The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume II

by Thornton Wilder

  It’s not by running away—from place to place—that you will find something to belong to—or that you will make yourself free—

  (Convulsions.)

  You are looking in the wrong place. —You will find it when you least expect it.

  (He is shaken with coughing. His wife speaks to the children:)

  MRS. FOSTER: That will be all! Go back to your rooms quietly, children.

  Benvenuto Cellini Foster, put away your slingshot! This is no time for play.

  SCENE TWO

  The Graham Farm

  The screens have been arranged to suggest a large room—the kitchen of the Graham farmhouse. A gap between the two screens at the back indicates the door into the parlor.

  Stage left: a kitchen table. The chair at its left faces right. Enter Mrs. Graham—played by the actress who has just played Mrs. Foster. She now seems gaunt and stony-faced. She has thrown a worn blue shawl over her shoulders. She carries a farm lantern. She comes to the front of the stage, opens an imaginary backdoor. She peers toward the back of the auditorium.

  MRS. GRAHAM: John Graham, I want you should come in and eat your supper before Mr. Graham comes back from prayer meeting. I’ve just heated it up for the second time and I want you should eat it. It’s eight o’clock. It’s cold and it’s black as pitch. But I’ve seen you down by the corncrib there. You finished chores a long time ago and there’s nothing for you to be doing down at the barn, and a growing boy should eat his food hot. It’s real good. It’s hominy cooked in bacon, and greens, and it’s real good. And I put some molasses in it.

  (She puts her lantern down and hugs her shawl tighter around her.)

  All right, I won’t call you by your whole name; I’ll just call you John. Now, John, I want you to come and eat your supper. I know you think Mr. Graham’s unjust—I know that—but you ought to see that he thinks he’s doing the right thing. In his mind he’s just. When he does that—when he whips you, John; when he whips you on Wednesday nights—he thinks he’s doing it for your own good.

  And I’ve stewed up some of them crab apples that you picked yourself. I know what your argument is—and I can understand it—that, what with all the work you’ve done, you’ve got a right to take the horse and go into town nights, once in a while. It’s not that that Mr. Graham minds so much, I think—maybe it’s that when you’re in town you talk with those men down in Kramer’s livery stable—and learn swear words—and—he prays to God that you don’t touch liquor and learn other things. That’s the truth of the matter. Now, John, I’m catching my death of cold here, and twice I’ve heated up that good supper for you.

  (She takes a step forward) What’s more, if you’ll come in now, I’ll tell you something—something about yourself that I never told you before. Something real interesting that I learned when we called for you at that orphanage. It’s about where you come from, where you were found. I see now that I should’ve told you this a long time ago, because you’re a grown-up man now, almost, and it’s right you should know everything important about yourself.

  (John seems suddenly to rise up in the middle aisle of the auditorium, about six rows from the stage. He is about eighteen and wears faded blue overalls.)

  JOHN (Darkly): You got something really to say? You’re not just fooling me?

  MRS. GRAHAM: I’m not fooling you. You come in and eat your supper and I’ll tell you.

  JOHN: You can tell it to me here.

  MRS. GRAHAM: No, I can’t. I’m perishing of cold. I can scarcely talk the way my teeth are chattering.

  JOHN: Is it long—what you got to tell me?

  MRS. GRAHAM: Oh, yes, it’s long. I guess it’ll take a whole quarter-hour to tell it right. So you come inside.

  JOHN: I swore I wasn’t ever going into that house again. I ain’t going into any house where they call me a thief. I haven’t ever stolen anything from anybody. It’s him that’s stolen from me: he steals from me every hour of the day, that’s what he does. Maybe fathers can make their sons work for them for four years without one cent of pay—but he’s not my father and I’m not his son. He owes me a lot. I’ll bet you he owes me a whole hunnert dollars. I’ll bet that by now I own that whole horse and I can take it wherever I want to.

  MRS. GRAHAM: I know that’s your argument, John.

  JOHN: You go fetch a coat or something and tell me right here what you’ve got to tell me—because I’m not going into that house another night to be whipped by him.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Now, John, you know he’s not coming back for a while yet, and you can tell when he’s come by the bells on the horses, can’t you? —Until he comes back, you come inside. Whatever you do then, I can’t stop you.

