Index     1     2     3

ACT ONE

SCENE: The living room of one of CLAY RAINIER's homes, this one on a hilltop outside a small mining town in Northern Mexico.

It is a mellow afternoon in the Autumn of 1945. RAINIER has amused himself by modernizing the manor-house on an old Mexican hacienda. Against the mellow, weathered native stone of walls and stairs gleam chromium and mirrored fixtures; Indian-woven tapestries of ancient design hang between severely modern electric wall-sconces; a beautiful stone figure of a woman with child, copied from the Mayan, rests on an indentation in the heavy stone balustrade of the staircase. The rear wall has been almost entirely removed and replaced by great, sliding tablets of plate-glass, curtained with hand-blocked Fortuny. The general effect is a little startling at first; the impact of Gropius on Aztec. In the daytime the semi-transparent inner curtains are drawn across this glass façade to temper the sun. Through these curtains we occasionally see Mexican servants coming and going, trimming the shrubbery, etc.

ROBERT, the family butler, an old man in a black alpaca coat, is showing in JIM BAIRD. JIM is about thirty-five, negligently dressed, and has seen enough not to expect very much.

JIM—Thank you very much, Robert. I telephoned Miss Zelda. Is she in?

ROBERT—I believe she is. I'll just see.

JIM—Is Mrs. Rainier at home?

ROBERT—I'm sorry, sir. She's in the village on her rounds.

JIM—Today is her day, is it?

ROBERT—[With a friendly smile] Yes, sir. Almost every day is her day.

JIM—[Smiles back] I see!

ROBERT—[Going toward the terrace] I believe Miss Zelda's sitting by the pool—I'll just see. [He sees ZELDA coming in] Oh, yes. [He calls to her] Miss Zelda!

ZELDA—[Offstage] Yes?

ROBERT—Mr. Baird is here.

ZELDA—[In delighted surprise, as she comes running in from the garden] Oh! Jim! [ROBERT stands aside to let ZELDA pass. She rushes to greet JIM. ROBERT goes out by way of the terrace. ZELDA is twenty, very attractive, precocious, all out for "experience"; somehow callous and tremulous, headlong and cautious, at the same time. JIM and ZELDA greet each other warmly, but there is an element of constraint.] Jim! How nice! How very nice! Hello, Jim.

JIM—[Quizzically] How are you, Zelda?

ZELDA—Fine! Missed you very much!

JIM—Well—that's nice. I wasn't sure you would.

ZELDA—How did you find things up North?

JIM—Loved it. [A faintly embarrassed silence] You know, I've been at the Embassy in Mexico City for nearly a year now, but I feel that this is my first bowing acquaintance with the real Mexicans.

ZELDA—Like them, do you?

JIM—They're so warm and human they win your heart.

ZELDA—How about a drink?

JIM—How'd you guess? Where's Ferne? [ZELDA goes to the bar and mixes drinks.]

ZELDA—In the village—shedding philanthropy. Why am I never moved by the impulse to do something for the natives? What is wrong with me?

JIM—[Jibing] I have made that inquiry about you many times during these last six weeks—but the question was not sociological. [He sits on the sofa.]

ZELDA—No, what was it? And to whom did you make it?

JIM—To myself. I was the only one up there—in that strictly agricultural region, who knew you. Therefore, the discussions about you had to be with myself. Some fascinating dialogues.

ZELDA—[She wants to hear the worst] Really? That's nice. I love to be talked about. Tell me—what did you say to yourself? Tell me both sides. [She sits on the sofa beside him.]

JIM—[Taunting] Sometimes the discussions took a form extremely elementary. Of the she loves me, she loves me not variety. Sometimes they were more complex.

ZELDA—How interesting! Tell me the more complex.

JIM—Well—[Turning away as though preparing to tell her something very serious—then suddenly, teasingly] Oh, no, I don't know you well enough.

ZELDA—I'm awfully fond of you, Jim—the last time you were here, we had an awful quarrel—what was it about?

JIM—I can't remember. [They both laugh.]

ZELDA—But when I heard your voice on the telephone—my heart missed a beat.

JIM—So did mine.

ZELDA—[Leans close to him] Dear Jim!

JIM—You've certainly got staying power, Zelda. Six weeks of separation and you still remember me! There are no lovers like that any more, in these shallow modern times. Do you think so? Why, compared to us, Paolo and Francesca, Tristan and Isolde, Pyramus and Thisbe, why, compared to us, they were just fly-by-nights, casual week-enders, amorous vagabonds.

ZELDA—I've been thinking about you too, Jim, in these six weeks—And do you know what I've decided?

JIM—What?

ZELDA—That you're incurably—[Hesitates.]

JIM—Say it, Zelda, I'm braced—

ZELDA—[Smiling] Respectable—

JIM—Not that, Zelda. Anything but that! Let me be a Bolshevik, a New Dealer, a rising young diplomat, but not that, Zelda, not that.

ZELDA—[Teasingly still] Yes. Very, very respectable!

JIM—Well, it was all a great misunderstanding. You wanted lovemaking, and I fell in love. I wanted marriage. All I achieved was conquest. Pretty good dividend at that!

ZELDA—Are you trying to be cruel?

JIM—You accepted me so quickly, I wasn't prepared when you rejected me, well—even more abruptly. You know, you blow hot and cold. You love me and you don't love me. You're—intermittent. When are you going to commit yourself finally?

ZELDA—The simple fact is—

JIM—Well, what exactly—

ZELDA—I'm not ready for marriage yet.

JIM—[With mock respect] A Rainier, I suppose, requires immense preparation. Although your father doesn't. Ferne is his third. His tempo is terrific.

ZELDA—[Repelled by this reference to her father] Let's talk about something else—Do you mind?

JIM—By all means. Say—er—what is the latest gossip?

ZELDA—Let's see—We have a fascinating new house guest—

JIM—Ah! My successor!

