel guests. A table in the center of the stage with a large RESERVED sign on it. Various chairs. At the end of the stage farthest from the entrance is a low bench; above it we are to assume some large windows looking onto Fifth Avenue.

  Enter Edward Blake, a lawyer, fifty. He is followed by Paul, a waiter, fifty-five.

  BLAKE (Rubbing his hands): Paul, we have work to do.

  PAUL: Yes, Mr. Blake.

  BLAKE: There will be three for tea. I arranged with Mr. Gruber that this corner would be screened off for us; and I specially asked that you would wait on us. As I say, we have some work to do. (Smilingly giving him an envelope) There’s a hundred dollars, Paul, for whatever strain you may be put to.

  PAUL: Thank you, sir. —Did you say “strain,” Mr. Blake?

  BLAKE: I’m going to ask you to do some rather strange things. Are you a good actor, Paul?

  PAUL: Well—I often tell the young waiters that our work is pretty much an actor’s job.

  BLAKE: I’m sure you’re a very good one. Now the guests today are my niece, Diana Colvin. —You know Miss Colvin, don’t you?

  PAUL (With pleasure): Oh, yes, Mr. Blake. Everyone knows Miss Colvin.

  BLAKE: And her fiancé—that’s a secret still—Mr. Osterman?

  PAUL: Which Mr. Osterman, sir?

  BLAKE: Roger—Roger Osterman. You know him?

  PAUL: Oh, yes, sir.

  BLAKE: Now it’s not clear which of us is host. But it’s clear to me which of us is host. Roger Osterman has invited us to tea. He will pay the bill.

  PAUL: Yes, sir.

  BLAKE: There may be some difficulty about it—some distress; some squirming; some maneuvering—protesting. But he will pay the bill.

  (A slight pause while he looks hard and quizzically at Paul, who returns his gaze with knowing raised eyebrows.)

  Now at about 5:20 you’re going to bring Mr. Osterman a registered letter. The messenger will be waiting in the hall for Mr. Osterman’s signature. Roger Osterman will ask to borrow half a dollar of me. I won’t have half a dollar. He will then turn and ask to borrow half a dollar of you. And you won’t hear him.

  PAUL: I beg your pardon, sir?

  BLAKE: He’ll ask to borrow half a dollar of you, but you won’t hear him. You’ll be sneezing or something. Your face will be buried in your handkerchief. Have you a cold, Paul?

  PAUL: No, sir. We’re not allowed to serve when we have colds.

  BLAKE: Well, you’re growing deaf. It’s too bad. But . . . you . . . won’t . . . hear him.

  PAUL (Worriedly): Yes, sir.

  BLAKE: You’ll say (Raising his voice) “Yes, Mr. Osterman, I’ll get some hot tea, at once.” This appeal to you for money may happen several times.

  PAUL (Abashed): Very well, Mr. Blake, if you wish it.

  BLAKE: Now, Paul, I’m telling you why I’m doing this. You’re an intelligent man and an old friend. My niece is going to marry Roger Osterman. I’m delighted that my niece is going to marry him. He’s a very nice fellow—and what else is there about him, Paul?

  PAUL: Why, sir—it is understood that he is very rich.

  BLAKE: Exactly. But the Ostermans are not only fine people and very rich people—they have oddities about them, too, haven’t they?—A certain oddity?

  (Blake slowly executes the following pantomime: he puts his hands into his trouser pockets and brings them out, open, empty and “frozen.”)

  PAUL (Reluctantly): I know what you mean, sir.

  BLAKE: Have you a daughter, Paul, or a niece?

  PAUL: Yes, sir. I have two daughter
s and three nieces.

  BLAKE: Then you know: we older men have a responsibility to these girls. I have to show my niece what her fiancé is like. I have to show her this odd thing—this one little unfortunate thing about the Ostermans.

  PAUL: I see, Mr. Blake.

  BLAKE: I’m not only her uncle; I’m her guardian; and her lawyer. I’m all she’s got. And I must show her—here she comes now—and for that I need your help.

  (Enter Diana Colvin, twenty-one, in furs. The finest girl in the world.)

  DIANA: Here you are, Uncle Edward. —Good afternoon, Paul.

  PAUL: Good afternoon, Miss Colvin.

  BLAKE: Will you wait for tea, Diana?

  DIANA (Crossing the stage to the bench): Yes.

  (Paul goes out.)

  BLAKE: Aren’t you going to kiss me?

