The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume I

  (The Stage Manager claps his hands. A grinning boy in overalls enters from the left behind the berths.)

  GROVER’S CORNERS, OHIO (In a foolish voice as though he were reciting a piece at a Sunday school entertainment): I represent Grover’s Corners, Ohio. Eight hundred twenty-one souls. “There’s so much good in the worst of us and so much bad in the best of us, that it ill behooves any of us to criticize the rest of us.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Thankya.

  (He grins and goes out right.

  Enter from the same direction somebody in shirt sleeves. This is a field.)

  THE FIELD: I represent a field you are passing between Grover’s Corners, Ohio, and Parkersburg, Ohio. In this field there are fifty-one gophers, two hundred and six field mice, six snakes and millions of bugs, insects, ants and spiders. All in their winter sleep. “What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.” The Vision of Sir Launfal, William Cullen—I mean James Russell Lowell. Thank you.

  (Exit.

  Enter a tramp.)

  THE TRAMP: I just want to tell you that I’m a tramp that’s been traveling under this car, Hiawatha, so I have a right to be in this play. I’m going from Rochester, New York, to Joliet, Illinois. It takes a lotta people to make a world. “On the road to Mandalay, where the flying fishes play and the sun comes up like thunder, over China, ’cross the bay.” Frank W. Service. It’s bitter cold. Thank you.

  (Exit.

  Enter a gentle old farmer’s wife with three stringy young people.)

  PARKERSBURG, OHIO: I represent Parkersburg, Ohio. Twenty-six hundred and four souls. I have seen all the dreadful havoc that alcohol has done and I hope no one here will ever touch a drop of the curse of this beautiful country.

  (She beats a measure and they all sing unsteadily:)

  “Throw out the lifeline! Throw out the lifeline! Someone is sinking today-ay . . .”

  (The Stage Manager waves them away tactfully.

  Enter a workman.)

  THE WORKMAN: Ich bin der Arbeiter der hier sein Leben verlor. Bei der Sprengung für diese Brücke über die Sie in dem Moment fahren—(The engine whistles for a trestle crossing)—erschlug mich ein Felsbrock. Ich spiele jetzt als Geist in diesem Stück mit. “Vor sieben und achtzig Jahren haben unsere Väter auf diesem Kontinent eine neue Nation hervorgebracht . . .”

  THE STAGE MANAGER (Helpfully, to the audience): I’m sorry; that’s in German. He says that he’s the ghost of a workman who was killed while they were building the trestle over which the car Hiawatha is now passing—(The engine whistles again)—and he wants to appear in this play. A chunk of rock hit him while they were dynamiting. —His motto you know: “Three score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation dedicated . . .” and so on. Thank you, Mr. Krüger.

  (Exit the ghost.

  Enter another worker.)

  THE WORKER: I’m a watchman in a tower near Parkersburg, Ohio. I just want to tell you that I’m not asleep and that the signals are all right for this train. I hope you all have a fine trip. “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you . . .” Rudyard Kipling. Thank you.

  (He exits.

  The Stage Manager comes forward.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: All right. That’ll be enough of that. Now the weather.

  (Enter a mechanic.)

  A MECHANIC: It is eleven degrees above zero. The wind is north-northwest, velocity: fifty-seven. There is a field of low barometric pressure moving eastward from Saskatchewan to the eastern coast. Tomorrow it will be cold with some snow in the middle western states and northern New York. (He exits)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: All right. Now for The Hours.

  (Helpfully to the audience) The minutes are gossips; the hours are philosophers; the years are theologians. The hours are philosophers with the exception of Twelve O’clock who is also a theologian. —Ready Ten O’clock!

  (The Hours are beautiful girls dressed like Elihu Vedder’s Pleiades. Each carries a great gold Roman numeral. They pass slowly across the balcony at the back, moving from right to left.)

  What are you doing, Ten O’clock? Aristotle?

  TEN O’CLOCK: No, Plato, Mr. Washburn.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Good.—“Are you not rather convinced that he who thus . . .”