ZELDA—Not yet—

JIM—Who is this mediocrity who presumes to follow a figure cast in the heroic mold like myself?

ZELDA—Whatever you may say about him he is no mediocrity. [Lies on the sofa in a seductive attitude] Miguel Riachi—

JIM—The Riachi?

ZELDA—The Riachi.

JIM—Oh, I've met him, I've been at his studio.

ZELDA—[Boastfully] Father's going to send him up home to do a mural in the University Library—Miguel in Oak Lawn, Illinois. I can't wait, can you?

JIM—I should think Riachi, from what I know of his political coloration and his professional pigment, would be the last man to enhance the virgin walls of a Presbyterian college—

ZELDA—Enhance them? He'll rape them! He's quite a character. Always asking you pointed questions. He psychoanalyzes you without making you lie down.

JIM—Well, don't give up hope—that will come later—

ZELDA—Me? I'm afraid not—I think Ferne is more his type.

JIM—Why don't you change your type?

ZELDA—Mr. Baird—are you angling to be rid of me—

JIM—Miss Rainier, you're in my blood—

ZELDA—[Edges very close to him] Really? Wonderful location! Oh, Jim, I love being with you but why must you be so austere—

JIM—Would you describe our brief but inflammatory romance as austere?

ZELDA—Anything but—anything but—Darling—don't you want to—you haven't—[She kisses him.]

JIM—[Putting his arms about her] You took the words right out of my mouth.

ZELDA—Did I?

JIM—You did. [They kiss again. MIGUEL RIACHI enters. RIACHI is in his late thirties, swarthy, humorous, intense, jovial, outgiving; his dark eyes dart everywhere. So does his body; his movements are quick, his manner uninhibited. He wears his work clothes, and carries a roll of canvases. He sees JIM and ZELDA engaged on the sofa; passes swiftly behind them to the stairs. Half-way up the stairs he turns and greets them.]

MIGUEL—Oh, excuse!

ZELDA—[Coming up for air] Miguel! Don't run away.

MIGUEL—[Comes down. Peers at JIM] This is new one?

ZELDA—On the contrary, it's an old one. A six weeks old one. Mr. Riachi—Mr. Baird.

JIM—[Rises, shakes hands with MIGUEL] How do you do? How many new ones have you observed, Mr. Riachi?

ZELDA—Miguel, discretion!

MIGUEL—I knew with her there was stumbling block, and now he materializes.

ZELDA—Physical attraction—otherwise incompatible.

MIGUEL—Better as the other way around—no?

ZELDA—Not sure!

MIGUEL—Take my word—the other way around I have try—no good—no good at all.

JIM—Mr. Riachi—you don't remember me. No reason why you should, but we've met.

MIGUEL—So? Wait—ah, yes—you come to my studio?

JIM—Yes, last February, I came with the American Ambassador.

MIGUEL—I remember perfect. [Shakes hands with JIM.]

JIM—You should go, Zelda—quite a spectacle. The studio full of people—yet he went on working full tilt. The seventh degree of concentration.

MIGUEL—In my studio always the peons drop in and visitors from the States and they lounge conversing. Once I have my conception no one can disturb. You may perform most abandoned danse-à-ventre and I do not flick my eyelash.

ZELDA—That's the height of something or other—[Links her arm with MIGUEL'S] Oh, Miguel, I adore you!

MIGUEL—You do?

ZELDA—Yes.

MIGUEL—You hear? She adores me. Watch my step.

JIM—I've been up North, Mr. Riachi.

MIGUEL—So? Where? Where were you?

JIM—All along up the river.

MIGUEL—I have a cousin there—farmer.

JIM—I'm sure I met him. Everybody there is everybody's cousin.

MIGUEL—Do you think you are able to do anything for them, Mr. Baird?

JIM—Unfortunately, Mr. Riachi, I went up there not in behalf of your countrymen but in behalf of mine—

MIGUEL—When you say countryman, you mean one countryman and you mean the father of our Zelda.

JIM—Quite right.

MIGUEL—I know these missions to investigate, find out. You find out what before you start you know already you must discover.

JIM—There, my dear Riachi, in one scaring sentence, you have pulverized my little career.

MIGUEL—At least you are honest. [Turns to ZELDA] Zelda, when your father comes back from Washington?

ZELDA—Any minute. He's flying. I've just had a wire from him.

MIGUEL—Good. I have ask him to get me also job in Washington.

JIM—What sort of job?

MIGUEL—I wish to do mural on the walls of your Federal Treasury demonstrate accurate profit-motive how he stink! [JIM laughs; he is taken by MIGUEL. MIGUEL feels it, turns to ZELDA] Zelda, I like him. I like him—why you don't—

ZELDA—You give me up too easily, Miguel, but I don't give you up so easily.

JIM—I knew I'd lost her, but at least it's to a first-rate man.

ZELDA—Toss a coin, boys, gamble for me.

JIM—I must have lost her to somebody. Didn't you notice anything, Mr. Riachi, while I was away?

MIGUEL—I notice.

JIM—What did you notice?

MIGUEL—With this Zelda here, I have try and you do not lose, you do not win. Is pleasant. Is nice condition. Gives hope. The hope is not realize but is pleasant anyway, to hope—I go wash myself up. Excuse! [He beams at them and runs upstairs.]

ZELDA—[The moment MIGUEL is gone] What did Miguel mean exactly?

JIM—By what?

ZELDA—About your mission up North? When he said you find out what you want to find out—he implied—

JIM—He certainly did. And he's damn well right. He's seen the emissaries of our great Republic come and go, striding through his little one, seeking, and damn well finding, justification for our depredations, great and small.

ZELDA—[Dangerously] Depredations? Did you say depredations?

JIM—That's what I said.

ZELDA—I don't like it, Jim. There is an implication in it about Father which is unjust and untrue.

