The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume I

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: It is not there? Then where is it?

  M. CAHUSAC: We do not know, Your Royal Highness. We are in despair.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Ridicule, M. Cahusac!

  (She stares at him, her hand on her mouth.)

  M. CAHUSAC: It may be in Constantinople. It may be in Vienna. Naturally we shall continue to search for it. We shall continue to search for generations, for centuries, if need be. But I must confess this is a very discouraging blow.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Generations! Centuries! But I am not a young girl, m’su Cahusac. Their letter says over and over again that I am the heir to the throne. (She begins to cry)

  (M. Cahusac discreetly proffers her a glass of water.)

  Thank you.

  M. CAHUSAC (Suddenly changing his tone, with firmness): Madame, you should know that the society suspects the lost document to be in your possession. The society feels sure that the document has been handed down from generation to generation in your family.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: In my possession!

  M. CAHUSAC (Firmly): Madame, are you concealing something from us?

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Why . . . no.

  M. CAHUSAC: Are you playing with us, as a cat plays with a mouse?

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: No, indeed I’m not.

  M. CAHUSAC: Why is that paper not in Madrid, or in Constantinople or in Vienna? Because it is in your house. You live in what was once your father’s house, do you not?

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Yes, I do.

  M. CAHUSAC: Go back to it. Look through every old trunk . . .

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Every old trunk!

  M. CAHUSAC: Examine especially the linings. Look through all the tables and desks. Pry into the joints. You will find perhaps a secret drawer, a secret panel.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: M’su Cahusac!

  M. CAHUSAC: Examine the walls. Examine the boards of the floor. It may be hidden beneath them.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: I will. I’ll go now.

  M. CAHUSAC: Have you any old clothes of your father?

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Yes, I have.

  M. CAHUSAC: It may be sewn into the lining.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: I’ll look.

  M. CAHUSAC: Madame, in what suit of clothes was your father buried?

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: In his best, m’su.

  (She gives a sudden scream under her hand as this thought strikes home. They stare at one another significantly.)

  M. CAHUSAC: Take particular pains to look under all steps. These kinds of documents are frequently found under steps. You will find it. If it is not in Madrid, it is there.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: But if I can’t find it! (She sits down, suddenly spent) No one will ever know that I am the Queen of France. (Pause) I am very much afraid, M’su Cahusac, that I shall never find that document in my four rooms. I know every inch of them. But I shall look. (She draws her hand across her forehead, as though awaking from a dream) It is all very strange. You know, M’su Cahusac, I think there may have been a mistake somewhere. It was so beautiful while it lasted. It made even schoolteaching a pleasure, m’su . . . And my memoirs. I have just written my memoirs up to the moment when your wonderful announcement came to me—the account of my childhood incognito, the little girl in Louisiana who did not guess the great things before her. But before I go, may I ask something of you? Will you have the historical society write me a letter saying that they seriously think I may be . . . the person . . . the person they are looking for? I wish to keep the letter in the trunk with the orb and . . . with the scepter. You know . . . the more I think of it, the more I think there must have been a mistake somewhere.

  M. CAHUSAC: The very letter you have in mind is here, madame. (He gives it to her)

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Thank you. And M’su Cahusac, may I ask another favor of you?

  M. CAHUSAC: Certainly, madame.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Please, never mention this . . . this whole affair to anyone in New Orleans.

  M. CAHUSAC: Madame, not unless you wish it.

  MLLE. POINTEVIN: Good morning—good morning, and thank you. (Her handkerchief to one eye, she goes out)

  (M. Cahusac goes to his desk.

  The bell rings. The reed curtain is parted and a Negro boy pushes in a wheelchair containing a woman of some hundred years of age. She is wrapped in shawls, like a mummy, and wears a scarf about her head, and green spectacles on her nose. The mummy extends a hand which M. Cahusac kisses devotedly, murmuring, “Your Royal Highness.”)