  TEN O’CLOCK: “Are you not rather convinced that he who thus sees Beauty as only it can be seen will be specially favored? And since he is in contact not with images but with realities . . .” (She continues the passage in a murmur as Eleven O’clock appears)

  ELEVEN O’CLOCK: “What else can I, Epictetus, do, a lame old man, but sing hymns to God? If then I were a nightingale, I would do the nightingale’s part. If I were a swan, I would do a swan’s. But now I am a rational creature . . .” (Her voice also subsides to a murmur. Twelve O’clock appears)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Good. —Twelve O’clock, what have you?

  TWELVE O’CLOCK: Saint Augustine and his mother.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: So. —“And we began to say: If to any the tumult of the flesh were hushed . . .”

  TWELVE O’CLOCK: “And we began to say: If to any the tumult of the flesh were hushed; hushed the images of earth; of waters and of air . . .”

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Faster. —“Hushed also the poles of Heaven.”

  TWELVE O’CLOCK: “Yea, were the very soul to be hushed to herself.”

  THE STAGE MANAGER: A little louder, Miss Foster.

  TWELVE O’CLOCK (A little louder): “Hushed all dreams and imaginary revelations . . .”

  THE STAGE MANAGER (Waving them back): All right. All right. Now The Planets. December twenty-first, 1930, please.

  (The Hours unwind and return to their dressing rooms at the right.

  The Planets appear on the balcony. Some of them take their place halfway on the steps. These have no words, but each has a sound. One has a pulsating, zinging sound. Another has a thrum. One whistles ascending and descending scales. Saturn does a slow, obstinate humming sound on two repeated low notes:)

  Louder, Saturn. —Venus, higher. Good. Now, Jupiter. —Now the Earth.

  (The Stage Manager turns to the beds on the train.)

  Come, everybody. This is the Earth’s sound.

  (The towns, workmen, etc., appear at the edge of the stage. The passengers begin their “thinking” murmur.)

  Come, Grover’s Corners. Parkersburg. You’re in this.

  Watchman. Tramp. This is the Earth’s sound.

  (He conducts it as the director of an orchestra would. Each of the towns and workmen does his motto.

  The Insane Woman breaks into passionate weeping. She rises and stretches out her arms to The Stage Manager.)

  THE INSANE WOMAN: Use me. Give me something to do.

  (He goes to her quickly, whispers something in her ear, and leads her back to her guardians. She is unconsoled.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Now shh—shh—shh! Enter The Archangels.

  (To the audience) We have now reached the theological position of Pullman Car Hiawatha.

  (The towns and workmen have disappeared. The Planets, offstage, continue a faint music. Two young men in blue serge suits enter along the balcony and descend the stairs at the right. As they pass each bed the passenger talks in his sleep.

  Gabriel points out Bill to Michael who smiles with raised eyebrows. They pause before Lower Five, and Michael makes the sound of assent that can only be rendered “Hn-Hn.”

  The remarks that the characters make in their sleep are not all intelligible, being lost in the sound of sigh or groan or whisper by which they are conveyed. But we seem to hear:)

  LOWER NINE (Loud): Some people are slower than others, that’s all.

  LOWER SEVEN (Bill): It’s no fun, y’know. I’ll try.

  LOWER FIVE (The lady of the Christmas presents, rapidly): You know best, of course. I’m ready whenever you are. One year’s like another.

  LOWER ONE: I can teach sewing. I can sew.

  (They ap
proach Harriet’s compartment.

  The Insane Woman sits up and speaks to them.)

  THE INSANE WOMAN: Me?

  (The Archangels shake their heads.)

  What possible use can there be in my simply waiting? —Well, I’m grateful for anything. I’m grateful for being so much better than I was. The old story, the terrible story, doesn’t haunt me as it used to. A great load seems to have been taken off my mind. —But no one understands me any more. At last I understand myself perfectly, but no one else understands a thing I say. — So I must wait?

  (The Archangels nod, smiling.)

  (Resignedly, and with a smile that implies their complicity) Well, you know best. I’ll do whatever is best; but everyone is so childish, so absurd. They have no logic. These people are all so mad . . . These people are like children; they have never suffered.

  (She returns to her bed and sleeps. The Archangels stand beside Harriet. The Doctor has drawn Philip into the next compartment and is talking to him in earnest whispers.

  Harriet’s face has been toward the wall; she turns it slightly and speaks toward the ceiling.)