JIM—Does my memory deceive me, or was it your father we quarreled about last time?

ZELDA—The plain truth is, you didn't hit it off with Father.

JIM—The plain truth is, he didn't hit it off with me.

ZELDA—Poor Father! How will he survive!

JIM—I know he's a kind of an interesting combination of robber-baron and aesthete—Is he also God?

ZELDA—My father is a man of scope, of stature, who's done things in the world. Acknowledged by everybody. It's there to see. It's there to read. While you—

JIM—Personally, I find your father very entertaining. I disapprove of him on theory.

ZELDA—Who lives their lives on theory?

JIM—We all do. You do. When you order your dinner it's on the theory that you are going to be solvent enough to pay for it and alive to eat it.

ZELDA—My father is a big man cutting a great swathe in the world, while you—

JIM—While I'm a little man pushing a rusty lawn-mower—

ZELDA—You may joke, but it's something like that. God knows I gave myself to you completely. But all along, I've felt something in you mean and petty!

JIM—Say, what would you do for a fellow you really liked? How could he tell?

ZELDA—[Flaring up] You and me, Jim—it's—no good—you understand that? It's no good.

JIM—Maybe you're right. Anyway you know what you're up against.

ZELDA—Yes, I do! And I don't want it. No part of it. [They face each other, enemies. FERNE DUNNIGAN comes in, followed by ROBERT and a Mexican MAID-SERVANT carrying packages. FERNE hands her packages to ROBERT when she sees JIM. ROBERT and the girl go upstairs. FERNE is thirty, vibrant, lovely. She wears a simple linen dress.]

FERNE—[Running across the room to greet JIM] Jim, how wonderful!

JIM—Hello, Ferne—

FERNE—Hello, Zelda.

ZELDA—You might as well know it, Ferne, Jim and I have just said good-bye forever.

FERNE—Between lovers, that's not long.

ZELDA—I'm going to the airport to meet Father. Come along, Ferne?

FERNE—[Surprised] Is Clay coming? How do you know?

ZELDA—He wired me. Didn't he you?

FERNE—[With assumed casualness] No. He didn't.

ZELDA—Guess he expected me to tell you. Come along. Surprise him.

FERNE—I'll stay and talk to Jim.

JIM—Don't bother about me. I'm on my way.

FERNE—Nonsense. You're staying for dinner. Don't you have to see Clay?

JIM—I could speak to him on the telephone.

FERNE—You'll do no such thing. You'll stay and dine.

ZELDA—I've got to go.

FERNE—[Walks her to hall door] Run along. I'll soften him up. By the time you get back, you'll both see "forever" in truer perspective.

ZELDA—Good-bye, Ferne.

FERNE—Good-bye, darling! Well, Jim! It's so nice to see you. It's so good to have you back! How was your trip up North?

JIM—[Laconically] Interesting.

FERNE—[Smiles at him] You've become a man of few words, Jim. You weren't like that when I was your childhood sweetheart and you used to take me to dances at Oak Lawn High School. I suppose it's diplomatic reticence. Still, you needn't put that on with me. I'm not a hostile country. What's up with you and Zelda?

JIM—I am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that Zelda and I are through.

FERNE—What of it? Start over again.

JIM—I've always felt with Zelda that I wasn't quite measuring up to some impossible ideal she had in her mind. Now I know what it is—it's her father.

FERNE—She adores her father. It's understandable. But you stick to Zelda. She's done a great deal of floundering. Stick to her. Save her.

JIM—I'm not a salvationist. I work for the State Department. Why didn't you marry me in the first place, Ferne? Then I wouldn't have gotten into this mess. [Starts to go] Well, I've got to be getting back to the hotel.

FERNE—I won't hear of it. You're staying for dinner.

JIM—[Suddenly] All right.

FERNE—Thank you, Jim.

JIM—You see I'm hard to get. You have to ask me.

FERNE—You know, Jim, when you first came here six weeks ago, although I hadn't seen you in ten years, I can't tell you how happy I was; all the past came back at me with a rush. I was prepared to begin where we left off. When Dad—When that terrible thing happened to me with Dad—you sent me such a wonderful warm letter.

JIM—Well, your father wasn't so bad, you know, Ferne. He was a victim of circumstances—a victim of his era—

FERNE—Were you surprised when I married Clay?

JIM—That's putting it mildly.

FERNE—So was I. It bowled me over. I'd like you to see him as I see him. I'll never forget, Jim, the first time I met Clay. You know what the Rainiers meant in Oak Lawn.

JIM—Oh, yes. The fame of that Art collection to which you were admitted once a year—by card only—Who would have thought that one day you would be added to it?

FERNE—Least of all me. You see when Dad—when Dad went to prison, I was pretty sunk. You know what Oak Lawn is. I couldn't take it. I ran away. I got a job as Assistant to Dr. Valey in the Archaeological Institute in Brooklyn—The day I left there wasn't a soul at the station to see me off. I remember thinking: "If Jim were here, he'd see me off." You were the only one I could bear.

JIM—Was Brooklyn any better?

FERNE—Brooklyn was heaven. Dr. Valey was heaven. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to work for a man who was convinced that everything that happened after the Ming Dynasty was hopelessly trivial and uninteresting. Do you know Sally Markham?

JIM—[Nods] Art Editor of the Courier?

FERNE—That season she was pushing those fantastic Mirillon sculptures. She asked me to come to a cocktail party. I hadn't been to such a thing in years. I remember I had to push myself to go. Well, I was standing before a bronze with an abdominal pain—I mean the bronze had the pain—when a man came up to me. "You," he said, "are far lovelier than anything here. My name is Clay Rainier. Will you have dinner with me?"

JIM—Nothing wrong with his aesthetic sense.

