Index     1     2     3

ACT ONE

The scene is the living room of a tower-apartment on the forty-second floor of a smart New York hotel.

When the curtain goes up, CLEMENTINE, a colored maid, is at the telephone. She is dialing a number from a list before her and at the same time she is trying to read The School for Scandal by Sheridan.

CLEMENTINE—[CLEMENTINE is soft-spoken, wistful. She utters her temerities with a tentative air] Hello . . . is dis Jack an' Charlie's? . . . Is Mr. Esterbrook dere? . . . His wife wants to speak wid him . . . Sure I wait . . . [While she waits CLEMENTINE keeps reading, her lips forming the words, some lines from the play. She reads with difficulty and puzzlement—but finally something strikes her as funny. She giggles hysterically. By this time there is a report for her from the other end] Nobody seen him? . . . Well, he's shu to drop in . . . Ask him to call his apartment de minute yo see 'im . . . It's important. [She hangs up. She strikes off, with a stumpy pencil, Jack and Charlie's from the list before her. She dials the next number] Is dis de Ritz Carlton? . . . Will you connect me wid de bar, please? . . . Hello . . . dis is Mr. Esterbrook's apartment callin' . . . Is Mr. Esterbrook dere? . . . You ain't? . . . Oh, is yo his ? . . . Is yo de bartender? . . . Oh . . . de manager? . . . Well, tell yo friend to call his apartment de minute he comes in. [She repeats the process, checking off the Ritz and dialing the next] Hello . . . St. Regis hotel? . . . Please connect me wid de bar, please . . . Hello, has yo seen Gaylord Esterbrook today? Yo sho he ain't dere now? . . . Well, when yo sees him ask him to call his apartment right away, please. Thank you. [Hangs up—checks—dials] Is dis de Blue Lagoon? Is Mr. Esterbrook dere? Well, when he comes in ask him to call Mrs. Esterbrook. She's waitin' for him. Thank you. [She hangs up. As she does so LINDA ESTERBROOK, known on the stage as LINDA PAIGE, comes in.]

LINDA—Any luck, Clementine?

CLEMENTINE—Not yet, Miss Lindy.

LINDA—Where've you called so far?

CLEMENTINE—Here's de list, Miss Lindy. [LINDA takes the list and scans it with a practiced eye.]

LINDA—Well, you've got a lot of ground to cover yet. Try Sybil's. He loves Sybil's. It reminds him of Paris.

CLEMENTINE—All right. . . [She dials Sybil's.]

LINDA—[Seeing play before her, amused] I see you're reading The School for Scandal.

CLEMENTINE—Yes, Miss, I'se readin' it! [As Sybil's answers] Hello, is dis Sybil's? . . . Is Mr. Esterbrook dere? . . . Has he been dere today? . . . When he comes ask him to call his apartment right away, please.

LINDA—Say it's important.

CLEMENTINE—[Into phone] It's very important. [She hangs up] He ain't been to Sybil's. He ain't been no place. I wonder where dat contrary man can be today?

LINDA—We might try his studio again. Of course he never answers the telephone.

CLEMENTINE—[Casually] I was by de studio.

LINDA—[Surprised] Were you? You didn't tell me that.

CLEMENTINE—I happened to be in 57th Street—so I jest looked in.

LINDA—Not there, I suppose.

CLEMENTINE—I saw de Super. He said he left at aroun' noon an' ain't been back since. Jes' de usual . . .

LINDA—You might try the Club. Sometimes he feels athletic, goes to the Club for a fast workout and gets stuck at the bar.

CLEMENTINE—[Dialing] All right, Miss Lindy!

LINDA—How do you like The School for Scandal, Clementine?

CLEMENTINE—[With a grin of pleasure] Well, it's got all dat old-fashioned language but it's kind of snappy. [Into receiver] Gotham Athletic . . . Connect me wid de bar, please . . . Everybody sleepin' aroun' wid everybody else . . . Is dat de way dey was in those days?

LINDA—It's famous, Clementine. It's a classic!

CLEMENTINE—Well, dey jest talks about nothin' else all de time. . . .

LINDA—It was a favorite subject.

CLEMENTINE—Nowadays dey don't talk so much—dey jest does it. [Into receiver] Is Mr. Esterbrook dere? If he comes in will you ask him to call his apartment, please? It's very important [She hangs up and checks] I wouldn't play dat if I was you, Miss Lindy.

LINDA—Why not?

CLEMENTINE—Dey talks too much. Dat place where you hides behind de screen, dat's funny.

LINDA—That's the big scene. . . .

CLEMENTINE—I'm getting pretty near the end of de list. . . . I'll try Murray's next. . . . Funny thing he ain't even been near any of de places I called today. . . . Usually dey've seen him anyway I'll try Mac's. . . . He likes Mac's. . . . Mac is a friend of his. . . .

LINDA—Never mind. Give it up.

CLEMENTINE—I still got about a half a dozen hang-outs left, Miss Lindy!

LINDA—Let it go. I'll make a dinner engagement.

CLEMENTINE—He's a chore, dat man, and dat's a fact.

LINDA—You understate it.

CLEMENTINE—But he's a nacherel honey. I gets hoppin' mad at him. Den when he shows up, I jest loves him.

LINDA—Somewhat duplicates my experience.

CLEMENTINE—Oh, you'se jest plumb crazy about him. Let me jest call Mac's. . . .

