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ACT ONE

SCENE: The studio-apartment of MARION FROUDE in an old fashioned studio building in West 57th St., New York. A great, cavernous room expressing in its polyglot furnishings the artistic patois of the various landlords who have sublet this apartment to wandering tenants like MARION FROUDE. The styles range from medieval Florence to contemporary Grand Rapids; on a movable raised platform in the center is a papal throne chair in red velvet and gold fringes. Not far from it is an ordinary American kitchen chair. The hanging lamp which sheds a mellow light over a French Empire sofa is filigreed copper Byzantine. Another and longer sofa across the room against the grand piano is in soft green velvet and has the gentility of a polite Park Avenue drawing room. Under the stairs, rear, which go up to MARION'S bedroom, are stacks of her canvases. There is a quite fine wood carving of a Madonna which seems to be centuries old and in the wall spaces looking at audience are great, dim canvases—copies by some former tenant left probably in lieu of rent—of Sargent's Lord Ribblesdale and Mme. X.

Whether it is due to the amenable spirit of the present incumbent or because they are relaxed in the democracy of art, these oddments of the creative spirit do not suggest disharmony. The room is warm, musty, with restful shadows and limpid lights. The enormous leaded window on the right, though some of its members are patched and cracked, gleams in the descending twilight with an opalescent light; even the copper cylinder of the fire extinguisher and its attendant axe, visible in the hall, seem to be not so much implements against calamity, as amusing museum-bits cherished from an earlier time. Every school is represented here except the modern. The studio has the mellowness of anachronism.

There is a door up-stage left leading to the kitchen and MINNIE'S bedroom door, center, under the stairs leads into hall-way. A door on the stair landing, center, leads to MINNIE'S bedroom.

TIME: About five o'clock of an afternoon in November.

AT RISE: RICHARD KURT is finishing a nervous cigarette. He has the essential audacity which comes from having seen the worst happen, from having endured the keenest pain. He has the hardness of one who knows that he can be devastated by pity, the bitterness which comes from having seen, in early youth, justice thwarted and tears unavailing, the self reliance which comes from having seen everything go in a disordered world save one, stubborn, unyielding core of belief—at everything else he laughs, in this alone he trusts. He has the intensity of the fanatic and the carelessness of the vagabond. He goes to the door from the hall and calls.

KURT—Say, you, hello there—what's your name? [MINNIE, Marion Froude's inseparable maid, a German woman of about fifty, comes in. She is indignant at being thus summarily summoned, and by a stranger.]

MINNIE—[With dignity.] My name iss Minnie if you please.

KURT—What time did Miss Froude go out?

MINNIE—About two o'clock.

KURT—It's nearly five now. She should be home shouldn't she?

MINNIE—She said she vas coming home to tea and that iss all I know.

KURT—[Grimly.] I know. She invited me to tea. . . . Where did she go to lunch?

MINNIE—[Acidly.] That I do not know.

KURT—Did someone call for her or did she go out alone? I have a reason for asking.

MINNIE—She went out alone. Any more questions?

KURT—No. I see there's no point in asking you questions.

MINNIE—Denn vy do you ask dem? [The door-bell rings. MINNIE throws up her hands in despair. She goes out muttering: "Ach Gott". KURT is rather amused at her. He lights another cigarette. Sounds of vociferous greeting outside. "Ach mein lieber Herr Feydak. . . ." MELCHIOR FEYDAK, the Austrian composer, comes in. He is forty-five, tall, hook-nosed, thin-faced, a humorist with a rather sad face.]

FEYDAK—Nun, Minnie, und vo is die schlechte. . . .? [MINNIE makes a sign to him not to disclose their free-masonry in the presence of strangers. She is cautious. . . .] Not home yet, eh Minnie? Where is she? Well—well. How do they say—gallivanting—I love that word—gallivanting as usual. Well, I'll wait. It's humiliating—but I'll wait. Chilly! Brr! I don't mind so much being cold in London or Vienna. I expect it. But I can't stand it in New York. [He warms himself before fire.] And who is this young man?

MINNIE—[Shortly.] Ich weiss nicht! . . . Er hat alle fünf minuten gefragt wo sie ist—[She goes out.]

FEYDAK—You've offended Minnie I can see that.

KURT—That's just too bad!

FEYDAK—We all tremble before Minnie. . . . Been waiting long?

KURT—Over half an hour!

FEYDAK—Extraordinary thing—ever since I've known Marion there's always been someone waiting for her. There are two kinds of people in one's life—people whom one keeps waiting—and the people for whom one waits. . . .

KURT—Is that an epigram?

FEYDAK—Do you object to epigrams?

KURT—[With some pride.] I despise epigrams.

FEYDAK—[Tolerantly sizing KURT up.] Hm! Friend of Miss Froude's?

KURT—Not at all.

FEYDAK—That at least is no cause for pride.

KURT—I just don't happen to be that's all.

FEYDAK—I commiserate you.

KURT—I despise gallantry also.

FEYDAK—[Lightly.] And I thought Americans were so sentimental. . . .

KURT—And, together with other forms of glibness, I loathe generalization. . . .

FEYDAK—[Drily.] Young man, we have a great deal in common.

KURT—Also, there is a faint flavor of condescension in the way you say "young man" for which I don't really care. . . .

FEYDAK—[Delighted and encouraging him to go on.] What about me do you like? There must be something.

KURT—If I were that kind your question would embarrass me.

FEYDAK—[Very pleased.] Good for Marion!

KURT—Why do you say that?

FEYDAK—She always had a knack for picking up originals!

KURT—You are under a misapprehension. Miss Froude did not pick me up. I picked her up. [FEYDAK stares at him. This does shock him.] I wrote Miss Froude a letter—a business-letter. She answered and gave me an appointment for four-thirty. It is now after five. She has taken a half-hour out of my life. . . .

FEYDAK—I gather that fragment of time has great value. . . .

KURT—She has shortened my life by thirty minutes. God, how I hate Bohemians!

FEYDAK—[Innocently.] Are you by any chance—an Evangelist?

KURT—I am—for the moment—a business-man. I'm not here to hold hands or drink tea. I'm here on business. My presence here is a favor to Miss Froude and likely to bring her a handsome profit. . . .

FEYDAK—Profit! Ah! That accounts for her being late.

KURT—[Sceptically.] You despise profit I suppose! Are you—by any chance—old-world?

FEYDAK—Young man, your technique is entirely wasted on me. . . .

KURT—Technique! What are you talking about?

FEYDAK—When I was a young man—before I achieved any sort of success—I was rude on principle. Deliberately rude and extravagantly bitter in order to make impression. When it is no longer necessary for you to wait around for people in order to do them favors you'll mellow down I assure you.

KURT—[Fiercely, he has been touched.] You think so, do you! That's where you're mistaken! I'm rude now. When I'm successful I'll be murderous!

FEYDAK—[Genially.] More power to you! But I've never seen it happen yet. Success is the great muffler! Not an epigram I hope. If it is—forgive me. [A moment's pause. KURT studies him while FEYDAK crosses to stove and warms his hands.]

KURT—I know you from somewhere. It's very tantalizing.

FEYDAK—I don't think so. I have only just arrived in this country. . . .

KURT—Still I know you—I'm sure—I've seen you somewhere. . . .

FEYDAK—[Understanding the familiarity.] Maybe you know Miss Froude's portrait of me. . . .

KURT—[Doubtfully.] Yes—maybe that's it . . . may I ask. . . .?

FEYDAK—Certainly. My name is Feydak.