FERNE—Considering that most of those sculptures looked like enlargements of things in bottles, it wasn't much of a compliment. The odd thing is, Clay never asked me who I was. Finally I told him. "I'm from your home town," I said, "I'm from Oak Lawn. Ferne Dunnigan. I'm Jim Dunnigan's daughter." I watched. His expression didn't change. "Are you?" he said, as if I'd said Judge Parker's daughter—

JIM—Admitted you to the human race, did he?

FERNE—He was warm and understanding. "Your father was a friend of my father's," he said. "A very colorful character, I've always heard. My father was very fond of him." Right then it happened, Jim. From that moment, I fell madly in love with him.

JIM—You don't have to justify yourself to me, Ferne.

FERNE—I'm going to get you over your antagonism to Clay, Jim, if it's the last thing I do.

JIM—Why bother?

FERNE—Clay's egotistical, but it's the reverse side of his ability. He's self-willed, but it's natural because nothing's ever stopped him. Why are you so set against him?

JIM—[Won't be forced] How do you like Mexico, Ferne? Picturesque, isn't it? Have you ever been in Peru? Lima's an interesting city.

FERNE—Jim Baird, are you moving ponderously from one subject to another?

JIM—There's an old town and a new town—

FERNE—I won't play, Jim. You won't switch me off, Jim—[Flurry of people coming, outside. CLAY'S voice is heard above it.]

CLAY'S VOICE—[Offstage] Ten thousand foot ceiling, and tail winds all the way—marvelous trip, Zelda—[FERNE crosses to meet CLAY as he comes in, followed by ZELDA, ROBERT, and servants carrying baggage. CLAY RAINIER is fifty, tired from his trip, but with a dynamism that nothing can down. He goes to FERNE, embraces her. ROBERT and the servants go upstairs with the luggage.]

CLAY—[Embracing FERNE] Hello, Ferne. How're you bearing up?

FERNE—Hello, darling. How are you?

CLAY—[Shakes hands with JIM] Well, Baird, greetings—

JIM—How are you?

CLAY—You're looking very fit.

JIM—Thank you, Mr. Rainier.

FERNE—You must be tired, Clay.

CLAY—A bit cramped! You get up there in the stratosphere with the universe before you, but you can't stretch your legs.

FERNE—[Maneuvering him to sofa] Stretch them here, darling. [CLAY loosens his tie, relaxes on the sofa. FERNE and ZELDA hover round him. ZELDA hands him a drink.]

CLAY—[Taking glass] Thank you, darling. How did you know? You know, I clipped an hour and a quarter off my previous record down here. Had dinner last night in Washington, in Senator Selby's suite. Here forty minutes ago. Non-stop. I submit to everybody that's not bad.

FERNE—We agree it's very good. Don't we, Zelda?

ZELDA—Try not to! [CLAY laughs.]

CLAY—Commander Nissen flew down with me. You know, he says I've got a marvelous sense of depth. Never saw anyone land a plane better. Not bad considering that six years ago I'd never been up.

FERNE—What do you think about that, Zelda?

ZELDA—We think that's very good, too.

CLAY—You see, Mr. Baird, they make you comfortable physically, but, mentally, they undermine you!

ZELDA—We do our best but we don't get very far. He comes up smiling!

FERNE—Did you have fun in Washington?

CLAY—It was fun showing those legislative super-minds how to get things done quickly. The simple fact is, the brains of America don't go into politics—they go into industry. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Baird, but you know that's the truth.

JIM—You don't step on my toes, Mr. Rainier. I'm not in politics. I'm in diplomacy.

CLAY—I'm afraid I took a shy step in that direction, too, Mr. Baird. I'm afraid I outmaneuvered you in Washington. Will you mind very much?

JIM—Not at all. Gives me a precedent to out-maneuver you. [This doesn't go down very well. CLAY sits up a bit. ZELDA too is annoyed.]

ZELDA—[To change the subject] Did you get Miguel that job to do a Communist mural in the Federal Treasury?

CLAY—They don't need a Communist mural in the Federal Treasury. They're way ahead of him up there! By the way, how is Miguel? What's he up to?

FERNE—I got him to decorate the local schoolhouse. [Anxious to patch up JIM and ZELDA, and to get a minute alone with her husband] Why don't you drive Jim down to see it, Zelda?

ZELDA—Would you like to go, Jim?

JIM—Well—if you want to—

ZELDA—Come on! Armed truce.

FERNE—Don't be late for dinner.

JIM—No, we won't—[ZELDA goes out.]

CLAY—[As JIM reaches the door] I'd like to have a few minutes with you before dinner, Mr. Baird. Want to hear about that report on me you're preparing.

JIM—Maybe we ought to wait till after dinner, Mr. Rainier.

CLAY—Why? Will it spoil my dinner? All right. Have it your way. After dinner.

JIM—Any time you like. Will you excuse me?

CLAY—Certainly. Have a good time. [CLAY smiles winningly at JIM as he goes out. The minute the door is closed on JIM he turns to FERNE] Puny little chap, isn't he?

FERNE—I like Jim very much.

CLAY—Oh, I keep forgetting. Old friend of yours, isn't he? Comes from our home town. Nevertheless, he is a puny little man. No guts to him. Moons about.

FERNE—I like Jim very much.

CLAY—Do my ears deceive me, Ferne, or are you saying the same thing all the time?

FERNE—Yes, it's true. With other people I can be quite lively. But you make me feel stupid.

CLAY—Ferne! [ROBERT comes down the stairs with bathrobe.]

FERNE—Don't you want to go up for a rest?

CLAY—Rest! Certainly not! I'm going for a swim. Here I am, fifty—and yet inexhaustible. [Smiles at her; takes the bathrobe from ROBERT] What shall I do about it? Thank you, Robert. [ROBERT goes out.]

FERNE—How long are you staying this time, Clay?

CLAY—Until tomorrow. Flying to Buenos Aires.

FERNE—Must it be tomorrow? Couldn't you postpone it a few days?

CLAY—Awfully sorry. That's impossible.