LINDA—[Lightly] No. The hell with him.

CLEMENTINE—Dat's the way I feel about my Joe on Saturday nights—the hell with him.

LINDA—Nice to have it timed for you like that.

CLEMENTINE—[Putting away list] All right, Miss.

LINDA—Just try Whipple's. Have you tried Whipple's?

CLEMENTINE—[Delighted she won't give up] No, I ain't, Miss. . . . [She dials. LINDA walks to the curtained window and looks out over the town. She hears the familiar routine—gets very impatient] Is dis Whipple's? Have you seen Mr. Esterbrook today? . . . He ain't dere now? . . . Well, tell him to call his wife when he comes in. [She hangs up, disconsolate] He ain't in Whipple's. [The telephone rings on its own. CLEMENTINE is overjoyed] Here he is now! [Seizing phone] Yes . . . Hello . . . Oh! . . . Who is it wants Miss Paige? [To LINDA, greatly dashed] It's a Mr. Smith for you. . . .

LINDA—Mr. Smith—what Mr. Smith?

CLEMENTINE—[Into phone] What Mr. Smith? [To LINDA] Mr. Philo Smith.

LINDA—[Surprised] Really?

CLEMENTINE—Is yo in?

LINDA—Well, where is he?

CLEMENTINE—In de lobby.

LINDA—[After a moment's hesitation] Ask him to come up.

CLEMENTINE—[Into phone] Ask him to come up, please.

LINDA—[Still surprised] Well!

CLEMENTINE—[Very curious] Who is dat, Miss Lindy? A actor?

LINDA—He is not. He's a banker. One of the sixty families, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—Dat's good.

LINDA—Why?

CLEMENTINE—I likes a well-to-do millionaire.

LINDA—[At door to her room, right] I'll just doll up a bit . . . Er, Clementine . . .

CLEMENTINE—Yes, Miss Lindy.

LINDA—Just try Mac's in East 49th Street.

CLEMENTINE—Yeh. . . . [LINDA goes out.]

LINDA—[As she goes] And if you have time Murray's in 55th . . . [She goes out CLEMENTINE is already dialing.]

CLEMENTINE—[At phone, same routine] Is dis Mac's? Has yo seen Mr. Esterbrook? . . . When he comes in, yo ask him to call his apartment right away—it's important. [She hangs up—checks off Mac's and starts to dial Murray's. The doorbell rings down the hall. For a moment she hesitates, wondering whether she can put the call through, conscious that a prominent banker is importuning entrance. She decides to let Murray's go for the moment. She goes out into the hall and admits PHILO SMITH. He is between 45 and 50, quiet, keen-faced, well-possessed; he has made his major decisions in life and no longer permits himself to be agitated much about anything] Miss Paige'll be right in, Mr. Smith.

PHILO—Thank you.

CLEMENTINE—Excuse me ef I jest finish a phone call.

PHILO—Of course. [CLEMENTINE returns to the phone and dials Murray's. PHILO lights a cigarette, goes to the windows at the back and takes in the panorama of New York.]

CLEMENTINE—[At the phone] Hello, is dis Murray's? Is Mr. Esterbrook dere yet? . . . Well, when he gets dere, jest tell 'im to call his apartment right away. It's very important. [As CLEMENTINE hangs up, LINDA comes back. She crosses to PHILO.]

LINDA—How do you do? I'm very glad to see you. [She shakes hands with him.]

PHILO—Thank you.

LINDA—[To CLEMENTINE] All right, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—[As she is going out] He ain't in Mac's.

LINDA—[Faintly annoyed] All right, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—He ain't in Murray's either.

LINDA—[Amused by this time] All right, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—De list is most used up. [She finally goes.]

LINDA—[To PHILO] Highball?

PHILO—Thank you.

LINDA—Scotch or rye?

PHILO—Scotch, please. [She mixes drink] You must be surprised at my visit.

LINDA—Yes. And very flattered. I came away from the Wylers' dinner party the other night with the feeling that I had talked a good deal and that you had listened very little.

PHILO—You are mistaken. I am a hard listener. I remember everything you said.

LINDA—[Handing him drink] Very trivial.

PHILO—[Takes drink] Thank you. I was extremely entertained.

LINDA—You didn't show it. I felt I wasn't getting on. I remember especially that you made me talk about myself when what I intended really was to make you talk about yourself. I remember also that you said you had never seen me in a play. I remember particularly also that you said it without any nuance of regret.

PHILO—I shall not miss your next. When will that be?

LINDA—God knows. Depends on my husband.

PHILO—Does he write all your plays?

LINDA—He's written the last three. I became a star in his first one.

PHILO—What does an actress do between plays?

LINDA—Worries about her next. Gets depressed. Thinks she's through. Looks in the mirror and thinks: Better get on with it—have a good time. Has a good time.

PHILO—The mirror should reassure you.

LINDA—That's very nice of you. But you don't see what the mirror sees. Art has intervened. [She laughs a bit. He looks at her, doesn't smile. A moment's pause] I envy you.

PHILO—Why?

LINDA—Because you don't depend on anybody before you can go to work. You go on by yourself. It must be wonderful to go down to an office every day where there is a desk and your work on it waiting to be attacked. Acquiescent enemy. Must be very nice.

PHILO—I am afraid that picture is over-simplified.