KURT—The composer?

FEYDAK—[Drily.] Yes. . . .

KURT—I thought he was dead. . . .

FEYDAK—That is true. But I hope you won't tell anyone—for I am his ghost. . . .

KURT—[Putting this down for Continental humor and genuinely contrite.] Forgive
me. . . .

FEYDAK—But why?

KURT—If you really are Feydak the composer—I have the most enormous admiration for you. I worship music above everything.

FEYDAK—[Slightly bored.] Go on. . . .

KURT—I read in the paper—you're on your way to Hollywood. . . .

FEYDAK—Yes. I am on my way to Hollywood. . . .

KURT—In the new state men like you won't have to prostitute themselves in
Hollywood. . . .

FEYDAK—Ah! A Utopian!

KURT—Yes. You use the word as a term of contempt. Why? Every artist is a Utopian. You must be very tired or you wouldn't be so contemptuous of Utopians.

FEYDAK—[With a charming smile.] I am rather tired. Old-world you would call it.

KURT—You can be anything you like. . . .

FEYDAK—[Satirically.] Thank you. . . .

KURT—You've written lovely music—I have a friend who plays every note of it. I didn't see your operetta when it was done here. . . . I didn't have the price . . . it was very badly done though, I heard. . . .

FEYDAK—I must explain to you—you are under a misapprehension. . . .

KURT—It was done here, wasn't it?

FEYDAK—Not about the operetta. You are under a misapprehension—about me. I am a composer—but I didn't write "Danubia". That was my brother, Victor Feydak. You are right. He is dead. You are the first person I have met in New York who even suspected it.

KURT—I'm sorry.

FEYDAK—Not at all. I am flattered. At home our identities were never confused. Is this the well-known American hospitality? It is, in some sort, compensation for his death. . . . [KURT is embarrassed and uncomfortable. It is part of his essential insecurity; he is only really at home in protest. He wants to get out.]

KURT—I'm sorry—I. . . .

FEYDAK—[Easily.] But why?

KURT—I think I'll leave a note for Miss Froude—get that girl in here will you?

FEYDAK—Let's have some tea—she's sure to be in any minute. . . .

KURT—No, thanks. And you might tell her for me that if she wants to see me about the matter I wrote her about she can come to my office. . . . [MARION FROUDE comes in. She is one of those women, the sight of whom on Fifth Ave. where she has just been walking, causes foreigners to exclaim enthusiastically that American women are the most radiant in the world. She is tall, lithe, indomitably alive. Unlike KURT, the tears in things have warmed without scalding her; she floats life like a dancer's scarf in perpetual enjoyment of its colors and contours.]

MARION—[To KURT.] I'm so sorry!

FEYDAK—[Coming toward her.] I don't believe a word of it! [She is overjoyed at seeing FEYDAK. She can't believe for a second that it is he. Then she flies into his arms.]

MARION—Feydie! Oh Feydie I've been trying everywhere to reach you—I can't believe it. . . . Feydie darling!

FEYDAK—[Severely.] Is this how you keep a business appointment, Miss Froude?

MARION—How long have you waited? If I'd only known. . . . [Suddenly conscious that KURT had waited too.] Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr.—— Mr.——. . .?

KURT—Kurt. Richard Kurt.

MARION—Oh, of course, Mr. Kurt. I say—could you possibly—would it be too much trouble—could you come back?

FEYDAK—[Same tone.] This young man is here on business. It is more important. I can wait. I'll come back.

MARION—No, no, Feydie—no, no. I can't wait for that. I'm sure Mr. Kurt will understand. Mr. Feydak is an old friend whom I haven't seen in ever so long. It isn't as if Mr. Kurt were a regular business-man. . . .

FEYDAK—[Amused.] How do you know he isn't?

MARION—[Breathless with excitement.] I can tell. He's not a bit like his letter. When I got your letter I was sure you were jowley and you know—[She makes a gesture.] convex. I'm sure, Feydie—whatever the business is—[To KURT.] you did say you had some, didn't you?—I'm sure it can wait. A half hour anyway. Can't it wait a half hour? You see Feydie and I haven't seen each other since. . . .

KURT—Vienna!

MARION—[Astonished.] Yes. How did you know?

KURT—It's always since Vienna that Bohemians haven't seen each other, itsn't it? I'll be back in thirty minutes. [He goes.]

MARION—What a singular young man!

FEYDAK—I've been having a very amusing talk with him. Professional rebel I think. Well, my dear—you look marvelous! [They take each other in.]

MARION—Isn't it wonderful. . . .

FEYDAK—It is nice! [They sit on sofa, MARION left of FEYDAK.]

MARION—How long is it?

FEYDAK—Well, it's since. . . .

MARION—[Firmly.] Since Vicki died.

FEYDAK—That's right. I haven't seen you since.

MARION—Since that day—we walked behind him.

FEYDAK—Yes.

MARION—I felt I couldn't bear to stay on. I left for London that night.

FEYDAK—Yes.

MARION—It's six years isn't it?

FEYDAK—Yes. Six years last June. [A pause.]

MARION—What's happened since then? Nothing. . . .

FEYDAK—How long have you been here?

MARION—Two weeks.

FEYDAK—Busy?

MARION—Not professionally, I'm afraid. People are charming—they ask me to lunch and dinner and they're—"oh, so interested"—but no commissions so far. And God, how I need
it. . . .

FEYDAK—I'm surprised. I gathered you'd been very successful.

MARION—It's always sounded like it, hasn't it? The impression, I believe, is due to the extreme notoriety of some of my sitters. Oh, I've managed well enough up to now—if I'd been more provident I dare say I could have put a tidy bit by—but at the moment people don't seem in a mood to have their portraits done. Are they less vain than they used to be? Or just poorer?

FEYDAK—Both, I think. . . .

MARION—Last time I came here I was awfully busy. Had great réclame because I'd been in Russia doing leading Communists. Obeying some subtle paradox the big financiers flocked to me. Pittsburgh manufacturers wanted to be done by the same brush that had tackled Lenin. Now they seem less eager. Must be some reason, Feydie. But what about you? Let me hear about you. How's Kathie?

FEYDAK—Well. She's here with me.

MARION—And Sadye?

FEYDAK—Splendid.

MARION—She must be a big girl now.

FEYDAK—As tall as you are.

MARION—Kathie used to hate me, didn't she? Frightened to death of me. Was afraid I was after Vicki's money. . . .

FEYDAK—Yes. She was afraid you'd marry him and that we should have less from him. When we knew he was dying she was in a panic.

MARION—Poor dear—I could have spared her all that worry if she'd been half-way civil to me.

FEYDAK—Kathie is practical. And she is a good mother. Those are attributes which make women avaricious. . . .

MARION—Did Vicki leave you very much?

FEYDAK—Not very much. Half to you.

MARION—Really? How sweet of him! How dear of him!

FEYDAK—We've spent it. . . .

MARION—Of course you should.

FEYDAK—But I'll soon be in position to repay you your share. I'm on my way to Hollywood.

MARION—Are you really? How wonderful for you, Feydie! I'm so glad. . . .

FEYDAK—You've been there, haven't you?

MARION—Yes. Last time I was in America.

FEYDAK—Did you like it?

MARION—Well, it's the new Eldorado—art on the gold-rush.

FEYDAK—[With a kind of ironic bitterness.] Vicki left me an inheritance subject, it appears, to perpetual renewal.

MARION—How do you mean?