  DIANA: No!! I’m furious at you. I’m so furious I could cry. You’ve humiliated me. I’m so ashamed I don’t know what to do. Uncle Edward, how could you do such a thing?

  BLAKE (Calmly): What, dear?

  DIANA: I’ve just heard that—(She rises and strides about, groping for a handkerchief in her bag)—you’re asking the Osterman family how much allowance Roger will give me when we’re married. And you’re making some sort of difficulty about it. Uncle Edward! The twentieth century! And as though I were some poor little goose-girl he’d discovered in the country. Oh, I could die. I swear to you, I could die.

  BLAKE: (Still calmly): Sit down, Diana.

  (Silence. She walks about, dabs her eyes and finally sits down.)

  Diana, I’m not an idiot. I don’t do things like this by whim and fancy.

  DIANA: Perfectly absurd. Why, all those silly society columnists keep telling their readers every morning that I’m one of the richest girls in the country. Is it true? (He shrugs) I’ll never need a cent of the Ostermans’ money. I’ll never take a cent, not a cent.

  BLAKE: What?

  DIANA: I won’t have to.

  BLAKE: What kind of marriage is that?

  (He rises. She looks at him a little intimidated.)

  Well, you’ll be making an enormous mistake and it will cost you a lot of suffering.

  DIANA: What do you mean?

  BLAKE: Marriage is a wonderful thing, Diana. But it’s relatively new. Twelve, maybe fifteen thousand years old. It brings with it some ancient precivilization elements. Hence, difficult to manage. It’s still trying to understand itself.

  DIANA (Shifting in her seat, groaning): Really, Uncle Edward!

  BLAKE: It hangs on a delicate balance between things of earth and things of heaven.

  DIANA: Oh, Lord, how long?

  BLAKE: Until a hundred years ago a wife had no money of her own. All of it, if she had any, became her husband’s. Think that over a minute. Billions and billions of marriages where the wife had not one cent that she didn’t have to ask for. You see: it’s important to us men, us males, us husbands that we supply material things to our wives. I’m sorry to say it but we like to think that we own you. First we dazzle you with our strength, then we hit you over the head and drag you into our cave. We buy you. We dress you. We feed you. We put jewels on you. We take you to the opera. I warn you now—most seriously—don’t you start thinking that you want to be independent of your husband as a provider. You may be as rich as all hell, Diana, but you’ve got to give Roger the impression every day that you thank him—thank him humbly, that you aren’t in the gutter.

  DIANA (Short pause; curtly): I don’t believe you.

  BLAKE: Especially Roger. (Leaning forward; emphatic whisper) You are marrying into a very strange tribe. (They gaze into one another’s eyes) Roger is the finest young man in the world. I’m very happy that you’re going to marry him. I think that you will long be happy—but you’ll only be happy if you know beforehand exactly what you’re getting into.

  DIANA: What are you talking about?

  (She rises and crosses the stage.)

  I want some tea.

  BLAKE: No, we don’t have tea until he comes. He is giving us tea. Please sit down. What am I talking about? Diana, you’ve been out with Roger to lunch and dinner many times, haven’t you? You’ve gotten in and out of taxis with him. You’ve arrived at railroad stations and had porters carry your bags, haven’t you?

  DIANA: Yes.

  BLAKE: Have you ever noticed anything odd about his behavior in such cases?

  DIANA: What do you mean?

  (He gazes levelly into her eyes. She begins to blush slightly. Silence.)

  BLAKE: Then you have?

  DIANA (Uncandidly): What do you mean?

  BLAKE: Say it!

  (Pause.)

  DIANA (Suddenly): I love him.

  BLAKE: I know. But say what’s on your mind.

  DIANA: It’s a little fault.

  BLAKE: How little?

  DIANA: I can gradually correct him of it.

  BLAKE: That’s what his mother thought when she married his father . . . After you leave a restaurant do you go back and leave a dollar or two for the waiter, when Roger’s not looking? Do you hear taxi drivers shouting indecencies after him as he walks away? Have you seen him waste time and energy to avoid a very small expenditure?

  DIANA (Rising, with her handbag and gloves, as though about to leave): I don’t want to talk about this any more. It’s tiresome; and more than that it’s in bad taste. Who was it but you who taught me never to talk about money, never to mention money. And now we’re talking about money in the grubbiest way of all—about tipping. And you’ve been talking to the Osterman family about an allowance for me. I feel soiled. I’m going for a walk. I’ll come back in twenty minutes.