FERNE—When will you be back?

CLAY—Can't tell, exactly. Few weeks.

FERNE—Clay, please, take me along with you.

CLAY—Awfully sorry, Ferne. Plane'll be full of mining engineers. They talk in blue-prints—would bore you to death. [As he starts for terrace, is struck by something, turns] Oh, by the way, Ferne. On the way here from the airport, Zelda told me she and Baird had parted forever. Wise decision. Yet he's here. Why?

FERNE—I persuaded him to stay.

CLAY—Why did you?

FERNE—When Jim was here before he went North six weeks ago, he and Zelda—

CLAY—Well?

FERNE—Well, they clicked. I felt it was right, somehow.

CLAY—Right for Mr. Baird, perhaps, but not for Zelda.

FERNE—Zelda didn't seem to think so.

CLAY—Yet she just told me—

FERNE—Lover's quarrel. She should marry Jim. He'll make her happy.

CLAY—Tell me, Ferne, do you think this is a romantic flirtation—or something deeper?

FERNE—Much, much deeper.

CLAY—[Incredulous] Do you think so, really?

FERNE—Yes, I do.

CLAY—[Half to himself] My God, I thought she was more fastidious than that. [Laughing it off] Well—I'm going for a swim.

FERNE—[As he turns to go, stops him] Clay!

CLAY—Yes, my dear?

FERNE—I've simply got to speak to you.

CLAY—[Faintly irritated; he hates to be held up when he is going somewhere] What about?

FERNE—[With a little laugh] You're so overpowering—when I'm with you I feel as though I'm walking around in a trance. Clay, lately—my marriage to you seems to be just a series of interludes between arrivals and departures. It's rather—

CLAY—Well, why don't you fill it? I fill mine.

FERNE—[Takes his arm and walks him back into the room] During the war I managed. I was busy with war work—

CLAY—And a great job of it, too. Universal applause.

FERNE—Thank you, Clay. But now—here—

CLAY—Well, don't expect me to start another war, my dear. It will come, all right, but not right away.

FERNE—[Decides this is not the moment] All right, Clay. Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.

CLAY—Don't you find enough to do here?

FERNE—I do what I can. Among other things I teach English to the children. I've got one little boy that's as bright as a button. Adorable. He wrote a composition describing me. Very flattering. He said I was like Popocatepetl. You didn't think of me as quite so mountainous, did you, Clay?

CLAY—[Banteringly] Less volcanic, I hope. Now, don't worry, my dear. No problem is insoluble, especially yours. About being unemployed, I mean. I'll put my mind on it—tax it to its fullest capacity. [At terrace door, stops] I may even call the Secretary of Labor for you. [He goes out. FERNE, left alone, reflecting on her failure to state her case adequately, rather smiles at herself. She sits on the sofa considering how she might have done it better. ROBERT comes down.]

ROBERT—[As he passes her] Mr. Rainier's arrival was quite unexpected, Madam.

FERNE—[Covering up] It's my fault, Robert. Mr. Rainier did wire me, but I forgot to tell you. I hope you've got everything under control.

ROBERT—Everything is quite in order, Madam. [He starts out, hesitates a moment.]

FERNE—What is it, Robert?

ROBERT—May I wish you many happy returns of the day, Madam? [MIGUEL comes downstairs, stops halfway, listens] My notebook tells me it's your birthday.

FERNE—So it is! Oh! Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed. It's really very nice of you to remember, Robert.

ROBERT—Your last birthday, I remember, we were at Palm Beach.

FERNE—Were we? So we were! And the birthday before that?

ROBERT—Del Monte, Madam.

FERNE—So we were.

ROBERT—Anything further, Madam?

FERNE—No, thank you, Robert. [ROBERT goes out. FERNE, in a brown study on the sofa, is a little startled by MIGUEL'S voice as he comes toward her.]

MIGUEL—Happy birthday! [He has put four matches between his fingers, lit them, and his extended hand blazes like a miniature birthday cake.]

FERNE—[Touched and pleased] Oh, Miguel. Thank you very much. Robert is so methodical. He put it down in his notebook, he says. I had quite forgotten it myself. When I was a child, my father used to make a great fuss. I used to look forward to it so. Robert's a great comfort.

MIGUEL—[Smiles] You need a comfort?

FERNE—We move about so. But whatever house we're in, California or Florida or Chicago, Robert is always there. It is from Robert I get a sense of continuity. Very useful. [She sits on the sofa.]

MIGUEL—[He gestures a search for her husband. Smiles] And in any of these homes does your husband ever stop?

FERNE—[Ruefully] He's stopping today. It's these airplanes. You see he flies his own plane. He's always disappearing over horizons. There have been times, Miguel, when I have regretted that modern invention made such high mobility possible for husbands. Nice for the husbands, I suppose. [She becomes aware that he is looking at her rather searchingly] Sit down, won't you? [As he looks around for a chair, she indicates a place beside her on the sofa] Here—beside me. [He complies. A moment] I'm rather sorry Robert reminded me. Thirty. I'm thirty today. Milestone. Isn't it? Growing older doesn't do enough for you, doesn't do what it should do, Miguel.

MIGUEL—What you think it should do for you?

FERNE—Oh, give you a point of view. Mature you. Instead it just ages you. [She laughs a little.]

MIGUEL—[Almost casually] What were you like—when you were ten?

FERNE—Promising.

MIGUEL—At twenty?

FERNE—[Smiles] Insecure.

MIGUEL—And now?

FERNE—A little more so.

MIGUEL—Why?

FERNE—I didn't mean that, really.

MIGUEL—[Won't let her get away with it] You did. Why you withdraw?

FERNE—[With a gesture embracing the room] But why, with all the apparatus of security, should I feel insecure?

MIGUEL—[Leans toward her] Pardon—but this is my question.

FERNE—Was it?

MIGUEL—It was! [A moment's pause. She decides to get on safe ground.]