FEYDAK—Things have been going from bad to worse in Vienna—you haven't been there since '25 so you don't know. The theatre's pretty well dead—even the first-rate fellows have had a hard time making their way. I managed to get several scores to do—but they were not—except that they were failures—up to my usual standard. . . .

MARION—[Laughing, reproachful.] Oh, Feydie . . . !

FEYDAK—If it weren't for the money Vicki left me—and you!—I don't know how we should have got through at all these six years. About a month ago we reached the end of our rope—we were hopelessly in debt—no means of getting out—when the miracle happened. . . . [MARION is excited, touches his knee with her hand.]

MARION—[Murmuring.] I can't bear it. . . .

FEYDAK—It was my dramatic agent on the phone. A great American film magnate was in town and wanted to see me. Ausgerechnet me and no other. Even my agent couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. Why me? I asked. God knows, says the agent. Well, we went around to the Bristol to see the magnate. And, as we talked to him, it gradually became apparent. He thought I was Vicki. He didn't know Vicki was dead! He thought I had written "Danubia".

MARION—Did he say so?

FEYDAK—No—not at all. But as we shook hands at the end he said to me: "Any man that can write a tune like this is the kind of man we want." And he whistled, so out of tune that I could hardly recognize it myself, the waltz from Danubia. Do you remember it? [He starts to hum the waltz and MARION joins him. They hum together, then FEYDAK continues to talk as MARION continues to hum a few more measures.] He was so innocent, so affable that I had an impulse to say to him: "Look here, old fellow, you don't want me, you want my brother and, in order to get him you'll have to resurrect him!" But noble impulses are luxury impulses. You have to be well off to gratify them. I kept quiet. We shook hands and here I am. Tonight they're giving me a dinner at the Waldorf Astoria for the press to meet my brother! Irony if you like, eh, Marion? [There is a pause.]

MARION—Feydie . . . [A moment. He does not answer.] Feydie—do you mind if I say something to you—very frankly?

FEYDAK—I doubt whether you can say anything to me more penetrating than the remarks I habitually address to myself.

MARION—You know Vicki was very fond of you. He used to say you put too high a valuation on genius.

FEYDAK—Because he had it he could afford to deprecate it.

MARION—Over and over again he used to say to me: "You know Marion," he would say, "as a human being Feydie's far superior to me, more amiable, more witty, more talented, more patient. . . ."

FEYDAK—[Shakes his head.] Not true. I simply give the impression of these things. . . .

MARION—You under-rate yourself, Feydie. . . . How this would have amused him—this incident with the Hollywood man!

FEYDAK—[Smiling bitterly.] It would rather. . . .

MARION—Why do you grudge giving him a laugh somewhere? I never had a chance to tell you in Vienna—things were so—so close and terrible—at the end—but he had the greatest tenderness for you. He used to speak of you—I can't tell you how much. "Because of this sixth sense for making tunes which I have and he hasn't," he said to me one day—not a week before he died—"he thinks himself less than me." He used to tell me that everything he had he owed to you—to the sacrifices you made to send him to the Conservatory when he was a boy. . . . The extent to which he had outstripped you hurt him—hurt him. I felt he would have given anything to dip into the golden bowl of his genius and pour it over you. And do you know what was the terror of his life, the obsessing terror of his life—his fear of your resenting him. . . .

FEYDAK—[Moved, deeply ashamed.] Marion. . . .

MARION—Don't resent him now, Feydie. . . . Why, it's such fun—don't you see? It's such a curious, marginal survival for him—that a badly-remembered waltz-tune, five years after his death, should be the means of helping you at a moment when you need it so badly. . . . It's delicious, Feydie. It's such fun! The only awful thing is the possibility that he is unaware of it. It would have pleased him so, Feydie. Must you grudge him it?

FEYDAK—You make me horribly ashamed. . . .

MARION—[Brightly.] Nonsense. . . .

FEYDAK—Because I did grudge him it—yes—I won't, though—I see now that it never occurred to me how . . . [Bursts out laughing suddenly.] God, it is funny, isn't it. . . .

MARION—[Joining in his laughter.] Of course—it's delightful. . . . [They both laugh heartily and long.] And the funny thing is—you'll be much better for them out there than he would have been.

FEYDAK—Surely! They'll be able to whistle my tunes!

MARION—Don't you see!

FEYDAK—Oh, Lieber Schatzel, come out there with me.

MARION—Can't!

FEYDAK—I wish, Marion, you would come. I never feel life so warm and good as when you are in the neighborhood.

MARION—Dear Feydie, you're very comforting.

FEYDAK—Is there someone that keeps you here?

MARION—No, there's no one. I'm quite alone.

FEYDAK—Well then. . . !

MARION—No, this isn't the moment for me, Feydie. Besides, I can't afford the journey. I'm frightfully hard up at the moment.

FEYDAK—Well, look here, I . . .

MARION—No, that's sweet of you but I couldn't.

FEYDAK—I don't see why—it's too silly. . . .

MARION—Vanity. A kind of vanity.

FEYDAK—But I owe it to you!

MARION—I suppose it is foolish in a way—but I've a kind of pride in maneuvering on my own. I always have done it—in that way at least I've been genuinely independent. I'm a little proud of my ingenuity. And do you know, Feydie, no matter how hard up I've been at different times something's always turned up for me. I have a kind of curiosity to know what it will be this time. It would spoil the fun for me to take money from my friends. Nothing—so much as that would make me doubtful of my own—shall we say—marketability?

FEYDAK—Paradoxical, isn't it?

MARION—Why not? Anyway it's a pet idée fixe of mine, so be a darling and let me indulge it, will you, Feydie, and don't offer me money. Anyway, I've a business proposition on. . . .

FEYDAK—Have you?

MARION—That young man who was just here. Do you suppose he'll come back? Now I think of it we were a bit short with him, weren't we? I was so glad to see you I couldn't be bothered with him! [Sound of door-bell.] Ah! You see! [Calls outside.] Show him in, Minnie! [MINNIE comes in and exits hall-door to admit the visitor.]

FEYDAK—What are you doing for dinner?

MARION—There's a young man who attached himself to me on the boat. . . .

FEYDAK—Oh, Marion!

MARION—I seem to attract youth, Feydie. What shall I do about it?

FEYDAK—Where are you dining?

MARION—I don't know. . . . Which speakeasy? Tell me which one and I'll . . . [MINNIE ushers in MR. LEANDER NOLAN. He is middle-aged, ample, handsome. Looks like the late Warren Gamaliel Harding. Soberly dressed and wears a waistcoat with white piping on it. The façade is impeccable but in NOLAN'S eye you may discern, at odd moments, an uncertainty, and almost boyish anxiety to please, to be right, that is rather engaging. MARION, who expected the young man, is rather startled. MR. NOLAN regards her with satisfaction.]

NOLAN—Hello, Marion.

MARION—[Doubtfully, feels she should remember him.] How do you do? Er—will you excuse me—just a second. . .?

NOLAN—[Genially.] Certainly. [He moves right. MARION walks FEYDIE to the hall-door.]

FEYDAK—[Under his breath to her.] Looks like a commission. . . . [She makes a gesture of silent prayer.]

MARION—[Out loud.] Telephone me in an hour will you Feydie, and let me know which speakeasy. . . .

FEYDAK—[Once he has her in the hall-way out of NOLAN'S hearing.] Also, du kommst ganz sicher?

MARION—Vielleicht später. Bye, Feydie dear. [FEYDIE goes out. MARION turns to face NOLAN who is standing with his arms behind his back rather enjoying the surprise he is about to give her.]

