The Collected Short Plays of Thornton Wilder, Volume II

by Thornton Wilder

  (Enter George and his wife. George is an obstinate young man; Phyllis is an extraordinarily pretty young girl with large blue eyes. Her hair is arranged to resemble Billie Burke’s; she is exquisitely dressed and has charming manners. It is the most difficult moment in her life.)

  GEORGE (Kissing his mother): How are you, Mother? Mother, this is my wife.

  EVA (Offering her cheek): You may, my dear. (After Phyllis has kissed her) We meet at last, so to speak.

  PHYLLIS (Blushing): Better late than never, as they say.

  GEORGE (To Charles, shaking hands stiffly): How do you do, Mr. Havens. Phyllis, this is my father.

  PHYLLIS (Faintly): I’m very happy to know you.

  EVA: George, why don’t you introduce your wife to Daughter?

  JULIA: Oh, we have met, Mother.

  EVA (In astonishment): When was that?

  JULIA: I have called on them several times.

  EVA (With evident displeasure): So that’s how you spend your time in Atlantic City. And never say a word about it to me!

  JULIA: I was saving it as a pleasant surprise.

  EVA: You misjudged! —Were you ever in Boston before, Phyllis?

  PHYLLIS: Unfortunately not. I have been kept pretty regularly to Atlantic City.

  EVA (Marveling): And yet Boston so close!

  PHYLLIS: I have occasionally run up to New York for shopping.

  EVA (Urgently): Charles! My smelling salts—in the hall. (He gets them) But naturally from your position in the station you were able to see the trains depart for Boston.

  PHYLLIS (Agreeably): Oh, yes. There are trains.

  EVA (Nodding her head enigmatically): Hmm—yes . . . yes. Did you find it monotonous? —Standing over the counter, long hours . . . ?

  PHYLLIS (At sea): You mean, did we come by boat?

  JULIA: No, dear, Mother means: Did you find the trip longer than you expected?

  PHYLLIS (To her): I like traveling.

  EVA: I see! Naturally. How fortunate. There must be long waits while the tents are being nailed down. —Then there’s the long, hot parade.

  PHYLLIS (To George): I’m afraid—I do not understand . . .

  GEORGE: You mean, Mother—?

  JULIA (To the rescue): By parade, Mother means the boardwalk at Atlantic City we all hear so much about.

  PHYLLIS (To Eva, brightly): Oh, no. It’s a pleasure, I assure you. And on the hottest days there are the awnings—that’s what you meant by “tents.”

  EVA: Yes, yes. But no doubt there are tents, too. Fortune tellers, and—

  PHYLLIS: —A very few.—

  EVA: —And among them, the shooting gallery.

  PHYLLIS (Seeking light): The shooting gallery?

  EVA (Boldly): The one you were interested in.

  (At last Phyllis is completely perplexed.)

  PHYLLIS (In a pretty confusion): I’m afraid I’m very dull. But I’ve heard of the subtlety—the wit—of Boston conversation. I have always lived quietly with my mother in our little home on the North Shore. I’ve had little experience—

  JULIA: —Don’t apologize, Phyllis. Mother has a playful way you’ll understand when you get to know her better.

  EVA: I was not aware of it.

  CHARLES (Soothingly): Now Eva! You know you’re famous for your wit.

  GEORGE: It has developed then in the last year—amazingly.

  EVA (Retorting): Think of what I’ve had to bear.

  GEORGE: I warned you in good time.

  (Fortunately dinner is announced at this point.)

  EVA (Rising and repeating a formula used by all Boston hostesses at informal dinners to relatives): We live very simply, but of such as it is we try to obtain the best, and to that you are always welcome. (She leads the way out with Charles)

  PHYLLIS (Turning, at the front of the stage; plaintively): I don’t understand your mother at all, George—

  (She sees Julia and runs to her) When are you to be married, Julia?

  JULIA (Smiling down at her happily): On Saturday afternoon at four o’ the clock.

  PHYLLIS: Why at four?

  JULIA: Because they don’t let the dear boy out of the factory until three; and he says he must brush his hair.

  (They go on into dinner.)

  END OF PLAY

  *[Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson was a British actor whose daughter and son-in-law, Dinah and Vincent Sheehan, were Wilder’s close friends.]