  JOHN: Well, I’ll only just come inside the door. I won’t go any farther than that.

  MRS. GRAHAM: You don’t have to come any farther than you want to—but scrape the snow off your shoes when you come in.

  (She opens the imagined door and returns into the kitchen. After scraping his shoes, John follows her. She busies herself at the stove. He takes his stand down left center, his back to the audience, feet apart, proud and resentful.)

  JOHN: Don’t you worry about where I’ll go. —Mr. Stahlschneider’s hired man gets five dollars a week. I guess I’m worth two dollars a week—leastways, these last two years I’ve been. I bet I’ve even been worth three dollars. And Mr. Graham hasn’t given me anything except that blue suit—and even that he locks up between Sundays.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Now, John Graham—if you’re thinking of running away, I can’t stop you, but I’ve got fourteen dollars I saved making buttermilk. It’s right there behind the clock in a tobacco bag. If you must go, I’m glad you should have it.

  JOHN (Loud): I don’t want no presents. I want what’s mine. And my name’s not John Graham. I haven’t got any name—only John.

  MRS. GRAHAM: We tried to be a father and mother to you, best we could.

  JOHN: I don’t want no father or mother. I’m glad I didn’t have any.

  MRS. GRAHAM (Handing him an imagined plate): Here’s your supper.

  JOHN: Put it on the table. I don’t think I’m going to eat it. —You can say what you were going to say.

  MRS. GRAHAM (Putting the plate on the corner of the table, but speaking with spirit): And I’m not going to say one living word until you take a mouthful of that good supper while it’s hot.

  (Silence. War of wills. Suddenly John goes to the table, digs an unseen spoon into the dish and puts it in his mouth. He then resumes his former vindictive position.)

  JOHN: Well, say it!

  MRS. GRAHAM: When we went to that Amanda Gregory Foster Orphanage to adopt you we had a talk with that Mr. and Mrs. Foster that run it. We asked them if they knew anything about you and where you come from.

  (Pause.)

  I must say I can’t tell this very good with you standing there and showing hate in every muscle.

  JOHN: Well, what do you want me to say? I run away three times and I’d run away again.

  (Their eyes meet. She points at the plate. He abruptly takes one more mouthful and replaces the plate on the table.)

  MRS. GRAHAM: You were found in a baskit, John—about three months old. Now maybe you’ll think what I’m going to tell you isn’t important, but you’ll be mistaken there. That baskit, and every stitch of clothes that baby had on—and the blankits and the rattle and the milk bottle and the nipple—all of it, all of it come from the Gillespie and Schwingemeister Emporium. (Pause) Now I hope you see what that means. There wasn’t a thing there that was second-rate or skimped. Somebody thought a lot of you, John—thought enough of you to get you A-number-one fittings.

  JOHN (After a short pause): Now I’ve et and I’m going back to the barn.

  MRS. GRAHAM: I got something more to tell you. You eat every mouthful on that plate.

  I guess you’ve heard of the G. and S. Emporium in Philadelphia, P.A.

  (There is a sound of sleigh bells at the rear of the auditorium. Both listen in s
uspense.)

  That’s Deacon Riebenschneider’s bells.

  (They relax.)

  JOHN: Course, I have.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Well, it’d be a funny thing if you hadn’t, because I’ve noticed that you’re awful interested in stores. Goodness, when we take you into town, that’s all you want to see—asking me a thousand questions. I never saw anybody so interested in anything like you’re interested in stores.

  Well, I should think that you’d be real proud—that all your baby fittings come from the G. and S.

  JOHN: Well, I ain’t proud of it.

  MRS. GRAHAM: That just goes to show how ignorant you are. I guess you think that’s a store like any other store. A store that buys a lot of things and then sells ’em; a store that don’t do any more than that: just does the same thing over and over, buy-sell, buy-sell. I guess you think it’s that kind of store.

  JOHN: Have you ever—have you ever been in it?

  MRS. GRAHAM: Have I ever been in it?