NOLAN—How are you, Marion?

MARION—[Delicately.] Er—do I know you?

NOLAN—Yes. You know me.

MARION—Oh yes—of course!

NOLAN—About time!

MARION—[Brightly insecure.] Lady Winchester's garden-party at Ascot—two summers ago. . . .

NOLAN—Guess again!

MARION—No—I know you perfectly well—it's just that—no, don't tell me. . . . [She covers her eyes with her hand, trying to conjure him out of the past.]

NOLAN—This is astonishing. If someone had said to me that I could walk into a room in front of Marion Froude and she not know me I'd have told 'em they were crazy . . .!

MARION—[Desperate.] I do know you. I know you perfectly well—it's just that . . .

NOLAN—You'll be awful sore at yourself—I warn you . . .

MARION—I can't forgive myself now—I know!

NOLAN—I don't believe it!

MARION—The American Embassy dinner in Rome on the Fourth of July—last year—you sat on my right. . . .

NOLAN—I did not!

MARION—[Miserably.] Well, you sat somewhere. Where did you sit?

NOLAN—I wasn't there.

MARION—Well, I think it's very unkind of you to keep me in suspense like this. I can't bear it another second!

NOLAN—I wouldn't have believed it!

MARION—Well, give me some hint, will you?

NOLAN—Think of home—think of Tennessee!

MARION—Oh . . .!

NOLAN—Little Mary Froude. . . .

MARION—[A light breaking in on her.] No! Oh, no!

NOLAN—Well, it's about time. . . .

MARION—But . . .! You were . . .

NOLAN—Well, so were you!

MARION—But—Bunny—you aren't Bunny Nolan, are you? You're his brother!

NOLAN—I have no brother.

MARION—But Bunny—Bunny dear—how important you've become!

NOLAN—I haven't done badly—no. . . .

MARION—Here, give me your coat and hat—[MARION, taking his coat and hat, crosses up-stage to piano, and leaves them there. Laughing, a little hysterical.] You should have warned me. It's not fair of you. Bunny! Of all people—I can scarcely believe it. . . . [A moment's pause. He doesn't quite like her calling him Bunny but he doesn't know how to stop it. She sits on model-stand looking up at him as she says:] You look wonderful. You look like a—like a—Senator or something monumental like that.

NOLAN—[Sits on sofa below piano.] That's a good omen. I'll have to tell Orrin.

MARION—What's a good omen? And who is Orrin?

NOLAN—Your saying I look like a Senator. Because—I don't want to be premature—but in a few months I may be one.

MARION—A Senator!

NOLAN—[Smiling.] Senator. Washington. Not Nashville.

MARION—Do you want to be a Senator or can't you help it?

NOLAN—[To whom this point of view is incomprehensible.] What do you mean?

MARION—I'll paint you, Bunny. Toga. Ferrule. Tribune of the people.

NOLAN—Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. I remember now—you were always sketching me. Sketching everything. Say, you've done pretty well yourself, haven't you?

MARION—Not as well as you have, Bunny. Imagine. Bunny Nolan—a Senator at Washington. Well, well! And tell me—how do I seem to you? You knew me at once, didn't you?

NOLAN—Sure I did. You haven't changed so much—a little perhaps. . . .

MARION—[Delicately.] Ampler?

NOLAN—[Inspecting her.] No . . . not that I can notice. . . .

MARION—[With a sigh of relief.] That's wonderful. . . .

NOLAN—You look just the same. You are just the same.

MARION—Oh, you don't know, Bunny. I'm artful. How long is it since we've seen each other? Twelve years anyway. More than that—fifteen . . .

NOLAN—Just about—hadn't even begun to practice law yet. . . .

MARION—We were just kids . . . children. . . . And now look at you! I can see how successful you are, Bunny.

NOLAN—How?

MARION—White piping on your vest. That suggests directorates to me. Multiple control. Vertical corporations. Are you vertical or horizontal, Bunny?

NOLAN—I'm both.

MARION—Good for you! Married?

NOLAN—Not yet . . .

MARION—How did you escape? You're going to be, though.

NOLAN—I'm engaged.

MARION—Who's the lucky girl?

NOLAN—Slade Kinnicott. Daughter of Orrin Kinnicott.

MARION—Orrin Kinnicott. The newspaper publisher?

NOLAN—Yes. He's backing me for the Senate.

MARION—Well, if he's backing you you ought to get in. All that circulation—not very good circulation is it? Still, one vote's as good as another, I suppose. . . .

NOLAN—[Hurt.] In my own State the Kinnicott papers are as good as any . . .

MARION—Well, I wish you luck. I'm sure you'll have it. My! Senator Nolan!

NOLAN—If I get in I'll be the youngest Senator . . .

MARION—And the best-looking too, Bunny . . .

NOLAN—[Embarrassed.] Well . . .

MARION—You're fussed! How charming of you! [She sits beside him.] Oh, Bunny, I'm very proud of you, really.

NOLAN—You see, Marion, I've been pretty successful in the law. Tremendously successful I may say. I've organized some of the biggest mergers of recent years. I've made a fortune—a sizeable fortune. Well, one day I woke up and I said to myself: Look here, Nolan, you've got to take stock. You've got to ask yourself where you're heading. I'd been so busy I'd never had a chance to ask myself these fundamental questions before. And I decided to call a halt. You've got enough, more than enough for life, I said to myself. It's time you quit piling up money for yourself and began thinking about your fellow-man. I've always been ambitious, Marion. You know that. You shared all my early dreams . . .

MARION—Of course I did. . . .

NOLAN—Remember I always told you I didn't want money and power for their own sakes—I always wanted to be a big man in a real sense—to do something for my country and my time . . .

MARION—Yes. Sometimes you sounded like Daniel Webster, darling. I'm not a bit surprised you're going in the Senate.

NOLAN—I never thought—even in my wildest dreams. . . .

MARION—Well, you see you under-estimated yourself. You may go even higher—the White House—why not?

NOLAN—I never let myself think of that.

MARION—Why not? It's no more wonderful than what's happened already, is it?

NOLAN—[Napoleon at Saint Helena.] Destiny!

MARION—Exactly. Destiny!

NOLAN—[Kind, richly human, patronizing.] And you, my dear . . .?

MARION—As you see. Obscure. Uncertain. Alone. Nowhere at all. Not the remotest chance of my getting into the Senate—unless I marry into it. Oh, Bunny, after you get to Washington will you introduce me to some Senators?

NOLAN—Well, that's premature . . . Naturally if the people should favor me I'd do what I could. I never forget a friend. Whatever faults I may have, disloyalty, I hope, is not one of them.

MARION—Of course it isn't. You're a dear. You always were. [A moment's pause.]

NOLAN—Who was that fellow I found you with when I came in?

MARION—An old friend of mine from Vienna—a composer.

NOLAN—You've been a lot with foreigners, haven't you?

MARION—A good deal . . .

NOLAN—Funny, I don't understand that.

MARION—Foreigners are people, you know, Bunny. Some of 'em are rather nice.

NOLAN—When I'm abroad a few weeks home begins to look pretty good to me.

MARION—I love New York but I can't say I feel an acute nostalgia for Tennessee. [Another pause. He stares at her suddenly—still incredulous that he should be seeing her at all, and that, after all these years and quite without him, she should be radiant still.]

NOLAN—Little Marion Froude! I can't believe it somehow. . . .

MARION—Oh, Bunny! You're sweet! You're so—ingenuous. That's what I always liked about you.