  PART

  II

  The Unerring Instinct

  A PLAY IN ONE ACT

  WILDER often said that the inscription on his gravestone should read: “Here lies a man who tried to be obliging.” When his country or his profession called, more often than not he went, including service in two World Wars. When asked to lecture, preside, be present, he would try to fit the date in, especially if he admired the cause or the institution or the person behind the invitation. The impulse also carried over into the writing of “occasional plays,” works done for an occasion—a birthday party, a club’s centenary celebration (Our Century: A Play in Three Scenes, for the Century Association in New York City, 1947), a milestone in the life of a dormitory where he was living temporarily (On the House, in honor of the twentieth anniversary of Dunster House at Harvard College, 1950).

  In the same vein but on a serious level, in late 1947, he wrote The Unerring Instinct: A Play in One Act, for the National Conference of Christians and Jews’ “NCCJ Scripts for Brotherhood” program. Beginning in January 1948, the Conference distributed the play free to schools and dramatic clubs throughout the country. The Conference continued to promote it until at least the mid-1960s. Publicity described The Unerring Instinct this way:

  Story of a woman whose fears and sweeping judgments of people are swept away when she is shown how susceptible she is to nonsensical talk. For high school and adult groups.

  Wilder enjoyed the NCCJ assignment (a piece that employs a signal system reminiscent of the warning device in Act II of The Skin of Our Teeth). “I have just finished a short play for the nationwide use of the Conference of Christians and Jews,” he wrote family in late 1947. “Those I have read it to are enthusiastic . . . It is very funny and yet drastic and searching.”

  The Unerring Instinct

  A PLAY IN ONE ACT

  CHARACTERS

  LEONORA THORPE, a pleasant woman of middle age

  BELINDA WATSON, a younger woman, Leonora’s sister-in-law

  ARTHUR ROGERS

  SETTING

  Leonora’s home.

  No curtain and scenery are required. Three comfortable chairs and a small table. At the players’ right is a table or board on which there are three colored lights: red, blue and green. They are worked on dimmers.

  Leonora enters and coming to the front of the stage addresses the audience.

  LEONORA: My name is Leonora Thorpe. I’ve been asked to come here to tell you about a practical joke I played on a friend of mine—on my sister-in-law, in fact. Some of you may think I was a little cruel. Perhaps I was. My sister-in-law, Belinda Watson, has always been full of fears about people and full of sweeping judgments about those she wants to meet and those she doesn’t want to meet. On this occasion I lost my patience with her. I decided to plant a brand-new prejudice in her mind—just to show her how susceptible she was to nonsense.

  While we act this out I’ve asked some electricians to operate these three colored lights. They will show you the various emotions that were going on inside Belinda Watson during this session.

  (During the following explanation the lights are turned up as they are described.)

  This light is red. It’s for fear and it needs no explanation.

  This blue light indicates despair—bewilderment, confusion and despair. It denotes that state which we all get into when it seems that thinking is too difficult; that thinking never gets us anywhere; that reason and justice are simply too complicated; that it’s easier to give up and just attack.

  So this last light is g
reen—that’s the last resort of fear and despair: that’s malice and snarl and bite and attack.

  This thing took place in a friend’s house in the town where we all live. There’d been an auction for some benefit—Visiting Nurses or Boys’ Clubs. Hundreds of people had been there. In fact, it was the first time that I’d felt that our whole community had gotten together in a friendly way and had really met one another. At the end of the afternoon I went out to the veranda to sit down and rest. I’d been one of the auctioneers.

  (She sits down. Enter Belinda, fanning herself with an auction program.)

  BELINDA: Well, dear, it’s been a great success, a really great success. And I’ve shaken a great many hands that I hope I never shake again. I know they’re very nice, I hope they’re happy, I hope they eat three meals a day, but let them lead their lives and let me lead mine.

  LEONORA: Now, Belinda, I’m too tired to listen to you protesting about how broad-minded you are.

  BELINDA: Well, I am. You’re always scolding me about what you call my prejudices. You’re wrong. I’m the most broad-minded woman in this town. As far as I’m concerned: color, religion, rich or poor—makes no difference to me.

  LEONORA: Good heavens, here we go again.

  BELINDA: It’s only when it comes to my children that I draw the line. I want every association that they make to be of the very best. I don’t want them to get into any situation that might be embarrassing—ever.

  LEONORA: I know. And for that you have that infallible instinct of yours to guide you as to who is or is not suitable for them. Let’s not talk about it.