  (Without looking at him. Brooding, with muted exaltation) There’s a kind of well that goes up the middle of it—and balconies and balconies with little white colyums. And red carpets with roses on them. And at the corners of the aisles, there’s big brass cuspidors. And over the salesladies’ heads there’s wires, and when they sell something, little iron boxes run along the wires with the change. And at one side there are these elevators that go up and down taking people where they want to go.

  JOHN: It’s—it’s only one of these stores for rich people.

  MRS. GRAHAM: That shows you know nothing about it, simply nothing about it.

  (Again brooding) It’ll never burn up—that’s what they say. Never even been a little fire in it. Of course, they keep a whole fire-fighting outfit in it—but that’s just for show. Of course, if you buy goods there and bring them home—then they’ll burn. But not in the store they won’t. Why, if Philadelphia, P.A., had a fire like Chicago, Illinois, had—you go in the G. and S. and you’ll be perfectly safe. That’s what they say and I believe them.

  JOHN: That’s not reasonable.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Reasonable? Ain’t nothing reasonable about it. Why, there are millions of people in the world who think that the G. and S. is crazy. Why, my sister went in to buy a wedding dress and there was one there—all fine sewed. The most beautiful dress in the world. And it looked like it cost a hundred dollars and, of course, she couldn’t pay that. But the lady sold it to her for eighteen dollars, that’s a fact. Not a thing wrong with it. My sister’s husband—well, one terrible thing after another happened; but it was a beautiful dress; and her daughter wore it at her wedding. Then on other days, little things, little everyday things cost a world of money. Nobody’s ever been able to understand it—nobody. Some days the G. and S. insults the customers—there’s no other way of putting it—and other days it loads you down. It’s not reasonable—but it’s the greatest store in the world.

  JOHN: What’s this other thing you were going to tell me?

  MRS. GRAHAM: Before I tell you, I want you to promise me—that you won’t raise your hand against Mr. Graham when he . . . when he thinks it’s his duty to punish you. Mr. Graham don’t seem to notice that you’re getting bigger and stronger every month. Will you promise me that?

  (John, silent a moment; then goes to back wall and takes the same pose facing the audience.)

  JOHN: Say what you were going to say without making any bargains.

  (Relents) Depends on what he does.

  (Pause.)

  Have you been in it often?

  MRS. GRAHAM: Have I been in it often?!

  (Gravely she brings out a locket from the neck of her dress) See that lockit? I got that lockit for three years’ faithful service at the G. and S.

  JOHN (Fascinated, peers at it): That says Gertrude Foster. You’re name ain’t Foster.

  MRS. GRAHAM: ’Fore I married Mr. Graham it was.

  JOHN (Backing; outraged): I thought you was like that Mrs. Foster that run the orphanage. Are you kin of hers? Are you—kin of hers?

  MRS. GRAHAM: ’Course not. Lots of people named Foster in West Pennsylvania. Lots of ’em. —Now you eat these crab apples while I tell you what comes next. You eat ’em slow—get the nourishment out of them.

  (She gives him the plate and goes back to the stove. She is again lost in thought) You can scarcely see to the top of it where there’s painting—handpainting on the dome. And always, way up, very faint—there’s music. Music wrote special for the Emporium. You never saw such a place.

  JOHN (Now spellbound): And the superinten’ants and managers? Are they walking around? I mean Mr. Gillespie and Mr. Schwingemeister?

  MRS. GRAHAM (Sudden scorn): Well, if you aren’t the most ignorant boy in the world I don’t know who is!! Mr. Gillespie! Mr. Schwingemeister, indeed! Why nobody’s ever seen even Mr. Sordini—and he’s on the fifth floor. Looks like you think the Emporium’s like other stores. Huh! I wouldn’t have called you in from the barn if your baby fittings come from an ordinary store. If you want to work in any ordinary store you can go to Craigie’s—yes, sir, you can go to Craigie’s Deepartmental Store, that’s next door to the G. and S. In Craigie’s you know where you are. You’re paid regular—

  (Sleigh bells at back of auditorium. Same business.)

  That’s Widow Ochshofer’s.

  JOHN: Don’t they pay you at the Emporium?

  MRS. GRAHAM: And you can see Mr. Craigie, every day, ten times a day. You’re paid good and you’re paid regular—and everything’s perfectly clear. At six o’clock you can go home. Yes, sir, you can work there fifty years and any night you like you can go home and hang yourself. At Craigie’s Deepartmental Store, the color’s green. Everything green. What color is the Emporium color?