  END OF PLAY

  Pullman Car Hiawatha

  CHARACTERS

  THE STAGE MANAGER

  Compartment Three:

  AN INSANE WOMAN, Mrs. Churchill

  A MALE ATTENDANT, Mr. Morgan

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT, A trained nurse

  Compartment Two:

  PHILIP

  Compartment One:

  HARRIET, Philip’s young wife

  Lower One:

  A MAIDEN LADY

  Lower Three:

  A MIDDLE-AGED DOCTOR

  Lower Five:

  A STOUT, AMIABLE WOMAN OF FIFTY

  Lower Seven:

  AN ENGINEER, Bill, going to California

  Lower Nine:

  AN ENGINEER, Fred

  THE PORTER, Harrison

  GROVER’S CORNERS, OHIO

  THE FIELD

  THE TRAMP

  PARKERSBURG, OHIO

  THE WORKMAN, Mr. Krüger, a ghost

  THE WORKER, a watchman

  A MECHANIC

  The Hours:

  TEN O’CLOCK, ELEVEN O’CLOCK, TWELVE O’CLOCK

  The Planets:

  SATURN, VENUS, JUPITER, EARTH

  The Archangels:

  GABRIEL, MICHAEL

  SETTING

  A Pullman car making its way from New York to Chicago, December 1930.

  At the back of the stage is a balcony or bridge or runway leading out of sight in both directions. Two flights of stairs descend from it to the stage. There is no further scenery.

  At the rise of the curtain The Stage Manager is making lines with a piece of chalk on the floor of the stage by the footlights.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: This is the plan of a Pullman car. Its name is Hiawatha and on December twenty-first it is on its way from New York to Chicago. Here at your left are three compartments. Here is the aisle and five lowers. The berths are all full, uppers and lowers, but for the purposes of this play we are limiting our interest to the people in the lower berths on the further side only.

  The berths are already made-up. It is half past nine. Most of the passengers are in bed behind the green curtains. They are dropping their shoes on the floor, or wrestling with their trousers, or wondering whether they dare hide their valuables in the pillow slips during the night.

  All right! Come on, everybody!

  (The actors enter carrying chairs. Each improvises his berth by placing two chairs “facing one another” in his chalk-marked space. They then sit in one chair, profile to the audience, and rest their feet on the other. This must do for lying in bed.

  The passengers in the compartments do the same.)

  LOWER ONE: Porter, be sure and wake me up at quarter of six.

  THE PORTER: Yes, ma’am.

  LOWER ONE: I know I shan’t sleep a wink, but I want to be told when it’s quarter of six.

  THE PORTER: Yes, ma’am.

  LOWER SEVEN (Putting his head through the curtains): Hsst! Porter! Hsst! How the hell do you turn on this other light?

  THE PORTER (Fussing with it): I’m afraid it’s outta order, suh. You’ll have to use the other end.

  THE STAGE MANAGER (Falsetto, substituting for some woman in an upper berth): May I ask if someone in this car will be kind enough to lend me some aspirin?

  THE PORTER (Rushing about): Yes, ma’am.

  LOWER NINE (One of the engineers, descending the aisle and falling into Lower Five): Sorry, lady, sorry. Made a mistake.

  LOWER FIVE (Grumbling): Never in all my born days!
r />   LOWER ONE (In a shrill whisper): Porter! Porter!

  THE PORTER: Yes, ma’am.

  LOWER ONE: My hot water bag’s leaking. I guess you’ll have to take it away. I’ll have to do without it tonight. How awful!

  LOWER FIVE (Sharply to the passenger above her): Young man, you mind your own business, or I’ll report you to the conductor.

  THE STAGE MANAGER (Substituting for Upper Five): Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to upset you. My suspenders fell down and I was trying to catch them.

  LOWER FIVE: Well, here they are. Now go to sleep. Everybody seems to be rushing into my berth tonight. (She puts her head out) Porter! Porter! Be a good soul and bring me a glass of water, will you? I’m parched.

  LOWER NINE: Bill!

  (No answer.)

  Bill!

  LOWER SEVEN: Yea? Wha’d’ya want?

  LOWER NINE: Slip me one of those magazines, willya?

  LOWER SEVEN: Which one d’ya want?

  LOWER NINE: Either one. Detective Stories. Either one.

  LOWER SEVEN: Aw, Fred. I’m just in the middle of one of ’em in Detective Stories.