FERNE—[Gets up—walks to piano—gets cigarette box—comes to back of sofa] I'm afraid you think me the sketchiest of hostesses. I'm afraid I've neglected you in the weeks you've been here. Clay said to leave you alone as much as possible. I suppose all you ask is to be neglected.

MIGUEL—When I work it don't matter much what happens when I am through.

FERNE—How lucky you are! What an anchor it must be!

MIGUEL—Anchor? What anchor? What for I need anchor?

FERNE—Well—don't you? Doesn't everyone?

MIGUEL—[After a moment] Which you prefer, gracious patroness, that we exchange clichés or that we talk? I am prepare for either. [A pause. She looks at him, smiles.]

FERNE—Well, if it's all the same to you, let's exchange clichés. I don't know you well enough for a real talk.

MIGUEL—[Relaxes back comfortably] Very good. I toss you back and forth the platitude. Like in your baseball.

FERNE—Fine! [As if getting set for a game] Are you in position?

MIGUEL—[Nods] Right behind the batsman's dish.

FERNE—Plate.

MIGUEL—Excuse. Plate.

FERNE—Ready?

MIGUEL—Ready. Toss.

FERNE—Pitch.

MIGUEL—Excuse. Pitch.

FERNE—[With an exaggerated imitation of her own formal manner] Well, as I was saying, Mr. Riachi, one needs an anchor in life. Catch?

MIGUEL—[Lazily, legs stretched out and crossed in front of him] Natural. Otherwise one drifts about in the so-muddy current of life like a—like a—

FERNE—Cockle-shell.

MIGUEL—Exact. Cockle-shell. And to be toss-ed—[He pronounces it in two syllables] about like a cockle-shell that is no good, is it, beloved hostess because—why is it no good, come to think of it sudden?

FERNE—[With exaggerated candor] I'll tell you why, Mr. Riachi. Because we have to have a purpose in life.

MIGUEL—Natural. Good purpose or bad purpose or perhaps merely idle purpose but anyway purpose. Not?

FERNE—[Involuntarily echoes] Not.

MIGUEL—[With a wagging finger at her] Your turn.

FERNE—[Recovers] Well, not entirely, Mr. Riachi. There I don't follow you entirely. A good purpose I should say. One should have a good purpose in life.

MIGUEL—By what standard good?

FERNE—I beg your pardon?

MIGUEL—By what standard a good purpose?

FERNE—Well, what is good for you. What expresses you.

MIGUEL—But if what expresses you is bad for the other people nevertheless, what then?

FERNE—Well, I suppose one mustn't carry self-expression too far.

MIGUEL—How do you know how far you can carry it before it changes from good for you to bad for other people?

FERNE—Well, I suppose your instinct tells you or your environment tells you—or, in extreme cases, I suppose—[She hesitates for a second] the law tells you. Although the law is often wrong, isn't it?

MIGUEL—[Very fast] So well then nevertheless it is good, Q.E.D., to have anchor in life because if you don't have anchor you go to jail, no? So I paint to keep out of jail. [He rests comfortably.]

FERNE—How on earth did you bring me to that?

MIGUEL—Toss me once again, I catch.

FERNE—[Ruefully] I bet you will! [She thinks a moment] Let's see. Let's see. One shouldn't have to hunt for a platitude. There are so many about. Oh, yes! I'm ready for you.

MIGUEL—Pitch!

FERNE—[Same manner in which she began before she got off the track] I suppose, Mr. Riachi—they tell me the greatest Renaissance of Contemporary Art is in your country. It's a folk-art, isn't it? A peasant art. All great art is based on peasant art, isn't it? That's because it's simple. Are you a simple peasant, Mr. Riachi?

MIGUEL—I am born on a farm. My father was peasant natural.

FERNE—Well, that makes you a peasant, doesn't it? How refreshing! And granted that you are a peasant, of course you're simple!

MIGUEL—Natural!

FERNE—It can't by any chance be true, I suppose, that peasants are subdivided like other people? Into clever and stupid, sly or cunning, subtle and sophisticated, noble or ignoble? Or that they may be all of these things simultaneously? If you're a peasant you just have to be simple, don't you, Mr. Riachi? Are there never any exceptions? Do they never, these simple peasants, escape the jacket of that particular cliché?

MIGUEL—Never!

FERNE—But sometimes, Mr. Riachi, they are more talented than other people, aren't they? You will concede that, won't you?

MIGUEL—Now you got me on the spot!

FERNE—[Gently, the sporting winner] Yes, I think we shall have to grant that sometimes a simple peasant may have a very sophisticated talent. Interesting, isn't it?

MIGUEL—Fascinate!

FERNE—[Resting on her oars] We've actually tracked down an exception to a commonly accepted rule. I'm so pleased. [She gives an affected little "society" laugh] But in other aspects, Mr. Riachi, outside of your talent, I suppose I may rely on your simplicity? How far may I rely on that, Mr. Riachi?

MIGUEL—[With a lazy smile at her] Till you are trapped!

FERNE—The accepted notion, though, must be very useful to you.

MIGUEL—Often. Therefore I live up!

FERNE—[With revelation] I see! [Their eyes meet. A pause. Finally] Well, Mr. Riachi, what next?

MIGUEL—I find all Americans crazy-hipped on love. Try love.

FERNE—Of course. There's always love. That's a realm in which there are so many clichés.

MIGUEL—Innumerous.

FERNE—We should flourish there.

MIGUEL—[With a look at her] I hope!

FERNE—[Ignores this, sticks to her mock-formal manner] Do you believe, for instance, Mr. Riachi, that love conquers all?

MIGUEL—Absolute.

FERNE—I'm so glad!

MIGUEL—Besides in those cases where everything is defeat by it.

FERNE—For example?

MIGUEL—Love of money, love of a false leader, love of a false creed, love of country for wrong reasons, love for a woman, for—[He looks at her, as if asking her whether to go on.]