NOLAN—What do you mean?

MARION—The way you look at me, the incredulity, the surprise. What did you expect to see? A hulk, a remnant, a whitened sepulchre . . . what?

NOLAN—[Uncomfortable at being caught.] Not—not at all. . . .

MARION—Tell me, Bunny, what . . .? I won't be hurt . . .

NOLAN—[Miserably, stumbling.] Well, naturally, after what I'd heard . . .

MARION—What have you heard? Oh, do tell me Bunny.

NOLAN—Well, I mean—about your life. . . .

MARION—Racy, Bunny? Racy?

NOLAN—No use going into that. You chose your own way. Everybody has a right to live their own life I guess.

MARION—[Pats his arm.] That's very handsome of you Bunny. I hope you take that liberal point of view when you reach the Senate.

NOLAN—I came here, Marion, in a perfectly sincere mood to say something to you, something that's been on my mind ever since we parted but if you're going to be flippant I suppose there's no use my saying anything—I might as well go, in fact. [But he makes no attempt to do so.]

MARION—[Seriously.] Do forgive me, Bunny. One gets into an idiom that passes for banter but really I'm not so changed. I'm not flippant. I'm awfully glad to see you, Bunny. [An undertone of sadness creeps into her voice.] After all, one makes very few real friends in life—and you are part of my youth—we are part of each other's youth . . .

NOLAN—You didn't even know me!

MARION—Complete surprise! After all I've been in New York many times during these years and never once—never once have you come near me. You've dropped me all these years. [With a sigh.] I'm afraid Bunny, your career has been too much with you.

NOLAN—[Grimly.] So has yours!

MARION—I detect an overtone—faint but un-mistakable—of moral censure.

NOLAN—[Same tone.] Well, I suppose it's impossible to live one's life in art without being sexually promiscuous! [He looks at her accusingly.]

MARION—Oh, dear me, Bunny! What shall I do? Shall I blush? Shall I hang my head in shame? What shall I do? How does one react in the face of an appalling accusation of this sort? I didn't know the news had got around so widely . . .

NOLAN—Well, so many of your lovers have been famous men. . . .

MARION—Well, you were obscure . . . But you're famous now, aren't you? I seem to be stimulating if nothing else . . .

NOLAN—If I had then some of the fame I have now you probably wouldn't have walked out on me at the last minute the way you did . . .

MARION—Dear, dear Bunny, that's not quite—

NOLAN—[Irritated beyond control.] I wish you wouldn't call me Bunny. . . .

MARION—Well, I always did. What is your real name?

NOLAN—You know perfectly well . . .

MARION—I swear I don't. . . .

NOLAN—My name is Leander. . . .

MARION—Bunny, really. . . .

NOLAN—That is my name.

MARION—Really I'd forgotten that. Leander! Who was he—he did something in the Hellespont, didn't he? What did he do in the Hellespont?

NOLAN—[Sharply.] Beside the point. . . .

MARION—Sorry! You say you wanted to tell me something—

NOLAN—[Grimly.] Yes!

MARION—I love to be told things.

NOLAN—That night you left me—

MARION—We'd quarrelled about something, hadn't we?

NOLAN—I realized after you left me how much I'd grown to depend on you—

MARION—Dear Bunny!

NOLAN—I plunged into work. I worked fiercely to forget you. I did forget you—[He looks away from her.] And yet—

MARION—And yet—?

NOLAN—The way we'd separated and I never heard from you—it left something bitter in my mind—something—[He hesitates for a word.]

MARION—[Supplying it.] Unresolved?

NOLAN—[Quickly—relieved that she understands so exactly.] Yes. All these years I've wanted to see you, to get it off my mind—

MARION—Did you want the last word, Bunny dear?

NOLAN—[Fiercely.] I wanted to see you, to stand before you, to tell myself—"Here she is and—and what of it!"

MARION—Well, can you?

NOLAN—[Heatedly, with transparent over-emphasis.] Yes! Yes!

MARION—Good for you, Bunny. I know just how you feel—like having a tooth out, isn't it? [Sincerely.] In justice to myself—I must tell you this—that the reason I walked out on you in the summary way I did was not as you've just suggested because I doubted your future—it was obvious to me, even then, that you were destined for mighty things—but the reason was that I felt a disparity in our characters not conducive to matrimonial contentment. You see how right I was. I suspected in myself a—a tendency to explore, a spiritual and physical wanderlust—that I knew would horrify you once you found it out. It horrifies you now when we are no longer anything to each other. Imagine, Leander dear, if we were married how much more difficult it would be—If there is any one thing you have to be grateful to me for it is that instant's clear vision I had which made me see, which made me look ahead, which made me tear myself away from you. Why, everything you have now—your future, your prospects,—even your fiancée, Leander dear—you owe to me—no, I won't say to me—to that instinct—to that premonition. . . .

NOLAN—[Nostalgic.] We might have done it together. . . .

MARION—I wouldn't have stood for a fiancée, Bunny dear—not even I am as promiscuous as that. . . .

NOLAN—Don't use that word!

MARION—But, Leander! It's your own!

NOLAN—Do you think it hasn't been on my conscience ever since, do you think it hasn't tortured me . . .!

MARION—What, dear?

NOLAN—That thought!

MARION—Which thought?

NOLAN—Every time I heard about you—all the notoriety that's attended you in the American papers . . . painting pictures of Communist statesmen, running around California with movie comedians!

MARION—I have to practice my profession, Bunny. One must live, you know. Besides, I've done Capitalist statesmen too. And at Geneva. . . .

NOLAN—[Darkly.] You know what I mean . . .!

MARION—You mean . . . [She whispers through her capped hand.] you mean promiscuous? Has that gotten around, Bunny? Is it whispered in the sewing-circles of Nashville? Will I be burned for a witch if I go back home? Will they have a trial over me? Will you defend me?

NOLAN—[Quite literally, with sincere and disarming simplicity.] I should be forced, as an honest man, to stand before the multitude and say: In condemning this woman you are condemning me who am asking your suffrages to represent you. For it was I with whom this woman first sinned before God. As an honorable man that is what I should have to do.

MARION—And has this worried you—actually . . .!

NOLAN—It's tortured me . . .!

MARION—You're the holy man and I'm Thais! That gives me an idea for the portrait which I hope you will commission me to do. I'll do you in a hair-shirt. Savonarola. He was a Senator too, wasn't he? Or was he?

NOLAN—[Gloomily contemplating her.] I can't forget that it was I who . . .

MARION—Did you think you were the first, Bunny? Was I so unscrupulously coquettish as to lead you to believe that I—oh, I couldn't have been. It's not like me. [She crosses to right of model stand.]

NOLAN—[Fiercely.] Don't lie to me!

MARION—[Sitting on stand.] Bunny, you frighten me!

NOLAN—[Stands over her almost threateningly.] You're lying to me to salve my conscience but I won't have it! I know my guilt and I'm going to bear it!

MARION—Well, I don't want to deprive you of your little pleasures but . . .

NOLAN—You're evil, Marion. You haven't the face of evil but you're evil—evil!

MARION—Oh, Bunny darling, now you can't mean that surely. What's come over you? You never were like that—or were you? You know perfectly well I'm not evil. Casual—maybe—but not evil. Good Heavens, Bunny, I might as well say you're evil because you're intolerant. These are differences in temperament, that's all—charming differences in temperament.

NOLAN—[Shakes his head, unconvinced.] Sophistry!