  BELINDA: Well, after all, you’re their aunt. You must see what I mean.

  LEONORA (Sitting up): Yes, I’m their aunt, aren’t I?

  BELINDA: And you’ve said a thousand times that they’re perfectly beautiful children. And, of course, you have a certain responsibility to them, too. After all, little Leonora’s named after you—she looks like you, she dotes on you.

  (Leonora has risen. She walks about and is seen to be forming a decision. Standing behind Belinda’s chair, she says:)

  LEONORA: Belinda, I noticed something odd this afternoon. I wonder if you did.

  BELINDA: Why . . . what?

  LEONORA: Oh, George Smith and his brother and sister.

  BELINDA: . . . Which ones? . . .

  LEONORA: Belinda, do you happen to know many people named Smith?

  BELINDA: No. —Yes, I know a few. Why do you ask?

  LEONORA (Sitting down): Well, dear, have you ever noticed anything funny about them?

  BELINDA: Funny? How do you mean? (The red light begins to glow)

  LEONORA: Oh, well, if you haven’t, I’m sorry I mentioned it. After all, you have enough to worry you as it is—to bring up the children and everything.

  BELINDA: What were you going to say, dear?

  LEONORA: Forget it. —My, what an attractive dress that is. Have I ever seen that before?

  BELINDA: Yes, it’s new. —No, I mean it’s an old thing I’ve had for years. But what were you going to say about the Smiths? —Now, Leonora, if there’s anything I ought to know, I insist on your telling me.

  LEONORA: Well, it’s nothing really. Yet I feel that it’s something everybody should at least know about. Have you ever really stopped to think about the name Smith?

  BELINDA: No-o-o-o. What do you mean? (A brief flare-up of the red light)

  LEONORA: Before the War, I read a paper by a famous German scholar—oh, a very great scholar—about the Schmidts in Germany. And of course, they’re the same thing as our Smiths.

  BELINDA: Yes?

  LEONORA: Don’t you see? They’re all descended finally from blacksmiths and ironworkers, aren’t they?

  BELINDA: I suppose so.

  LEONORA: Swinging great hammers all day.

  BELINDA: You mean . . .? Leonora, hundreds of years have gone by since . . .

  LEONORA: So you do see? This professor studies thousands of them. You must have read it; it was in all the magazines. Naturally, they’d be very strong willed and ruthless, wouldn’t they? Heartless, really.

  BELINDA: Leonora! I never thought of that.

  LEONORA: Pounding. Hammering. Driving nails into poor horses’ feet all day. Twisting white-hot iron into the strangest shapes. Well—that’s all I meant.

  BELINDA: Goodness! But, Leonora . . . what should we do about it?

  LEONORA: The only thing for us to do is to know it and to keep our wits about us.

  BELINDA: To think that I never, never thought of that before!

  LEONORA: Of course, there are some nice Smiths—

  BELINDA (Sudden strong burst of red light; sudden cry): But the principal of my boy’s school is named Smith!! He seemed perfectly nice.

  LEONORA: Oh, I don’t deny it. But listen: a nice Smith is still a Smith. You keep your eyes open, dear—you’ll see. Take another example—come nearer, dear, we mustn’t talk so loud. Take that woman who sings on the radio—Rose Smith or Bessie Smith—what’s her name?

  BELINDA: Why, I always thought she was so nice and wholesome, so to speak. (The blue light begins to glow. The red light off)

  LEONORA: Yes, but look at how famous she is! To arrive at a position like that, my dear, one must be . . . strong willed, believe me. Why, do you realize that Al Smith almost became president of the United States?

  BELINDA: But, Leonora, the principal of my William’s school is named Smith. (A brief return of the red glow)

  LEONORA: Now you’re beginning to misunderstand me. There are lots of perfectly nice Smiths.

  BELINDA: Oh, dear, I’m almost sorry that you told me all this. It’s so upsetting. (Brief intensity of blue; then back to blue glow) Really, one doesn’t know what to do or to think these days.

  LEONORA: The answer to that is this: Don’t try to think, just know what you know, trust to that instinct of yours, and keep your eyes open. You’ll see the Smiths behaving in very Smithy ways wherever you look.

  BELINDA: Oh, I just thought of . . . Who could have been kinder and better than Dr. Buckingham Smith?