  BLAKE: Good. That’s the way you should feel. But there’s one more thing you ought to know. Paul will help us.

  (He goes to the entrance at the back, apparently catches Paul’s eye, and returns.)

  DIANA: You’re not going to drag Paul into this?

  BLAKE: Who better?—Now if you sit at ease, it will put him at ease.

  (Enter Paul.)

  PAUL: Were you ready to order tea, Mr. Blake?

  BLAKE: No, we’re waiting for Mr. Osterman. You haven’t seen him, have you?

  PAUL: No, I haven’t.

  BLAKE: Paul, I was talking with Miss Colvin about that little matter you and I were discussing. You gave me permission to ask you a few questions about the professional life in the hotel here.

  PAUL: If I can be of any help, sir.

  BLAKE: The whole staff of waiters is accustomed to a certain lack of . . . generosity on the part of the Osterman family. Is that true?

  PAUL (Deprecatingly): It doesn’t matter, Mr. Blake. We know that they give such large sums to the public in general . . .

  BLAKE: Is this true of any other families?

  PAUL: Well . . . uh . . . there’s the Wilbrahams. (Blake nods) And the Farringtons. That is, Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Conrad Farrington. With Mr. Ludovic Farrington it’s the other way ’round.

  BLAKE: Oh, so every now and then these families produce a regular spendthrift?

  PAUL: Yes, sir.

  BLAKE: I see. Now, have the waiters a sort of nickname for these less generous types?

  PAUL (Reluctantly): Oh . . . the younger waiters . . . I wouldn’t like to repeat it.

  BLAKE: You know how serious I am about this. I wish you would, Paul.

  PAUL: Well . . . they call them “cement hands.”

  DIANA (Appalled): WHAT?

  BLAKE (Clearly): Cement hands. —What you mean is that they can give away thousands and millions but they cannot put their fingers into their pockets for . . . a quarter or a dime? And, Paul, is it true that in many cases the wives of the Ostermans and Wilbrahams and Farringtons return to the table after a dinner or supper and leave a little something—to correct the injustice?

  PAUL: Yes, Mr. Blake. —Mrs . . . . but I won’t mention any names . . . sometimes sends me something in an envelope the next day.

  BLAKE: Yes.

  PAUL: Perhaps
I should tell you a detail. In these last years, the gentlemen merely sign the waiter’s check. And they add a present for the waiters in writing.

  BLAKE: That they can do. Well?

  PAUL: Pretty well. What they cannot do—

  BLAKE:—is to put their hands in their pockets. Thank you. And have you noticed that one of these hosts . . . as the moment approaches to . . . (He puts his hands gropingly in his pockets) . . . he becomes uncomfortable in his chair . . . his forehead gets moist? . . .

  PAUL: Yes, sir.

  BLAKE: He is unable to continue conversation with his friends? Some of them even start to quarrel with you?

  PAUL: I’m sorry to say so.

  BLAKE (Shakes Paul’s hand): Thank you for helping me, Paul.

  PAUL: Thank you, sir.

  (Paul goes out. Diana sits crushed, her eyes on the ground. Then she speaks earnestly:)

  DIANA: Why is it, Uncle Edward? Explain it to me! How can such a wonderful and generous young man be so mean in little things?

  BLAKE: Your future mother-in-law was my wife’s best friend. Katherine Osterman has given her husband four children. She runs two big houses—a staff of twenty at least. Yet every expenditure she makes is on account—it goes through her husband’s office—sign for everything—write checks for everything. You would not believe the extent to which she has no money of her own—in her own hand. Her husband adores her. He can’t be absent from her for a day. He would give her hundreds of thousands in her hands but she must ask for it. He wants that picture: that everything comes from him. Why, she has to go to the most childish subterfuges to get a little cash—she buys dresses and returns them, so as to have a hundred dollars in bills. She doesn’t want to do anything underhand, but she wants to do something personal—small and friendly and personal. She can give a million to blind children, but she can’t give a hundred to her maid’s daughter.

  (Diana, weeping, blows her nose.)

  Now you say you have your own money. Yes, but I want to be sure that you have an allowance from Roger that you don’t have to account to him for. Money to be human with—not as housekeeper or as a beautifully dressed Osterman or as an important philanthropist—but as an imaginative human being; and I want that money to come from your husband. It will puzzle him and bewilder him and distress him. But maybe he will come to understand the principle of the thing.