FERNE—[Urges him, in spite of herself, to continue, her voice suddenly her own] Yes? Go on, Mr. Riachi.

MIGUEL—If I am not careful, I forget the rule. I abandon the superficial.

FERNE—Go ahead. Abandon!

MIGUEL—All the miscalled loves—

FERNE—[Leans forward, somewhat tense—her voice low] For example?

MIGUEL—The loves that masquerade pity, that masquerade gratitude, that masquerade revenge. [A pause. She gets up. She walks away. She is brimming with a desire to confess her trouble but she steels herself against unguarded revelation. She determines to force the conversation away from the personal.]

FERNE—Actually, Miguel, I really don't agree with you.

MIGUEL—What concerning?

FERNE—The function of the platitude. Very useful. As useful as the coins in a shop. No matter how worn—they serve. If not for platitudes, we should have to bare our hearts. Would one care—in general conversation—for all that nudity?

MIGUEL—This converse is not general. It trembles on the edge of the specific.

FERNE—I promise you I won't let it spill over.

MIGUEL—What afraids you?

FERNE—[Laughing it off] My exquisite reticence!

MIGUEL—[Sighs, resigned] Ah, well! I think: My hostess. Wonderful vital. I too considerable vital. Two such vitals—we have fun. But no! Society lady. Too bad.

FERNE—You're wrong there, Miguel. If you inquire about me around town—that is if you haven't been told already—you will discover that I am no society lady. You will be told, in fact, that I am Jim Dunnigan's daughter.

MIGUEL—What of? You have to be somebody's daughter.

FERNE—[As though it is torn out of her] You will be told in fact that my father killed himself in jail.

MIGUEL—This is only part of it. Tell me the rest. You have told me so much, tell me the rest. [A silence. She doesn't answer. MIGUEL comes close to her] Well, then, daughter of Dunnigan, exquisite pattern hostess—Ferne, why for God's sake you don't let your hair fall down? [A moment. She looks at him. She has an impulse to trust him, to confide in him. He looks at her urging her with his eyes to determine the struggle in his favor. Gently, feelingly] Bare your heart, nevertheless, beloved Ferne.

FERNE—[It snaps through her mind that she has suffered through being impulsive] Wouldn't think of it!

MIGUEL—Grievous disappoint.

FERNE—Sorry.

MIGUEL—[Depressed] Then we might as well go back nevertheless to shop-talk. Spin your coins, Mrs. Rainier. Pass poor Miguel the worn counters.

FERNE—[Relieved. She was dangerously close] By all means. I've suffered in the past for being impulsive. Thank God, I escaped this time.

MIGUEL—[Grimly] You are not out of the forest yet!

FERNE—[She won't be drawn back, the artificial manner again] Tell me, Mr. Riachi—tell me—

MIGUEL—[Also artificial] Yes, Madame—

FERNE—Do you think, Mr. Riachi, do you think—that abstract art has a future?

MIGUEL—That depend on the artist who is devote to it.

FERNE—What does he have to have, Mr. Riachi?

MIGUEL—First: something to say. Second: technique. Third—both simultaneous!

FERNE—[A little surprised] But that makes sense!

MIGUEL—I return good for evil, Mrs. Rainier.

FERNE—[Amused] That's awfully generous of you.

MIGUEL—[With a lazy wave of the hand—gives her up] Don't mention! [A pause.]

FERNE—[Wistfully] Well, I guess we're washed up. I see you making a note in your mind. Bore. Conventional. Just another stencil. Don't write me off, Miguel. I like you. I trust you. I need a friend.

MIGUEL—[Looks at her] You don't trust me obvious.

FERNE—Don't I? I feel I can. The last twenty minutes I've been saying to myself: Guard yourself, Ferne. Don't be impulsive, Ferne. After all—he's a stranger.

MIGUEL—[Sincerely] I am not a stranger. I am an artist and when an artist sees beauty, he is no stranger to it.

FERNE—[Simply] You mean it, don't you? I feel you mean it. Tell me, Miguel, have you ever felt that life is quite unreal?

MIGUEL—No.

FERNE—[Rather surprised] You haven't!

MIGUEL—Life may be unreal but the pleasure I derive from it—is not. Why don't people enjoy life?

FERNE—How do you begin?

MIGUEL—[Suddenly] Why for you have no children?

FERNE—[Startled] What makes you ask me that?

MIGUEL—Nevertheless, why?

FERNE—My husband doesn't care for them particularly.

MIGUEL—Why not?

FERNE—Perhaps he doesn't think he can improve on Zelda. [She has heard this explanation as if it came from someone else. It is like a sudden revelation of the truth to her] I never thought of that before! I wonder if there can be anything in it! [MIGUEL says nothing. FERNE looks at him and goes on as if involuntarily] You're an odd man, Miguel, you have an odd effect.

MIGUEL—[Still pressing her] So?

FERNE—You make one—you make one face oneself. Is it good or bad? [CLAY, in high fettle after his swim, comes in from the terrace, his hair tousled, enveloped in a towel robe. He greets MIGUEL effusively. ROBERT enters with drinks. FERNE. gives drinks to CLAY and MIGUEL.]

CLAY—Well, Miguel! How are you, my boy? My wife nice to you? Keeping you comfortable? Did I exaggerate? Isn't she lovely?

FERNE—I haven't done much for Miguel, but he's been wonderful for me. I'm very grateful to you, Clay, for inviting him to stay here.

CLAY—I knew you two would get on. Quick conquest!

MIGUEL—In conquest, tempo is everything.

CLAY—You Latins think of only one thing.

MIGUEL—[Easily] The same thing you Northerns think of. Only you think but don't speak. [Lifts his glass] True basis of good neighbor policy—what we both think of—

FERNE—I'll never forgive you, Clay—for not taking me when you went to visit Miguel.