  LEONORA: Oh, yes. The one who was so kind to your mother all through her illness?

  BELINDA: He was an angel, a perfect angel. (Strong blue light) Oh, Leonora, it’s so hard to . . . I mean, it’s really hard . . .

  LEONORA: Of course, it’s easiest just to distrust them all.

  BELINDA (No lights on; pause; then thoughtfully): Do you know something? (Green light begins full) I never did really like that school.

  LEONORA: Oh, Belinda, you’ve always been very enthusiastic about it.

  BELINDA: No. From the first day I saw it I knew it wasn’t right. Fortunately I have an instinct for such things . . . Of course, William admires this Mr. . . . this Mr. Blacksmith.

  LEONORA: Smith, dear, Smith.

  BELINDA (Green reduced to red glow): Whatever you call him. William admires him, but, of course, William’s a mere child. Children don’t sense these things. I’ll speak to Wallace about it tonight.

  LEONORA: About what, Belinda?

  BELINDA (Green light full for a moment; harshly): Why, about taking William out of that dreadful place, of course. I’ll speak to him about it this very night.

  (Enter Arthur, carrying a teacup.)

  ARTHUR (Remaining at back of stage): Oh, there you are, Leonora. Can I bring you ladies some tea?

  (All colored lights off.)

  LEONORA: No, Arthur, we’ve had some. Arthur, I want you to meet my sister-in-law, Belinda Watson.

  ARTHUR: Happy to meet you, Mrs. Watson. —I’ll be back in one minute.

  (Exit Arthur.)

  BELINDA (Pleased): Why, who’s that? He seems . . . very nice man . . .

  LEONORA: That’s . . . old friend of my husband’s. That’s Arthur . . . uh . . . I’m surprised you don’t know him. That’s Arthur Smythe.

  BELINDA (Quickly): What? Smythe?! How do you spell it?

  LEONORA: S.M.Y.T.H.E. —Why?

  BELINDA: Leonora!!
(Flare-up of red beside the green glow) That’s the same as Smith, isn’t it?

  LEONORA: Oh, that’s all right. Everybody likes Arthur. I’m glad you’re going to meet him.

  BELINDA: Do you think it wise, dear? (Red glow; green strong) Really, I’d rather not.

  LEONORA: Now, Belinda, you’re getting hysterical. Arthur’s an exceptional person. Wonderful war record. And besides, he’s the best citizen in this town; your own husband says so. He should get all the credit for the new hospital wing.

  BELINDA (Add brief full strength of blue light): But, dear, he’s one of those Smiths!

  (Arthur reappears; he promptly drops his cup and saucer.)

  ARTHUR: Confound it! Holy blazes! If I’m not the awkwardest pigheadedest—

  BELINDA (Brief red flare; pointing dramatically): —Look at that! Look at that!

  (Arthur kneels down and dabs at the floor with his handkerchief. All lights off except a faint green glow.)

  ARTHUR: Have I ruined this rug, Leonora?

  LEONORA: Was there any cream in it?

  ARTHUR: No.

  LEONORA: Then it’s all right. Come over and talk to us.

  ARTHUR (Crossing): Well, at last, I’m very glad to meet you, Mrs. Watson. I’ve been seeing your husband almost every day. In fact, I had lunch with him yesterday.

  BELINDA (Flare-up of red light, then out; very gracious): Did you? How nice!

  ARTHUR: Yes, I was complaining to him that Amelia and I had never had the opportunity to meet you. I asked him: What’s the matter with us?

  (Red and green lights begin to flicker on and off at medium strength. Belinda laughs nervously.)

  Anyway, I think you’re coming to dinner with us next Thursday.

  BELINDA (Flickering continues; charming): Oh, I wish we could. Now, isn’t that too bad! I’m so sorry, but we’re engaged on Thursday.

  ARTHUR: Sorry. However, we’ll hound you until you do come.

  (Belinda laughs prettily.)

  I believe my daughter Helen has been doing her algebra with your daughter Leonora.

  BELINDA (Red and green up): Has she? Has she? Well, I’ve always believed—of course, I may be wrong!—that children should do their homework alone. I certainly hope that I shall have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Black . . . I mean Mrs. . . . I mean Mrs. Smythe some day; but my husband’s been overworking lately—in fact, he’s a perfect wreck—and we almost never go out in the evening.