  JOHN (Weak): I don’t know.

  MRS. GRAHAM (Whispers): What color do I always wear?

  JOHN: Blue . . .

  MRS. GRAHAM: Of course I do—and what color you got on?

  JOHN: Blue!

  MRS. GRAHAM: And what color was all over that baskit you was found in? Blue. Now, I’ll tell you something about yourself. Where was your baskit found? On the steps of the City Hall? Or the hospital, like most babies? Or at the Public Liberry? No. You were found on the steps of the G. and S. itself. You kind of belong there—that’s what I think. You’re an Emporium man.

  But that ain’t all: you know what I think? I think that Amanda Gregory Foster Orphanage—I think that orphanage is run by the G. and S. —That’s what I think. I think I’ve seen that Mr. and Mrs. Foster before—and I know where I saw ’em too.

  JOHN (Excitedly): You look like her. That’s what I always thought—that you look like her.

  MRS. GRAHAM (Contemptuously): I don’t look like her at all. But I’ve often said to myself: if anything happened to Mr. Graham—that’s where I’d like to be. I’d like to be working at that orphanage, helping some way, working with all those children. Something like that.

  (Sleigh bells. This is it.)

  There he is. That’s him.

  JOHN (Frozen): I’m going to stay right here.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Now remember, John. You promised.

  JOHN: I never made no promise in my life.

  MRS. GRAHAM: I ironed your blue suit today. It’s just inside that door. And if you think you’ve got to go—here it is. The buttermilk money. (She goes quickly to the mantel and pushes an (imaginary) bag toward him)

  JOHN: I don’t need no money.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Take it. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that this world is a terrible place—hasn’t nobody ever told you that? Take it!

  (She returns to her chair and sits down.

  Enter Mr. Graham—-fur cap; short green coat of blanket material. Strides down the auditorium aisle, on to the stage; without glancing right or left, goes out stage center. They stare motionless while he passes through the room.)

  JOHN (Whispering): What do you mean: the Emporium don’t pay you? —It’s no good, if it don’t pay you when yo
u work for it.

  MR. GRAHAM’S VOICE (From the parlor): John Graham, will you come into the parlor?

  MRS. GRAHAM: Listen, now—I haven’t told you the whole truth about it: how hard it is. And some days you just despair. Yes, some weeks it forgets to pay you. And some weeks it pays you too much—like there’s been a mistake in the books. And that it takes every bit of you and don’t hardly leave you any life to yourself. And that it doesn’t thank you—and it almost never gives you a compliment for what you’ve done. Just the same—it’s something you can feel that you can belong to. You go there! You’ll see.

  MR. GRAHAM’S VOICE: John!

  (Mr. Graham appears at the parlor door. He is holding a large stick.)

  John Graham, did you hear me? You will go into the parlor and lower your overalls. Mrs. Graham, you will go upstairs.

  MRS. GRAHAM: Mr. Graham, I will stay right here.

  MR. GRAHAM: Mrs. Graham, you will go upstairs.

  MRS. GRAHAM: You and I, before God, adopted this boy for our own—together.

  (She flinches.)

  I’m going out on the porch, but I’m not going upstairs.

  (Hugging her shawl about her, she goes out on the porch, and stands with pursed mouth.)

  MR. GRAHAM: Did you hear me, John?

  JOHN (Rapidly): I’m coming in. But I tell you right now that you owe me a hunnert dollars and maybe more; and that any man that’s hit by another man has a right to defend himself; and that that time the hook fell down on you from the top of the barn and you were sick a week—you thought it was me but it wasn’t; and the only lie I ever told you was about when the old heifer got in the lower pasture (and that was in the second week I was here): so I guess everthing’s square between us now.

  (He goes out back, center. Mr. Graham is astonished by this speech.)

  MR. GRAHAM: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anybody’d think you’d gone crazy. Your smoking and your drinking have made you crazy—that’s what’s happened.

  (He follows John off. His voice can be heard.)

  We’ll first kneel down and ask God’s blessing.

  (Mrs. Graham slowly reenters the kitchen; sits at the table.