LINDA—Just the same, I can't do anything until I am given something to do. I am a secondary agent; you are primary. I am always telling my husband how lucky he is—for the same reason. But he grouses. He has to wait too, he says—for an idea. When he's between ideas he's very difficult to live with. When he's in the grip of one he's impossible. But you're making me talk again. You are much more important than I am. I've got to draw you out. How shall I begin?

PHILO—What would you like to know?

LINDA—Why you came to see me this afternoon?

PHILO—The other evening at the Wylers' you invited me to tea. You said: Drop in for tea.

LINDA—Somehow I can't believe this visit is impromptu.

PHILO—You are perfectly right. It is not. [A slight pause. He volunteers no more.]

LINDA—Really you are quite . . . I'm very glad indeed you dropped in. I was in a wretched mood.

PHILO—I am sorry.

LINDA—Are you moody?

PHILO—No.

LINDA—Never?

PHILO—Never.

LINDA—You are lucky; must be marvelous to keep on an even keel like that. No ups and downs. Must be wonderful. How do you achieve it?

PHILO—Discipline.

LINDA—Will you have another highball?

PHILO—Thank you. [She mixes another highball.]

LINDA—You are inscrutable. That's fascinating.

PHILO—I am a business man. The most despised variety, a banker. I am also—the final epithet—what they call bourgeois.

LINDA—[Giving him second drink] You have great power. There is something glamorous in that—just in the fact of power.

PHILO—What looks like power from the outside may be only a complex of strains and stresses from the inside.

LINDA—I met your wife for just a second the other night. She is lovely.

PHILO—[Tranquilly] Do you imply she is one of the strains and stresses?

LINDA—Not at all. I don't know in the least what made me speak of her just now.

PHILO—Your intuition.

LINDA—I am very sorry.

PHILO—I had a letter the other day from my eldest son—he is a senior at Harvard. He laid me out. By excelling and rising to the top in an evil system, I am, he charged me, a coconspirator in that system.

LINDA—What was your defense?

PHILO—I begged him not to blame the system on its inheritors. I told him I'd be glad to run the Revolution for him as soon as it was established. I said I was just a simple socialist rich man like Bernard Shaw.

LINDA—Are you afraid of your son?

PHILO—Desperately. [She is amused. He is impassive.]

LINDA—I wish your visit were impromptu.

PHILO—Do you?

LINDA—Yes.

PHILO—Why?

LINDA—I'd like to feel that you remembered me, were charmed by me—and wanted to see me again.

PHILO—All that might be true and yet I should not have come for those reasons.

LINDA—Why not? Discipline?

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—I'd hate to be so disciplined. It would interfere with my fun. [A pause. She feels somehow she has touched a delicate spot] I'm sorry.

PHILO—That might lead us into a philosophical discussion. Pleasure and pain. No point in that.

LINDA—[Obediently] Just as you like. [She is by the table on which the list is lying. She picks it up for a moment, glances at it.]

PHILO—Would you like to telephone?

LINDA—[Looks sharply at him] You're very keen.

PHILO—Please do.

LINDA—I have an errant husband. He's between ideas. When he's between ideas he makes an alcoholic tour of the town. It makes him forget he's between ideas. This is a list of his haunts. It's rather a game to track him down.

PHILO—Are they arranged alphabetically?

LINDA—No, but it's a good idea.

PHILO—I heard the maid calling Mac's.

LINDA—What a memory you have!

PHILO—I have an infallible memory. [He says it without pride, just as one might say: "I have a modest place in the country."]

LINDA—I suppose that's very useful to you. My own memory is erratic. I remember some things very well, others very badly. When I'm memorizing a play I get the good passages very quickly—the indifferent ones very slowly. By good passages I mean the ones where I have clever things to say.

PHILO—You have more detachment than I should expect from an actress.

LINDA—I have a critical faculty.

PHILO—Does it spare you?

LINDA—No. It does not. [A moment's pause.]

PHILO—Recently in Washington my firm had to submit to investigation. I was on the stand being questioned by an eager but badly informed New Dealer. It caused a sensation because I happened to remember the price of steel rails in 1877. I don't know why they were surprised, but they were.

LINDA—Did you just happen to know that year or do you know the price for 1878 also?

PHILO—I do. Shall I tell you?

LINDA—I don't want to seem to pry. [Is he serious? Or is he amused with her? She can't quite tell.]

PHILO—[As the list is still in her hand] What's the next place on your list?

LINDA—An institution called the Blue Grotto. I'd just, if you don't mind, like to call the Blue Grotto. I have an irresistible conviction that he's there. If he's not at one bar, you think: Well, I'll catch him at the next. It's like chemin de fer.

PHILO—I can save you the call. He's not at the Blue Grotto.

LINDA—[Amazed at his quiet assurance] What makes you say that?

PHILO—You might try—Regent 4-9777.

LINDA—What place is that?

PHILO—It's my house.

LINDA—Really!

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—Really?

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—But—I don't quite see how . . .

PHILO—I told you my visit was not impromptu. [A moment's pause. She studies him.]

LINDA—I didn't know that Gay and your wife . . .

PHILO—I don't suggest that they are. . . .

LINDA—Well, thank you very much. You relieve me greatly. I'm delighted to know he isn't on a binge.

PHILO—You are very much in love with him?

LINDA—I am. How do you know?

PHILO—The other night at the Wylers' you let it drop.

LINDA—I talk too much.