  LOWER NINE: That’s all right. I’ll take the Western.—Thanks.

  THE STAGE MANAGER (To the actors): All right! —Sh! Sh! Sh!

  (To the audience) Now I want you to hear them thinking.

  (There is a pause and then they all begin a murmuring-swishing noise, very soft. In turn each one of them can be heard above the others.)

  LOWER FIVE (The Woman of Fifty): Let’s see: I’ve got the doll for the baby. And the slip-on for Marietta. And the fountain pen for Herbert. And the subscription to Time for George . . .

  LOWER SEVEN (Bill): God! Lillian, if you don’t turn out to be what I think you are, I don’t know what I’ll do. —I guess it’s bad politics to let a woman know that you’re going all the way to California to see her. I’ll think up a song-and-dance about a business trip or something. Was I ever as hot and bothered about anyone like this before? Well, there was Martha. But that was different. I’d better try and read or I’ll go cuckoo. “How did you know it was ten o’clock when the visitor left the house?” asked the detective. “Because at ten o’clock,” answered the girl, “I always turn out the lights in the conservatory and in the back hall. As I was coming down the stairs I heard the master talking to someone at the front door. I heard him say, ‘Well, good night . . .’” —Gee, I don’t feel like reading; I’ll just think about Lillian. That yellow hair. Them eyes! . . .

  LOWER THREE (The Doctor reads aloud to himself the most hair-raising material from a medical journal, every now and then punctuating his reading with an interrogative “So?”)

  LOWER ONE (The Maiden Lady): I know I’ll be awake all night. I might just as well make up my mind to it now. I can’t imagine what got hold of that hot water bag to leak on the train of all places. Well now, I’ll lie on my right side and breathe deeply and think of beautiful things, and perhaps I can doze off a bit.

  (And lastly:)

  LOWER NINE (Fred): That was the craziest thing I ever did. It’s set me back three whole years. I could have saved up thirty thousand dollars by now, if I’d only stayed over here. What business had I got to fool with contracts with the goddam Soviets. Hell, I thought it would be interesting. Interesting, what the hell! It’s set me back three whole years. I don’t even know if the company’ll take me back. I’m green, that’s all. I just don’t grow up.

  (The Stage Manager strides toward them with lifted hand, crying, “Hush,” and their whispering ceases.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: That’ll do!—Just one minute. Porter!

  THE PORTER (Appearing at the left): Yessuh.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: It’s your turn to think.

  (The Porter is very embarrassed.)

  Don’t you want to? You have a right to.

  THE PORTER (Torn between the desire to release his thoughts and his shyness): Ah . . . ah . . . I’m only thinkin’ about my home in Chicago and . . . and my life insurance.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: That’s right.

  THE PORTER: . . . Well, thank you . . . Thank you.

  (The Porter slips away, blushing violently, in an agony of self-consciousness and pleasure.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER (To the audience): He’s a good fellow, Harrison is. Just shy.

  (To the actors again) Now the compartments, please.

  (The berths fall into shadow.

  Philip is standing at the door connecting his compartment with his wife’s.)

  PHILIP: Are you all right, angel?

  HARRIET: Yes. I don’t know what was the matter with me during dinner.

  PHILIP: Shall I close the door?

  HARRIET: Do see whether you can’t put a chair against it that will hold it half open without banging.

  PHILIP: There.—Good night, angel. If you can’t sleep, call me and we’ll sit up and play Russian Bank.

  HARRIET: You’re thinking of that awful time when we sat up every night for a week . . . But at least I know I shall sleep tonight. The noise of the wheels has become sort of nice and homely. What state are we in?

  PHILIP: We’re tearing through Ohio. We’ll be in Indiana soon.

  HARRIET: I know those little towns full of horse blocks.

  PHILIP: Well, we’ll reach Chicago very early. I’ll call you. Sleep tight.

  HARRIET: Sleep tight, darling.

  (Philip returns to his own compartment. In Compartment Three, the male attendant tips his chair back against the wall and smokes a cigar. The trained nurse knits a stocking. The insane woman leans her forehead against the windowpane, that is, stares into the audience.)