MARION—All right, Dean Inge. Sophistry. By the way I've met the Gloomy Dean and he's not gloomy at all—he's very jolly. [Gets up from stand.] Let's have a cup of tea, shall we? Will your constituents care if you have a cup of tea with a promiscuous woman? Will they have to know?

NOLAN—I'm afraid I can't, Marion. I have to be getting on. . . .

MARION—Oh, stay and have some tea—[Makes him sit down.] what do you have to do that can't wait for a cup of tea? . . . [Calls off.] Minnie—Minnie. . . .

MINNIE—[Appears in doorway.] Ja, Fraulein. . . .

MARION—Bitte—tee. . . .

MINNIE—Ja, Fraulein. . . [She goes out. MARION smiles at NOLAN and sits beside him. He is quite uncomfortable.]

NOLAN—[Slightly embarrassed.] About the painting, Marion. . . .

MARION—Oh, I was only joking . . . don't let yourself be bullied into it . . .

NOLAN—I've never been painted in oils. It might do for campaign purposes. And, if I should be elected, it would be very helpful to you in Washington.

MARION—You're awfully kind, Bunny. I must tell you frankly though that the dignified Senatorial style isn't exactly my forte. However, I might try. Yes—I'll try . . . [She gives him a long look.] I'll go the limit on you, Bunny—when I get through with you you'll be a symbol of Dignity. Solid man. No nonsense. Safe and sane. Holds the middle course—a slogan in a frock-coat. I'll make you look like Warren G. Harding—even handsomer—Get you the women's votes.

NOLAN—Well, that'll be very nice of you. . . . [MARION suddenly kisses him.]

MARION—Thank you, darling! [He is very uncomfortable, embarrassed and thrilled.]

NOLAN—Marion . . .!

MARION—Just a rush of feeling, dear!

NOLAN—You understand that this—this commission . . .

MARION—Of course. Strictly business. Don't worry. I shan't kiss you again till it's finished.

NOLAN—I don't know whether I told you—I'm going to be married in a month.

MARION—I'll have the portrait ready for your wedding-day.

NOLAN—And I am devoted to Slade with every fibre of my being. . . .

MARION—Every fibre—how thorough!

NOLAN—I'm not a Bohemian, you know, Marion.

MARION—Don't tell met You're a gypsy! [She continues to study him, poses him, poses his hand. MINNIE enters from left with tea-tray containing tea-pot, cups and saucers, spoons, sugar and cream, and a plate of cakes. She puts tray on model-stand and exits left.] Oh, Bunny, what fun it'll be to do you. Thank you, Minnie. Tell me—how do you see yourself?

NOLAN—What do you mean?

MARION—In your heart of hearts—how do you see yourself? Napoleon, Scipio,
Mussolini . . .?

NOLAN—Nonsense! Do you think I'm an actor?

MARION—Of course. Everybody is. Everybody has some secret vision of himself. Do you know what mine is? Do you know how I see myself? [The door-bell rings.]

NOLAN—[Ironically.] More visitors!

MARION—[Calls to MINNIE.] See who it is, will you, Minnie? . . . Probably the young man I met on the boat coming to take me to dinner.

NOLAN—What's his name?

MARION—I've forgotten. He's just a boy I met on the boat.

NOLAN—How can anybody live the way you live!

MARION—It's a special talent, dear. [Door-bell rings again.] Minnie, go to the door. [MINNIE comes in and exits hall-way.] This is my lucky day, Bunny.

NOLAN—Would you mind, in front of strangers, not to call me Bunny?

MARION—Oh, of course, what is it?

NOLAN—[Irritated.] Leander.

MARION—[Mnemonic.] Leander—Hellespont—Leander. . . . [MINNIE comes down stage a few feet from the door.]

MINNIE—[Just inside the room.] It's the Junge who was here before—er sagt er ist ausgeschifft da—

MARION—Oh, show him in, Minnie, and bring a cup for him too.

MINNIE—[As she goes.] Ja.

NOLAN—And don't use these extravagant terms of endearment—anybody who didn't know you would misunderstand it. . . .

MARION—[Very happy.] All right, darling. [MINNIE ushers in RICHARD KURT, goes out, comes back again with more tea. MARION comes forward to greet him.] I'm so glad to see you again, Mr.——. . . .

KURT—Kurt.

MARION—Oh. . . .

KURT—With a K.

MARION—[Reassured.] Oh—I'll try to remember. This is Senator Nolan—Mr. Kurt. . . .

NOLAN—[Glowering.] I am not Senator Nolan.

MARION—But you will be. [She offers him a cup of tea, he takes it.] Can't I just call you that—between ourselves? It gives me such a sense of quiet power. And maybe it'll impress my visitor. Do have a cup of tea, Mr. Kurt. [She gives him one.]

KURT—[Puts his hat on sofa left.] I am not impressed by politicians. And I didn't come to drink tea. I am here on business. [Nevertheless he takes a hearty sip.]

MARION—Well, you can do both. They do in England. American business-men are so tense.

KURT—I'm not a business-man.

NOLAN—Well, whatever you are, you are very ill-mannered.

KURT—[Pleased.] That's true!

MARION—[Delighted.] Isn't it nice you agree. For a moment I thought you weren't going to hit it off. . . .

NOLAN—In my day if a boy who came in and behaved like this before a lady he'd be horsewhipped.

KURT—Well, when you get into the Senate you can introduce a horsewhipping bill. Probably bring you great kudos.

NOLAN—You talk like a Bolshevik.

KURT—Thank you! You talk like a Senator! [MARION wants to laugh but thinks better of it. She looks at KURT with a new eye.]

MARION—[Quickly offering him more tea.] Another cup, Mr. Kurt. . . .

KURT—[Taking it.] Thank you.

MARION—And one of these cakes—they're very nice . . . Minnie made them—almost as good as lebkuchen. Minnie spoils me.

KURT—[Taking it.] Thank you. [Eats cake.] Having said, from our respective points of view, the worst thing we could say about each other, having uttered the ultimate insult, there's no reason we can't be friends, Senator. Damn good cake. No lunch as a matter of fact.

MARION—That's what's the matter with him—he was hungry—hungry boy. . . .

NOLAN—[Puts tea-cup on piano.] He probably wants to sell you some insurance. . . .

KURT—Not at all. I'm not here to sell. I'm here to buy.

MARION—A picture!

KURT—Do I look like a picture-buyer!

MARION—As a matter of fact you don't . . . but I haven't anything to sell except pictures.

KURT—[Confidantly.] I think you have!

MARION—[To NOLAN.] This young man is very tantalizing.

NOLAN—Well, why don't you ask him to state his proposition and have done with it?

MARION—[Turns to KURT and repeats mechanically.] State your proposition and have done with it.

KURT—[Puts his cup down on table rear of sofa left.] What a nuisance women are!

NOLAN—[Starting toward him.] Why, you insolent young whelp—I've half a mind to . . .

KURT—[Pleasantly.] That's an impulse you'd better control. I wrote to this lady a business letter asking for an appointment. She granted it to me at four o'clock. It is now six. In that interval I've climbed these five flights of stairs three times. I've lost over an hour of my life going away and coming back. An hour in which I might have read a first-class book or made love to a girl or had an idea—an irreparable hour. That's rudeness if you like. It's unbusinesslike. It's sloppy. [To MARION.] Now will you see me alone or will you keep me here fencing with this inadequate antagonist?

MARION—You are unquestionably the most impossible young man I've ever met. Go away!

KURT—Right! [He turns to go and means it and she knows that he meant it. And she is consumed with curiosity. As he goes.] So long, Senator! Yours for the Revolution!