PHILO—Not for me.

LINDA—[After a moment] But I didn't know that . . . Gay never met your wife, did he, till that dinner party at the Wylers'?

PHILO—He's known her for several months.

LINDA—Really?

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—Stupid of him not to tell me. Why ever didn't he tell me? Your wife is very charming—I should have loved to . . . She's very young, isn't she?

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—Is she your only wife? I mean—she isn't the mother of the boy at Harvard?

PHILO—No.

LINDA—How long have you been married?

PHILO—Five years.

LINDA—Are you very much in love?

PHILO—I shouldn't like to be divorced a second time. It gets to be undignified.

LINDA—Aren't you an alarmist, Mr. Smith?

PHILO—Do I look like an alarmist?

LINDA—My dear Mr. Smith, I found your wife adorable to look at and very gracious. If my husband is with her now, having a pleasant time, I am delighted. I'd infinitely rather have him with her than lushing at Jack and Charlie's. I shouldn't dream of interrupting him.

PHILO—That's a speech. You don't mean it. I beg of you, Miss Paige, not to be gallant. I dislike gallantry. [After a moment] When one visits you . . . outside of the green room . . .

LINDA—[Irritated in spite of herself] We no longer have green rooms. We have dressing rooms. Do you never go to the theatre at all?

PHILO—Very seldom.

LINDA—Are you prejudiced?

PHILO—I am usually bored.

LINDA—[Quickly] What were you going to ask me?

PHILO—How, when one visits you socially, to address you? Are you Mrs. Esterbrook or Miss Paige?

LINDA—Which do you prefer?

PHILO—Miss Paige. You haven't, somehow, the atmosphere of a married woman.

LINDA—[Still faintly irritated and yet interested] That sounds old-fashioned. Where were we?

PHILO—You were making an insincere speech about your joy in having your husband and my wife together. [A pause. She looks at him. He is something new.]

LINDA—I find you baffling.

PHILO—Why?

LINDA—I have made and unmade up my mind about you several times since you came into this room.

PHILO—You don't have to guess at random. I'll tell you anything about myself you want to know—within reason.

LINDA—For one thing I can't decide quite whether you have a sense of humor.

PHILO—Give yourself time.

LINDA—For a moment I thought you mellow.

PHILO—Good God, no! I may be what is charitably known as middle-aged but I am not mellow.

LINDA—You are crusty. With a little provocation you might be disagreeable.

PHILO—You appear to lack the capacity to concentrate on one subject.

LINDA—I can do so when the issue is critical.

PHILO—If you love your husband I assure you the issue is critical.

LINDA—This is a curious interview.

PHILO—Why?

LINDA—[With dignity] If you will forgive me for saying so, Mr. Smith, it would be more seemly if it had taken place with your wife than with me.

PHILO—I don't discuss things with my wife. We are beyond that stage.

LINDA—[Flatly] Have you come here to tell me that my husband and your wife are having an affair?

PHILO—Not at all. In the first place, that is unimportant. In the second place—though perhaps my wife still does not suspect it and I am sure your husband doesn't—the situation is far more dangerous than that. Really I have come here not to warn you but through you your husband.

LINDA—Of what?

PHILO—Of being discovered.

LINDA—I beg your pardon.

PHILO—Quite casually my wife made a single remark about your husband. Knowing her as I do, this remark revealed to me in all clarity the danger your husband is in. This remark impelled me to come here to warn you, to warn him. I am interested in only two things in life, Miss Paige—my work and my hobby—and I don't want them disrupted. I don't want the routine of my life disturbed. I don't want divorces or sensations or scandals. I don't want my two children to read about their stepmother in the tabloid papers. I want peace.

LINDA—[Unable to resist] What is your hobby?

PHILO—[This time he is irritated] You have a mania for the irrelevant.

LINDA—[Tranquilly] Yes. I should have said, looking at you: "There's a man who has no hobby." I am delighted to find I am mistaken. What is it, Mr. Smith? Do tell me.

PHILO—I am working on a History of Trade Routes up to 1700.

LINDA—Sounds fascinating.

PHILO—It is so fascinating that I am jealous of taking time from it to testify in a divorce action.

LINDA—And all you have to go on is a single casual remark?

PHILO—Quite enough. And now I meet you, Miss Paige, now I talk to you, I realize that your position is really dangerous. For a woman like you my wife is the most dangerous possible sort of antagonist.

LINDA—Is she?

PHILO—Yes.

LINDA—What was the remark?

PHILO—When she said of your husband that he had latent possibilities as yet unrealized I knew that his position was perilous. My wife has a passion for developing latent powers. When they are not there she invents them. Her first husband was a mediocre but amiable man whom she utterly ruined by persuading him he was first-rate.

LINDA—[With asperity] My husband is not mediocre, Mr. Smith. My husband is brilliant.

PHILO—Then she will persuade him that he is profound. [A pause. This, without analyzing fully, LINDA does sense as a danger.]

LINDA—I can't somehow—you will forgive me—

PHILO—What?

LINDA—Take your wife seriously as a rival. She is very pretty—and she is very charming—and I am sure very gay. . . .

PHILO—[Rather grimly] She is not gay. She is serious.

LINDA—She looks so—forgive me—fluffy.

PHILO—[Matter-of-factly] She is a Lorelei with an intellectual patter.

LINDA—[Sniffs danger actually] Insidious . . .