  HARRIET: I wouldn’t be happy there. Let me stay dead down here. I belong here. I shall be perfectly happy to roam about my house and be near Philip. —You know I wouldn’t be happy there.

  (Gabriel leans over and whispers into her ear. After a short pause she bursts into fierce tears.)

  I’m ashamed to come with you. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything with my life. Worse than that: I was angry and sullen. I never realized anything. I don’t dare go a step in such a place.

  (They whisper to her again.)

  But it’s not possible to forgive such things. I don’t want to be forgiven so easily. I want to be punished for it all. I won’t stir until I’ve been punished a long, long time. I want to be freed of all that—by punishment. I want to be all new.

  (They whisper to her. She puts her feet slowly on the ground.)

  But no one else could be punished for me. I’m willing to face it all myself. I don’t ask anyone to be punished for me.

  (They whisper to her again. She sits long and brokenly looking at her shoes, thinking it over.)

  It wasn’t fair. I’d have been willing to suffer for it myself—if I could have endured such a mountain.

  (She smiles.)

  Oh, I’m ashamed! I’m just a stupid and you know it. I’m just another American.—But then what wonderful things must be beginning now. You really want me? You really want me?

  (They start leading her down the aisle of the car.)

  Let’s take the whole train. There are some lovely faces on this train. Can’t we all come? You’ll never find anyone better than Philip. Please, please, let’s all go.

  (They reach the steps. The Archangels interlock their arms as a support for her as she leans heavily on them, taking the steps slowly. Her words are half singing and half babbling.)

  But look at how tremendously high and far it is. I’ve a weak heart. I’m not supposed to climb stairs. “I do not ask to see the distant scene: One step enough for me.” It’s like Switzerland. My tongue keeps saying things. I can’t control it. —Do let me stop a minute: I want to say good-bye.

  (She turns in their arms.)

  Just a minute, I want to cry on your shoulder.

  (She leans her forehead against Gabriel’s shoulder and laughs long and softly.)

  Good-bye, Philip. —I begged him not to marry me, but he would. He believed in me just as you do. —Goodbye, 1312 Ridgewood Avenue, Oaksbury, Illinois. I hope I remember all its steps and doors and wallpapers forever. Good-bye, Emerson Grammar School on the corner of Forbush Avenue and Wherry Street. Good-bye, Miss Walker and Miss Cramer who taught me English and Miss Matthewson who taught me biology. Good-bye, First Congregational Church on the corner of Meyer-son Avenue and Sixth Street and Dr. McReady and Mrs. McReady and Julia. Good-bye, Papa and Mama . . .

  (She turns.)

  Now I’m tired of saying good-bye. —I never used to talk like this. I was so homely I never used to have the courage to talk. Until Philip came. I see now. I see now. I understand everything now.

  (The Stage Manager comes forward.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER (To the actors): All right. All right. —Now we’ll have the whole world together, please. The whole solar system, please.

  (The complete cast begins to appear at the edges of the stage. He claps his hands.)

  The whole solar system, please. Where’s The Tramp? —Where’s The Moon?

  (He gives two raps on the floor, like the conductor of an orchestra attracting the attention of his forces, and slowly lifts his hand. The human beings murmur their thoughts; The Hours discourse; The Planets chant or hum. Harriet’s voice finally rises above them all, saying:)

  HARRIET: “I was not ever thus, nor asked that Thou Shouldst lead me on, and spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: Remember not past years.”

  (The Stage Manager waves them away.)

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Very good. Now clear the stage, please. Now we’re at Englewood Station, South Chicago. See the university’s towers over there! The best of them all.

  LOWER ONE (The Maiden Lady): Porter, you promised to wake me up at quarter of six.

  THE PORTER: Sorry, ma’am, but it’s been an awful night on this car. A lady’s been terrible sick.

  LOWER ONE: Oh! Is she better?

  THE PORTER: No’m. She ain’t one jot better.

  LOWER FIVE: Young man, take your foot out of my face.

  THE STAGE MANAGER (Again substituting for Upper Five): Sorry, lady, I slipped—

  LOWER FIVE (Grumbling not unamiably): I declare, this trip’s been one long series of insults.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Just one minute, ma’am, and I’ll be down and out of your way.

  LOWER FIVE: Haven’t you got anybody to darn your socks for you? You ought to be ashamed to go about that way.