MIGUEL—Why don't we all go down? I welcome you all.

FERNE—Heaven. That would be heaven. Will we be happy, do you think, the three of us?

CLAY—I'm sorry, Ferne. Do you possibly mean—the four of us? Will it dampen your ardor to learn—that there is a Mrs.—a Señora Riachi?

MIGUEL—[Grim] Don't mention it! She's no more.

CLAY—Oh, I'm so sorry. Her health seemed so abounding.

MIGUEL—Her health no way indiscreet. She run away. She run away with my model.

CLAY—[Amused] With Cigale!

MIGUEL—They run—elope.

FERNE—Poor Miguel. Are you heartbroken?

MIGUEL—For certain. That Cigale a mos' wunnerful model. When again I get such model? Not to replace. She do it for spite I am convince.

CLAY—Perhaps, when he discovers, this precious Cigale, that he is only a pawn in a game of pique, he'll come back.

MIGUEL—[Fatalistically] He don't come back. She come back. That fool Cigale! In my pictures he has immortality. With my wife he last six months. [He goes out on terrace.]

FERNE—There's a really lucky man. He's got something outside himself which completely satisfies him.

CLAY—Yes, Miguel knows how good he is, and that's a great help to a man. But your problem, Ferne—I've been thinking about it in the pool and I think I've hit on something.

FERNE—What?

CLAY—The solution for your problem. The idea came to me while I was swimming under water!

FERNE—I hope it sounds good on the surface!

CLAY—You're interested in Mexican music, Mexican arts and crafts. Tell you what—I'll endow a community center here for you where you can bring these things together. You can give concerts there, have exhibitions, anything you like. Of course, the natives don't really give a damn, but some of the stuff might do for export. Give you a little income of your own. What do you say?

FERNE—It's very generous of you. I'm busy now—I'm busy, busy all the time, doing nothing. [With trepidation—faces him] Clay, do you realize our marriage has come to be a perpetual evasion?

CLAY—Sounds like a riddle.

FERNE—You know what I mean.

CLAY—No, I don't.

FERNE—I don't want a substitute for marriage—I want the thing itself.

CLAY—I can't discuss these things while I'm feeling damp. Wait till I've changed for dinner. [Starts to go.]

FERNE—These last few years I've been saying to myself: "Well, give it a little time. It'll be all right, soon; it'll be the way it used to be soon." But, today, I have a horrible feeling— "Perhaps it'll never happen. Perhaps it's really a mirage!" Perhaps it's because today is my birthday.

CLAY—Today!

FERNE—I'm thirty today.

CLAY—Thank God I've brought you a present! [He laughs—so does she. Their laughter ebbs down.]

FERNE—Why didn't you wire me you were coming?

CLAY—Oh, so that's it!

FERNE—It's just a symptom! The point is I feel I've failed with you. I feel all the time: I have to save myself with you. Sometimes—you're so—

CLAY—[A little sharp, impatient] Well? What?

FERNE—[With a little laugh] Sometimes you're so warm and wonderful, it's like—it's like it was in the beginning—and then—a few minutes later—you're remote, unreachable—I feel like a stranger. I feel I'm intruding on you.

CLAY—I'm not an emotional thermostat, dear.

FERNE—I can't stand it much longer. How long am I going to be on probation?

CLAY—I think I must dress for dinner—

FERNE—I know you're unfaithful to me—

CLAY—Is that in good taste?

FERNE—What's the point, Clay? I'm thirty—I have a sense of time rushing by. I have no children. What have I got to look forward to? Clay, what if I were to say to you: You made a gallant gesture. You married me. Well, there's not much in it for either of us. You prefer flying. Let's call it a day. What would you say?

CLAY—What would I say?

FERNE—What would you say?

CLAY—I should remind you that you did leave me once—and that you came back. I should remind you that we have been over all this ground before. Forgive me, Ferne, if I tell you that all this seems slightly repetitious. Now, come hell or high water, I'm going to dress for dinner. [He runs up. FERNE turns, goes to sofa, and sits. She feels lost. MIGUEL comes in from terrace—looks at her.]

MIGUEL—You remember me, perhaps? We have met before.

FERNE—[Looks at him—smiles] Oh, yes, Miguel. I remember you quite well.

MIGUEL—[Reads her face] Well, what is?

FERNE—Nothing.

MIGUEL—You look frightened. Why? Why, on your thirtieth birthday, wonderful threshold, should you be frightened?

FERNE—[Smiles at her own predicament] It's silly, of course, Miguel. But haven't you ever felt it?

MIGUEL—What?

FERNE—[Almost gaily—rather fascinated by her own sensation] Oh, a sense of having nothing under your feet, really—a kind of—a kind of terror.

MIGUEL—It lurks in every human heart.

FERNE—[As if conducting an interesting speculation involving someone or something else] My husband doesn't love me. He doesn't want me in the least. Yet he won't let go of me. Now, why is that?

MIGUEL—Some men are so possessive they cannot let go even what they do not want.

FERNE—I had a feeling just now—

MIGUEL—Of what, lovely Ferne?

FERNE—[Lightly—covers up] Of being nothing. Of being nothing at all.

MIGUEL—[Very strong] This I will not hear. This I will not let you say.

FERNE—But it's true. I have no existence of my own because I've given it to my husband. And—where am I? What am I?

MIGUEL—[Looks into her eyes firmly] I will tell you distinct, Hostess Ferne, what you are. You are much more than you think you are—You are yourself—You are yourself! [FERNE looks at him. Her eyes light with the fire in his. Her body straightens. She becomes alive and vibrant suddenly.]

FERNE—Thank you, Miguel. Thank you very much. From now on I intend to be. Whatever it may cost me—wherever it may take me—from now on, I intend to be.

MIGUEL—[With a warm smile at her, delighted] I am mos' honored, gracious lady, to be present at your birth!

Curtain

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