PHILO—For certain types—fatal.

LINDA—[Quickly] You, for instance.

PHILO—This is irrelevant. As I say you have a—

LINDA—I know—a mania for the irrelevant.

PHILO—[Rising] I am afraid I have taken up a great deal of your time, Miss Paige.

LINDA—[Rising with him] Not at all, Mr. Smith. It has been extremely—provocative.

PHILO—I seldom have impulses. And I make it a rule never to obey them. But I was on my way uptown and I had an impulse to come in to see you and I obeyed it. I feel that in the circumstances it was justified.

LINDA—I take that as a personal tribute. Thank you very much. [PHILO feels he has not been entirely understood; as he is a very cautious man he is a bit troubled about having implied a personal interest.]

PHILO—Er—yes.

LINDA—You will come again I hope.

PHILO—Thank you. I hope you will soon be doing a play. I shall come to see it.

LINDA—I hope I shall too, Mr. Smith. A play is what I need most in life. I hope that your wife will inspire my husband to write one.

PHILO—It is quite possible. She adores to inspire.

LINDA—[Just as he is about to leave] If my husband is still at your house when you get home, please don't give him my regards. I don't care to intrude on his personal life unless he chooses to share it with me voluntarily.

PHILO—I understand, of course. My sense of your danger increases by the moment. However, I am not going home. I am dining alone at my club and then going to a hideaway of mine where I practice my hobby. [With a formal bow] Good evening.

LINDA—[Nodding to him] Good evening. [He goes out. This is a phenomenon even for LINDA. The moment Mr. Smith is gone the visit assumes instantly an aspect of unreality. As the same time she knows PHILO'S visit to he true, his apprehensions to be justified. She knows that at this moment her husband's unrealized possibilities are being probed by the intellectual Lorelei. She laughs a bit—and meditates—she is between laughter and jealousy. She has an impulse to focus the reality of the situation through some objective confirmation. She goes to table with the telephone on it and looks through the Manhattan Directory for the Philo Smiths. She threads quickly the interminable roster of the Smiths. Murmuring to herself] Philo—Ph—Philo . . . [She finds him! And she remembers the number as being right] Regent 4-9777 . . . [As the list of her husband's haunts is right there she obeys a further impulse and adds the number of PHILO'S house to it. She laughs at herself while she is doing it. She looks at her watch. She thinks a moment. She gets up. She is by this time definitely upset. She has to admit to herself that she is angry and jealous. In tact she is very angry and she is very jealous. She looks at her watch again. She implores God to damn her husband anyway. She decides not to put up with this mood, to drive it away. She telephones—a number out of her head. Into receiver] Will you connect me with Mr. Lovell's apartment, please . . . Mr. Makepeace Lovell . . . Hello, Pym . . . This is Linda. What are you doing for dinner? . . . Oh, too bad . . . I'm at loose ends . . . Oh, no, don't do that! . . . You mustn't do that . . . Where were you going? . . . Well, it's pretty late to cancel now, I should think . . . It's half-past seven . . . Don't bother . . . Just called you on the chance . . . No, no, I wouldn't think of it. I'll just go to bed with a book . . . All right, if you feel like it . . . Do what you can . . . Call me back. [She hangs up. She takes another walk. She rings for CLEMENTINE. CLEMENTINE comes in.]

CLEMENTINE—Has dat bad boy called up yet?

LINDA—Not yet.

CLEMENTINE—[Giggling with anticipation] He'll shu be fried! Has you finished de list?

LINDA—Not quite. Don't think I'll bother.

CLEMENTINE—What about de Blue Grotto? Dat's about the last of de main places. Has you called it?

LINDA—No, I haven't.

CLEMENTINE—[Going to phone] I'll jest try de Blue Grotto.

LINDA—Never mind.

CLEMENTINE—[Querulous] Got a hunch he's dere.

LINDA—I have a hunch he isn't. [Nevertheless, grasping suddenly at a forlorn hope] All right. Try it. [By this time CLEMENTINE is already dialing.]

CLEMENTINE—[Into receiver] Is dis de Blue Grotto? . . . I'd like to speak to Mr. Esterbrook, please . . . He ain't! . . . Is yo shu? . . . Well, if he does ask him to call his apartment right away second he comes in . . . It's important. [She hangs up; she is discouraged] Well, I wonder where dat travelin' man can be. I been about tru de list. He must of found a new place.

LINDA—I believe he has!

CLEMENTINE—[Crosses off the Grotto and sees the Regent number] Is dis it? Dis Regent 4-9777? Where you get dat? [The phone rings. Overjoyed, CLEMENTINE grabs it] I'll tell dat rascal . . . [Into receiver] Yeh, who is dat . . . ? Oh! Oh! [Overcome with disappointment] It's dat snip wid de funny name—

LINDA—[Severely] It's Mr. Lovell—[Takes phone from CLEMENTINE] Yes, Pym . . . Oh, that's very mean of you . . . You're a very bad boy . . . You're sure to be seen with me and you'll be ruined at the Russells' . . . Very important for you too . . . Well, come right along . . . No, let's not dress . . . We'll just go to some quiet place . . . Twenty minutes, fine . . . I'll just put a hat on. Bye. [She hangs up] I'm going out to dinner with Mr. Lovell, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—What's his udder name?

LINDA—His nickname is Pym.