  THE INSANE WOMAN (Her words have a dragging, complaining sound, but lack any conviction): Don’t take me there. Don’t take me there.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Wouldn’t you like to lie down, dearie?

  THE INSANE WOMAN: I want to get off the train. I want to go back to New York.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Wouldn’t you like me to brush your hair again? It’s such a nice feeling.

  THE INSANE WOMAN (Going to the door): I want to get off the train. I want to open the door.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT (Taking one of her hands): Such a noise! You’ll wake up all the nice people. Come and I’ll tell you a story about the place we’re going to.

  THE INSANE WOMAN: I don’t want to go to that place.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Oh, it’s lovely! There are lawns and gardens everywhere. I never saw such a lovely place. Just lovely.

  THE INSANE WOMAN (Lies down on the bed): Are there roses?

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Roses! Red, yellow, white . . . just everywhere.

  THE MALE ATTENDANT (After a pause): That musta been Cleveland.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: I had a case in Cleveland once. Diabetes.

  THE MALE ATTENDANT (After another pause): I wisht I had a radio here. Radios are good for them. I had a patient once that had to have the radio going every minute.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Radios are lovely. My married niece has one. It’s always going. It’s wonderful.

  THE INSANE WOMAN (Half rising): I’m not beautiful. I’m not beautiful as she was.

  THE FEMALE ATTENDANT: Oh, I think you’re beautiful! Beautiful.—Mr. Morgan, don’t you think Mrs. Churchill is beautiful?

  THE MALE ATTENDANT: Oh, fine lookin’! Regular movie star, Mrs. Churchill.

  (The Insane Woman looks inquiringly at them and subsides.

  Harriet groans slightly. Smothers a cough. She gropes about with her hand and finds the bell.

  The Porter knocks at her door.)

  HARRIET (Whispering): Come in. First, please close the door into my husband’s room. Softly. Softly.

  THE PORTER (A plaintive porter): Yes, ma’am.

  HARRIET: Porter, I’m not well. I’m sick. I must see a doctor.

  THE PORTER: Why ma’am, they ain’t no doctor . . .

  HARRIET: Yes, when I was coming out from dinner I saw a man in one of the seats on that side, reading medical p
apers. Go and wake him up.

  THE PORTER (Flabbergasted): Ma’am, I cain’t wake anybody up.

  HARRIET: Yes, you can. Porter. Porter. Now don’t argue with me. I’m very sick. It’s my heart. Wake him up. Tell him it’s my heart.

  THE PORTER: Yes, ma’am.

  (He goes into the aisle and starts pulling the shoulder of the man in Lower Three.)

  LOWER THREE: Hello. Hello. What is it? Are we there?

  (The Porter mumbles to him.)

  I’ll be right there. —Porter, is it a young woman or an old one?

  THE PORTER: I dunno, suh. I guess she’s kinda old, suh, but not so very old.

  LOWER THREE: Tell her I’ll be there in a minute and to lie quietly.

  (The Porter enters Harriet’s compartment. She has turned her head away.)

  THE PORTER: He’ll be here in a minute, ma’am. He says you lie quiet.

  (Lower Three stumbles along the aisle muttering: “Damn these shoes!”)

  SOMEONE’S VOICE: Can’t we have a little quiet in this car, please?

  LOWER NINE (Fred): Oh, shut up!

  (The Doctor passes The Porter and enters Harriet’s compartment. He leans over her, concealing her by his stooping figure.)

  LOWER THREE: She’s dead, Porter. Is there anyone on the train traveling with her?

  THE PORTER: Yessuh. Dat’s her husband in dere.

  LOWER THREE: Idiot! Why didn’t you call him? I’ll go in and speak to him.

  (The Stage Manager comes forward.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: All right. So much for the inside of the car. That’ll be enough of that for the present. Now for its position geographically, meteorologically, astronomically, theologically considered.

  Pullman Car Hiawatha, ten minutes of ten. December twenty-first, 1930. All ready.

  (Some figures begin to appear on the balcony.)

  No, no. It’s not time for The Planets yet. Nor The Hours. (They retire)