MARION—[As he reaches door, goes after him—pleads pitifully.] Young man! Mr. Nolan is an old friend of mine. I should consult him in any case about whatever business you may suggest. Can't you speak in front of him. [At the same time she shakes her head to him not to go away.]

KURT—I cannot!

MARION—Please wait a minute. . . .

KURT—All right—one. [He picks up a magazine and leafs through it negligently.]

MARION—[To LEANDER.] After all, Leander, I can't afford—it may be something. . . . [She takes his arm and starts walking him to the door, whispering.] I'm just curious to hear what he's got to say for himself. . . .

NOLAN—I'm not sure it's safe to leave you alone with a character like that. . . .

MARION—Minnie's in her room . . . with a bow and arrow!

NOLAN—[Going up to hall-door.] I have to go in any case—I'm late now.

MARION—When will I see you, Bunny? [She is at door with him.]

NOLAN—[Taking up his hat and coat.] I don't know. I'm very busy. I'll telephone you.

MARION—Do. Telephone me tonight. I'll tell you what he said. It'll probably be funny.

NOLAN—[Out loud at KURT.] It pains me, Marion, that you are so unprotected that any hooligan—[KURT turns page of magazine.] can write you and come to see you in your apartment. However, that is the way you have chosen. Good night.

MARION—Good night, dear. Are you in the book? I'll telephone you . . .

NOLAN—[Hastily.] No—no—you'd better not. I shall communicate with you. Good-bye.

KURT—Good-bye, Sir Galahad. [NOLAN starts to retort, changes his mind and, in a very choleric mood, he goes out. There is a pause.]

MARION—Well, I'm afraid you didn't make a very good impression on him!

KURT—[Putting magazine away.] That's just too bad!

MARION—That's no way for a young man to get on in the world—he's a very important person.

KURT—That's what passes for importance. You're not taken in by him, are you? Stuffed shirt—flatulent and pompous—perfect legislator!

MARION—As a matter of fact he's a very nice man—simple and kindly. [Gets cigarettes and offers one to KURT who takes it and lights it. She takes one too but he forgets to light hers.]

KURT—I bet he isn't simple and he isn't kindly. I bet he's greedy and vicious. Anyway he's a hypocrite. When a man starts worrying out loud about unprotected women you may know he's a hypocritical sensualist.

MARION—You're a violent young man, aren't you? [Not getting light from KURT she lights her own. Throwing match to floor.]

KURT—Yes. The world is full of things and people that makes me see red. . . . Why do you keep calling me youth and young man? I'm twenty-five.

MARION—Well, you seem to have the lurid and uncorrected imagination of the adolescent.

KURT—Imagination! That's where you're wrong. I may tell you, Miss Froude, that I'm as realistic as anybody you've ever met.

MARION—[Sitting on up-stage arm of sofa, right.] Anybody who'd be so unreasonable over a nice fellow like Bunny Nolan . . . if you only knew—if only you'd been present at the interview I had with him just before you came. You'd have seen how wrong you are about him. Why, he was—he was awfully funny—but he was also touching.

KURT—You're one of those tolerant people, aren't you—see the best in people?

MARION—You say that as if tolerance were a crime.

KURT—Your kind is. It's criminal because it encourages dishonesty, incompetence, weakness and all kinds of knavery. What you call tolerance I call sloppy laziness. You're like those book-reviewers who find something to praise in every mediocre book.

MARION—You are a fanatical young man.

KURT—Having said that you think you dispose of me. Well, so be it. I'm disposed of. Now, let's get down to business. [His manner plainly says: "Well, why should I bother to convince you? What importance can it possibly have what you think of me?" It is not wasted on MARION.]

MARION—You are also a little patronizing . . .

KURT—[Pleased.] Am I?

MARION—However, I don't mind being patronized. That's where my tolerance comes in. It even amuses me a little bit. [Crossing to piano-seat.] But as I have to change for dinner perhaps you'd better . . .

KURT—Exactly.

MARION—Please sit down . . . [A moment . . . She sits on piano-bench facing him.]

KURT—[Goes to piano and talks to her across it.] I am the editor of a magazine called Every Week. Do you know it?

MARION—It seems to me I've seen it on news-stands. . . .

KURT—You've never read it?

MARION—I'm afraid I haven't.

KURT—That is a tribute to your discrimination. We have an immense circulation. Three millions, I believe. With a circulation of that size you may imagine that the average of our readers' intelligence cannot be very high. Yet occasionally we flatter them by printing the highbrows—in discreet doses we give them, at intervals, Shaw and Wells and Chesterton. So you'll be in good company anyway. . . .

MARION—[Amazed.] I will?

KURT—Yes. I want you to write your biography to run serially in Every Week. Later of course you can bring it out as a book.

MARION—My biography!

KURT—Yes. The story of your life.

MARION—[With dignity.] I know the meaning of the word.

KURT—The money is pretty good. I am prepared to give you an advance of two thousand dollars.

MARION—Good Heavens, am I as old as that—that people want my biography!

KURT—We proceed on the theory that nothing exciting happens to people after they are forty. . . .

MARION—What a cruel idea!

KURT—Why wait till you're eighty. Your impressions will be dimmed by time. Most autobiographies are written by corpses. Why not do yours while you are still young, vital, in the thick of life?

MARION—But I'm not a writer. I shouldn't know how to begin.

KURT—You were born, weren't you? Begin with that.

MARION—I write pleasant letters, my friends tell me. . . . But look here, why should you want this story from me—why should anybody be interested?—I'm not a first-rate artist you know—not by far—I'm just clever. . . .

KURT—[Bluntly.] It's not you—it's the celebrity of your subjects. . . .

MARION—[Amused.] You're a brutal young man—I rather like you . . .

KURT—Well, you've been courageous. You've been forthright. For an American woman you've had a rather extraordinary career—you've done pretty well what you wanted. . . .

MARION—The Woman Who Dared sort-of-thing. . . . Isn't that passé?

KURT—I think your life will make good copy. You might have stayed here and settled down and done Pictorial Review covers of mothers hovering fondly over babies. Instead you went to Europe and managed to get the most inaccessible people to sit for you. How did you do it?

MARION—You'd be surprised how accessible some of these inaccessible people are!

KURT—Well, that's just what I want to get from your story. Just that. Tell what happened to you, that's all. The impulse that made you leave home, that made you go, for instance, to Russia, before the popular emigration set in, that's made you wander ever since, that's kept you from settling down in any of the places where you had a chance to get established.

MARION—[Quite seriously.] But supposing I don't know that. . . .

KURT—Well, that's interesting. That enigma is interesting. Maybe, while writing, you can solve it. It's a form of clarification. The more I talk to you the more I feel there's a great story in you and that you'll have great fun telling it.

MARION—Young man, you make me feel like an institution!

KURT—Should do you a lot of good in your professional career too—we'll reprint the portraits you've made of Lenin, Mussolini, Shaw—anything you like. . . . [She begins to laugh, quietly at first, then heartily.]

MARION—Forgive me. . . .

KURT—[Unperturbed.] What's the matter?

MARION—Something I remembered—the funniest thing—isn't it funny how the oddest things pop into your mind?

KURT—What was it?

MARION—Something that happened years ago. . . .

KURT—What?

MARION—Oh, I couldn't possibly tell you. It wouldn't be fair!

KURT—In that case it'll probably be great for the magazine. Save it!

MARION—[Frightened.] You won't do anything lurid, will you?