CLEMENTINE—No, but his real name—Lord, he says I'se de only one purnounces it wid dignity, he says. What is it, Miss Lindy?

LINDA—Never mind. I'm going to dinner with him.

CLEMENTINE—What if de boss shows up?

LINDA—Tell him I've gone to dinner with Mr. Lovell

CLEMENTINE—[Who doesn't approve] One shu thing, you'll be back early.

LINDA—How do you know that?

CLEMENTINE—Dat Mr. Lovell ain't nothin'.

LINDA—You are wrong, Clementine, Mr. Lovell is very nice, very charming, very attractive.

CLEMENTINE—He talks so funny.

LINDA—He's English.

CLEMENTINE—Don't dey have no speakin' schools in England?

LINDA—He's been to one, Oxford. But that only makes it worse.

CLEMENTINE—Oh, I remember his udder name now, Miss Lindy. Makepeace! Can you imagine dat fer a name? Oh, Lordy! [She laughs immoderately.]

LINDA—By the way, Clementine . . .

CLEMENTINE—Yes, Miss Lindy . . .

LINDA—If the boss comes in after I'm gone—which I doubt—don't say anything to him about Mr. Smith's visit, will you?

CLEMENTINE—[With sublime innocence] I don't know nothin' about no Mr. Smith.

LINDA—[To herself wryly] Neither do I! [We hear a key turning in the hall doorway.]

CLEMENTINE—It's him! . . .

LINDA—[Not to have her hopes dashed] Probably the night maid. . . .

CLEMENTINE—He can never open the doh by hisself when he's . . . I better . . . [She starts for hall. But it is ESTERBROOK and he has opened the door by himself. He is cold sober, a fact registered instantly by CLEMENTINE and LINDA to the former's great surprise] Why, boss, how come you opened de doh by yosef?

GAY—Learning self-reliance, Tulip. Extraordinary feat, isn't it? [To LINDA] Hello, darling.

LINDA—Hello, dear.

CLEMENTINE—[Not done with her surprise] And you's cold sober. [Reporting the incredible phenomenon] He's cold sober, Miss Lindy!

GAY—[To CLEMENTINE] If you overlook it this time, pet, I won't let it happen again.

LINDA—[To reassure CLEMENTINE] Don't worry, Clementine. Deceptive. He'll probably collapse in a minute.

GAY—My God, I will. [He falls full-length on sofa] I'll collapse right now. [To CLEMENTINE] Spiritual debacle, Hyacinth.

CLEMENTINE—[Goes to him, sniffs at him] It ain't spiritual or I could smell it on your breath. No doubt, Miss Lindy—he's shu nuff sober!

LINDA—Well, Clementine, we'll just have to make the best of it!

CLEMENTINE—[To GAY] We been callin' every place in town!

GAY—Stop chattering, Woodbine, and go away. I'm depressed.

CLEMENTINE—Dat's because you's sober. Imagine comin' home after a binge cold sober! [Shaking her head in bewilderment, CLEMENTINE goes out.]

GAY—Your slave girl is beginning to bore me.

LINDA—She adores you.

GAY—Nevertheless she bores me.

LINDA—Though she's been working for me for over ten years and she knows you less than three, you are the boss to her. I think her secret terror is that you'll leave me and when you disappear she takes on like a distracted mother.

GAY—She's impertinent!

LINDA—I thought you found her entertaining. When you're in the mood you go on forever about how amusing Clementine is. And you've done your best to spoil her, I may add.

GAY—All theatre maids are impertinent.

LINDA—You've encouraged her to be impertinent. You egg her on. You get her to imitate Pym Lovell's English accent. When you're feeling high you go into the kitchen and drink toasts to her. What do you expect?

GAY—You should have a theatre maid for your dressing room and a human maid for your home.

LINDA—I'm very fond of Clementine. She's a great comfort on tour. And as for my getting a separate maid for the theatre that might be an extravagance considering that I am unlikely ever to act again.

GAY—[Points gloomily to the pile of playscripts on the table] All those plays—a half-hundred-weight of plays and nothing for you to act in!

LINDA—So far as I've read—not much.

GAY—All those plays—full of characters—full of scenes—drawing rooms in Long Island—shacks in Montana—water-fronts in San Francisco—full of staircases leading to nowhere—full of characters talking—full of situations cunningly built up—motivations—hints dropped—plants laid—curtains carefully dropped to be effective—all these sweated-over contrivances—and not one you can pick up and act in?

LINDA—Not so far.

GAY—Pick one blind, take it to the theatre, put on your make-up and act away. When the critics say you're brilliant, it's your technique they refer to, not the things you say. What difference does it make what you act in? Get some new clothes, go to the theatre, dig up one of those center-door fancies and be brilliant!

LINDA—Usually before you achieve this state of pessimism you've been drunk for three hours and exhilarated for one. How did you make it so quickly today? Quite economical. [GAY is lying on the sofa—his knees drawn up under his chin—staring into space.]

GAY—Sorry! What a bore I must be!

LINDA—[Sitting at his feet fondling his knees] Work today?

GAY—No.

LINDA—Did you try?

GAY—Tried. Couldn't.

LINDA—Too bad. You will tomorrow.

GAY—I won't tomorrow.

LINDA—I've known you to say that before too.

GAY—What the hell's the use of kidding myself—I've got nothing to say.

LINDA—But you say it charmingly!