  THE STAGE MANAGER: Sorry, lady.

  LOWER FIVE: You’re too stuck up to get married. That’s the trouble with you.

  LOWER NINE: Bill! Bill!

  LOWER SEVEN: Yea? Wha’d’ya want?

  LOWER NINE: Bill, how much d’ya give the porter on a train like this? I’ve been outta the country so long . . .

  LOWER SEVEN: Hell, Fred, I don’t know myself.

  THE PORTER: CHICAGO, CHICAGO. All out. This train don’t go no further.

  (The passengers jostle their way out and an army of old women with mops and pails enter and prepare to clean up the car.)

  END OF PLAY

  Love and How to Cure It

  CHARACTERS

  LINDA, a dancer, sixteen

  JOEY WESTON, a comedian

  ROWENA STOKER, a comedic actress and singer, Linda’s aunt

  ARTHUR WARBURTON, Linda’s admirer

  SETTING

  The stage of the Tivoli Palace of Music, Soho, London, April 1895.

  The stage is dark save for a gas jet forward left and an oil lamp on the table at the back right.

  Bare, dark, dusty and cold.

  Linda, dressed in a white ballet dress, is practicing steps and bending exercises. She is a beautiful, impersonal, remote, almost sullen girl of barely sixteen.

  At the table in the distance sit Joey, a stout comedian, and Rowena, a mature soubrette. Joey is reading aloud from a pink theatrical and sporting weekly and Rowena is darning a stocking. When they speak the touch of cockney in their diction is insufficiently compensated by touches of exaggerated elegance.

  There is silence for a time, broken only by the undertone of the reading and the whispered counting of Linda at her practice. Then:

  ROWENA (Calling to Linda): They’ve put off the rehearsal. Mark my words. It’s after half past eight now. They must have got word to the others somehow. Or else we understood the day wrong. —Go on, Joey.

  (Joey reads for a few minutes, then Rowena calls again:)

  Linda, the paper says Marjorie FitzMaurice has an engagement. An Ali Baba and t
he Forty Thieves company that Moss has collected for Folkstone, Brighton and the piers. She must have got better. —You’d better take a rest, dearie. You’ll be all blowed. —Go on, Joey, that’s a good boy.

  LINDA (Gravely describing an arc waist-high with her toe): It’s nine o’clock. I can hear the chimes.

  (Apparently Joey has finished the paper. He stretches and yawns. Rowena puts down her work, picks up her chair and brings it toward the footlights, and starts firmly supervising Linda’s movements.)

  ROWENA: One, two, three; one, two, three. Whatever are you doing with your hands, child? Madame Angellelli didn’t teach you anything like that. Bend them back like you was discovering a flower by surprise. That’s right. —Upsidaisy! That’s the way. —Now that’s enough kicks for one night. If you must do any more, just stick to the knee-highs.

  (She yawns and pats her yawn.)

  There’s no rehearsal. We might just as well go home. It was all a mistake somehow.

  LINDA (Almost upside down): No, no. I don’t want to go home. Besides, I’m hungry. Ask Joey to go around the corner and buy some fish and chips.

  ROWENA: Goodness, I never saw such an eater. Well, I have two kippers here I was going to set on for breakfast.

  (Calling) Joey, there’s a stove downstairs still, isn’t there?

  JOEY: Yes.

  ROWENA (To Linda): There you are! We could have a little supper and ask Joey. I have a packet of tea in my bag. How would you like that, angel?

  LINDA: Lovely.

  ROWENA: Joey, how would you like a little supper on the stage with kipper and tea and everything nice?

  JOEY: Like it! I’m that starved I could eat bones and all. Wot’s more, I’ll cook it for you. I’m the best little cooker of a kipper for a copper you could ’ope to see.

  ROWENA (Meditatively): You could use that in a song someday, Joey. —Shall I let him cook it, Linda?

  LINDA: Yes, let him cook it.

  JOEY: I’ll just go next door and get a spoonful of butter.

  ROWENA: There’s sixpence. Get some milk for the tea, too. Put some water on as you go out and I’ll be down in a minute to make the tea.

  JOEY: Won’t be a minute, my dears.

  (He hurries out.

  There is a pause. Linda stops her exercise and examines attentively each of the soles of her slippers in turn.)