KURT—Just print the story—just as you write it—practically as you write it.

MARION—I'm scared! [She puts out her cigarette in ash-tray on the piano.]

KURT—Nonsense. Here's your first check. Two thousand dollars. [He puts the check down on the table in front of her.]

MARION—[Wretched suddenly, picks up check, rises, looks at check.] I can't tell you how old this makes me feel!

KURT—Suppose I asked you to write a novel! That wouldn't make you feel old, would it? Well, I'm simply asking you to write a novel of your life. The only lively reading these days is biography. People are bored with fiction. It's too tame. The fiction-writers haven't the audacity to put down what actually happens to people.

MARION—You may be disappointed, you know. You probably see headlines in your mind. The Woman of a Hundred Affairs, The Last of the Great Adventuresses, The Magda Who Wouldn't Go Home. I promise you—it won't be a bit like that.

KURT—We'll announce it next month—first installment the following month. O.K.?

MARION—[Puts down check, paces down right.] Oh dear! I can't promise a thing like that—I really can't. . . .

KURT—Why not?

MARION—It'll worry me too much.

KURT—Well, don't promise. Just get to work.

MARION—[Faces him.] But what'll I do first?

KURT—[Getting up.] Well, if I were you I'd sit down. [She does so helplessly on piano-bench. KURT then gives her paper, one of his own pencils.] There now! You're all set!

MARION—[Wailing.] How can I go out to dinner—how can I ever do anything—with a chapter to write?

KURT—After all you don't have to make up anything. Just tell what happened to you. [He lights a fresh cigarette.]

MARION—Can I use names?

KURT—When they're prominent, yes. The obscure ones you can fake if you want to. Nobody'll know 'em anyway.

MARION—[Looks at him.] Oh . . . what's your name?

KURT—[Looks at her.] I told you—my name's Kurt.

MARION—I know—with a K—I can't call you Kurt! What's your name?

KURT—[Sulkily.] Richard.

MARION—That's better. I tell you, Dickie, when I think—when I think—of the funny men I've known . . . they're pretty nearly all brothers under the skin you know, Dickie.

KURT—Well, that, as they say in the office, is an angle. [Suddenly her fear vanishes and she is overcome with the marvelous possibilities.]

MARION—[Jumps up and leans toward him as if to kiss him, but quickly thinks better of it.] Dickie, I think it'll be marvelous! It'll be a knockout. And imagine—[Picking up check.] I'm going to be paid for it! Dickie, you're an angel!

KURT—[Sardonically.] That's me! Angel Kurt! Well, so long. I'll be seeing you. [Starts up-stage toward hall-door.]

MARION—[Suddenly panicky.] Oh, don't go!

KURT—You don't think I'm going to sit here and hold your hand while you're remembering your conquests, do you?

MARION—Well, you can't go away and leave me like this—alone with my life. . . .

KURT—Perhaps it's time you got a good, straight, clear-eyed look at it—alone by yourself, without anybody around to hold your hand. . . .

MARION—[Suddenly.] No. I don't want to. [Shrugs her shoulders as if she were cold.] I think it would worry me. Besides, I feel superstitious about it.

KURT—[Following her down stage.] Superstitious!

MARION—Yes. A kind of—ultimate act. After you've written your biography, what else could there possibly be left for you to do?

KURT—Collect material for another!

MARION—What could you do over again—that wouldn't be repetitious? [Sits right arm of sofa right.]

KURT—It's repetitious to eat or to make love, isn't it? You keep on doing it.

MARION—You're cynical!

KURT—[Almost spits it out.] You're sentimental.

MARION—I am—Sentimental Journey—no, that's been used, hasn't it?

KURT—Don't worry about a title—I'll get that from the story after you've finished it.

MARION—There's something about it—I don't know—

KURT—What?

MARION—Vulgar. Everybody spouting memoirs. Who cares?

KURT—Well, wrong hunch! Sorry to have taken your valuable time. Good-bye.

MARION—[The finality frightens her.] What do you mean?

KURT—[He is withering—crosses to her.] I'm prepared to admit I was mistaken—that's all. In your desire to escape vulgarity you would probably be—thin. You might even achieve refinement. I'm not interested. Padded episodes hovering on the edge of amour—

MARION—[Turns on him.] Young man, you're insufferable!

KURT—And you're a false alarm!

MARION—[After a moment.] I congratulate you! You've brought me to the verge of losing my temper! But I tell you this—you're quite mistaken about the character of my life—and about my relations with my friends. My story won't be thin and episodic because my life hasn't been thin and episodic. And I won't have to pad—the problem will be to select. I'm going to write the damn thing just to show you. Come in tomorrow afternoon for a cocktail.

KURT—Whose memoirs are these going to be, yours or mine?

MARION—Well, you're an editor, aren't you? [She smiles at him.] Come in and edit.

KURT—All right, I'll come. But if you aren't here I'll go away. I won't wait a minute. [He goes out quickly. MARION stands looking after him, inclined to laugh, and yet affected. This is a new type even for her.]

MARION—[She speaks to herself.] What an extraordinary young man! [In a moment KURT comes back in. MARION is very glad to see him, greets him as if there had been a long separation.] Oh, hello!

KURT—[Embarrassed.] I forgot my hat! [He can't see it at once.]

MARION—[Without moving nor looking away from him, she indicates the hat on the sofa left.] There it is! Right next to mine.

KURT—[Crosses for it.] Oh yes. [Picks up the hat.] Thanks. [For a moment he stands uncertainly, hat in hand, looking at MARION who has not taken her eyes off him. He is embarrassed.] Well, so long!

MARION—So long. [KURT leaves again. She stands as before looking after him. She turns toward the piano—sees the check—picks it up and reads it to make sure it's true. The whole thing has a slightly fantastic quality to her. She is very happy and excited. She waves the check in her hand like a pennant and humming she crosses to the piano seat and sits and plays the waltz from "Danubia." She sees the pad and pencil on the piano and stops playing and picking up the pencil and the pad she crosses to the small arm chair in the upstage end of the window and sits with her feet on the window seat. She repeats the first words of the first chapter aloud to herself as she writes them down.] I am born . . . [MINNIE enters from door left to get the tea things she had left on the model stand. MARION taps the pencil on the pad as she repeats the words:] I am born . . . [The time seems remote to her.] I am born—I meet Richard Kurt—Well, Minnie, here's the outline—I am born . . . I meet Richard Kurt—now all I have to do is to fill in. . . . [MINNIE, used to having irrelevancies addressed to her, takes this program rather stolidly.]

MINNIE—Was, Marion?

MARION—[Trying to get rid of her.] Fix something light, will you, Minnie . . . I'm not going out.

MINNIE—Aber der Junge kommt!

MARION—What Junge?

MINNIE—Der Junge dem sie. . .

MARION—Oh, yes! The Junge I met on the boat. You'll have to send him away. I can't go out tonight. From now on, Minnie, no more frivolous engagements!

MINNIE—[Astonished.] Sic bleiben ganzen abend zu Hause!

MARION—Yes, Minnie. I'm spending the evening alone with my life . . . [She remembers KURT'S words and repeats them as if, after all, they have made a profound impression on her.] . . . get a good, straight, clear-eyed look at it . . .

MINNIE—[Picks up the tea tray and bustling toward the kitchen, promising delights.] Ein fleisch brühe und pfannkuchen! . . . [MINNIE exits door left.]

MARION—[Already brooding over her past.] I am born. . . .

[Slowly the CURTAIN falls.]

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