GAY—The hell with that. I'm sick of that. It's no time for that.

LINDA—Never was such a time. The world's depressed. This is the moment to be gay, if possible.

GAY—That's like calling for a minuet in a plague town.

LINDA—Why not?

GAY—You live in an aura of exhibitionism or you couldn't ask me a thing like that. Look around you. Pick up a newspaper. Look at the world. And you expect me to go on babbling lightly in a never-never land.

LINDA—You underestimate yourself. Your plays are gay, they're gallant and witty. Occasionally they're touching. What more do you want? Do another—for God's sake—and for mine. I'm a brilliant actress and on account of your gloomy introspections about the state of the world I have to sit around here and twiddle my thumbs and do nothing. What is this mania for under-rating yourself that's caught you lately? Is it bait for contradiction? I find it tiresome. I wish you'd snap out of it!

GAY—I'm written out.

LINDA—Nonsense.

GAY—This vein of mine is an anachronism. It's an overdrawn bank account. It's finished.

LINDA—Every writer feels that once in a while.

GAY—Mixture of glitter and disillusion—post-war—definitely dated.

LINDA—There's no reason to abandon the disillusion; and as for the gaiety, it's more precious—what you can distill of it—than ever. Despair is a last resort—anybody can succumb to that. I read that behind the siege-lines in Madrid the natives laugh and go about their business and see shows and have as good a time as they can. Right under the bombings! What are you grousing about?

GAY—I'm grousing about my indolence in a world that demands action.

LINDA—The world's full of action—too much action.

GAY—If I had any guts I'd go to Spain and join the Loyalists.

LINDA—And be killed? What then? There are enough people dying. Living's the stunt.

GAY—This kind of living's an acquiescence in horror.

LINDA—Not at all. A defiance. You snap your fingers in its face.

GAY—You snap your fingers before the gangster's machine-gun. Very effective! All over the world people are being murdered and tortured and humiliated. Death is rained from the sky on whole populations. I read an article the other day by the British biologist Haldane. He quoted from a famous German scientific journal of biology—what was formerly a journal of biology—an article by a storm-troop captain outlining a technique for the bombing of cities. You bomb the poorer sections because the massing of population makes your hits more effective. The scientific note comes in this way: the wiping out of the large masses will make it easier to lift the biological level in the rest after the city is occupied. At lunch today I saw John Gauthier—just back from the Far East. He told me of the mass execution in Nanking; 40,000 Chinese raked down by machine-guns—not tied or anything—just walked along submissively in front of the fire—never occurred to any of 'em to run away. Look at the glamorous Roto sections in the Sunday papers; next to the Spring fashions you see streetfuls of children in gas-masks looking like monsters. What sort of world is this? Danse macabre! And you expect me to sit in my room contriving stage-situations for you to be witty in! Or I go to Hollywood and sit in endless conferences agonizing over novel methods for boy to meet girl. I tell you it's all an irrelevance, an anachronism, a callous acquiescence

LINDA—I gather the besieged Spaniards love the American films. If they enjoy seeing our glamor boys pursue our glamor girls before they're knocked to bits, why grudge them? Why grudge them a little fun in their last moments? What would you have them do? Sit in their shelters and contemplate the eternities? The eternities are a bore. They're inhuman. You can't take them in. We can only laugh at our plight. That's what distinguishes us from the animals and from the savages you're so excited about. They can't laugh.

GAY—[Reflectively] It's all right to laugh under fire—that's courage—but not sitting on the side-lines—that's callousness.

LINDA—Sometimes I think that we here laugh less than those in Europe who are right under the shadow, those on the firing-line. I was told a charming story the other day about Sigmund Freud in Vienna. An old man, eighty-two and mortally ill. One afternoon people walked into his little apartment and cleared it out—money, gold and silver ornaments, passports, bank-books, everything. When they left he turned to his family and said: "Well, those fellows earned more in this one visit than I make in a year in fees!"

GAY—What does that prove? It's gallant—it's moving—it's heroic even—but what does it prove?

LINDA—Is all this so new? Twenty years ago there was a war. Was that an idyll? I don't know much history but I imagine somewhere in the world there's always been war. There are two sorts of people, that's all—the brutes and the decent ones—there have always been and as far as I can see there's no hope of exterminating the brutes.

GAY—[Moodily] You can keep them from exterminating you.

LINDA—On the other hand, if they exterminate us, so much the worse for them. They'll kill each other off or they'll bore each other to death. We've got to have as good a time as we can, be as gay as we can, as delighted as we can—right under their horrid snouts.

GAY—[Morbidly] Well, mix me a drink, will you, darling, and let's be gay and delightful!

LINDA—[Airily mixes drink] You're world-weary, aren't you, precious?

GAY—[Picking up Noel Coward's song, singing] I'm world-weary—world-weary—living in a great big town. . . . [LINDA is mixing him a drink] Why do you put up with me?

LINDA—No choice.

GAY—Any number.

LINDA—For instance?

GAY—Anybody.

LINDA—Don't like him.

GAY—You're a fool.

LINDA—I guess I am.

GAY—[Meaning it] If I were you—I'd quit! [By this time she has brought him a drink, gives it to him.]

LINDA—Here, my tired philosopher. [She gives him drink, sits on sofa, cradling his head in her lap.]

GAY—Must have been marvelous to write for the theatre when all you had to do was square the triangle. [It strikes him this is a mot!] I say, that's not bad!

LINDA—What's good about it?

GAY—It's a gag on squaring the circle—ancient mathematical warhorse.

LINDA—What does that mean, squaring the circle?

GAY—I haven't the faintest idea. That's it, you see. Don't know anything. I don't know a God-damn thing. Incomplete culture. In fact—rudimentary.

LINDA—Why don't you read the Encyclopedia?

GAY—I wouldn't understand it!

LINDA—I don't know anything either, but I get by!

GAY—You're an actress. You don't have to. Besides, you're prettier than I am!

LINDA—Oh, I don't know. You're not bad. I have thought you were beautiful.

GAY—Darling!

LINDA—Darling! [They kiss. They look at each other. They kiss again.]

GAY—Darling!

LINDA—Darling!

GAY—God, dearest, I'm blue. I'm low. I'm sunk. I'm bored with myself.

LINDA—[Lightly] Maybe that just means you're bored with me!

GAY—[Looks at her, his hands on her face] You darling—you're beautiful—you're wonderful. . . .

LINDA—Nevertheless . . .

GAY—How long have we been married?

LINDA—I'm always telling you to the day. For once, you guess.

GAY—I don't know. Forever. . . .

LINDA—[Mock wistfulness] So long?

GAY—I mean—I don't remember not being married to you. What did I do before?

LINDA—You were married.

GAY—That was just an adolescent miscalculation.

LINDA—Maybe this is a miscalculation of your maturity. . . .

GAY—I get lonely for you walking in the street.

LINDA—You get over it when you come home.

GAY—Let's go out for dinner.

LINDA—I've made a dinner date.

GAY—Oh, have you?

LINDA—I had no means of knowing whether you were coming home or not—I didn't feel like eating alone.

GAY—Who with?

LINDA—Pym Lovell.

GAY—My God!

LINDA—I like Pym. He's a nice boy.

GAY—When you first meet Pym Lovell you think what a precocious boy and when you meet his father you realize it's his father who's precocious. Why don't you dine with his father?

LINDA—Because his father's in London. Dine with us.

GAY—No, thanks. I'll stick around here. [He gets up, walks away from her, sits on the sofa.]

LINDA—I'd cancel it but he's given up a date for me.

GAY—I'll stay in and gather my thoughts—both of them.

LINDA—I'll be back early.

GAY—No reason for that. [A silence.]

LINDA—Are we washed up, darling?

GAY—What?

LINDA—Are we washed up?

GAY—Please, dear, don't let's go into the fundamentals tonight. I'm in no mood for it.

LINDA—O.K. No fundamentals.

GAY—[Feels he is being arbitrary and irritated that she should make him feel arbitrary] Every marriage goes through the doldrums sooner or later. We're in for ours. You've got to sit tight till we're through it.

LINDA—All right, dear.

GAY—You ought to know that by this time!

LINDA—All right, dear.

GAY—[Brutally] I love you.

LINDA—[Sweetly] Thank you, dear.

GAY—Besides which, you know when I'm not working I—

LINDA—I know. It's all quite all right, dear. I'll get out of your way.

GAY—Please don't be self-effacing. It doesn't become you.

LINDA—What would you like me to be?

GAY—[In utter misery] Oh, for God's sake!

LINDA—[Consciously goading him] Well, what?

GAY—[Turning on her] A little less all-seeing, a little less all-wise, a little less clairvoyant.

LINDA—[Calmly] I am right then in assuming we are washed up.

GAY—[Coldly] Sometimes, by prophesying, you make the undesirable come true.

LINDA—Not quite. One would want a little help from the outside. I imagine I'm getting it.

GAY—And what is behind that dark innuendo?

LINDA—A: You come home cold sober. B: Your abrupt concern over cosmic misery makes me guess that you have one—less cosmic. [This really makes him furious.]

GAY—[Ominously] Oh, it does!

LINDA—I'm afraid so.

GAY—[Inarticulate with anger] Well, let me tell you this: my abrupt concern for cosmic misery as you so airily refer to the horrors of life pressing in daily and all around us—miseries not cosmic at all but extremely earthly . . . [He gets hung up for the moment—she helps him out.]

LINDA—[Unable to resist] Abrupt concern is your subject—that's what started you . . .

GAY—[Furious at accepting help from the enemy, nevertheless taking it] Well, may I tell you that my concern is not abrupt at all—not in the least abrupt. I've had it for some time though I admit you wouldn't suspect it from watching the—vehicles—I've manufactured so glibly for you to ride to success in. It's arrogant of you to take it for granted that since you are too complacent to be tortured by this concern that such complacence must be universal. If there's anything profoundly irritating, it's the assumption that every general indignation may be traced to a private grievance. It must be true that women have no capacity to absorb the abstract.

LINDA—[Crisply] I can absorb the particular and I'd certainly like to know who she is, this Miss Cosmos. Or Mrs. Maybe Mrs. Cosmos? [The telephone rings. Going to phone] My date . . . [At phone] Yes . . . Tell him I'll be right down, please. [She hangs up] You know, darling, if only you got busy and wrote me a play I'd be off your hands. Every evening and twice on matinee days. We're much happier when I'm working. Haven't you noticed that? When we're both idle it's pretty . . . Like it? [She is referring to her hat, which she has just put on in front of the mirror, up center. She turns to display it.]

GAY—[Automatically, not looking really] Very much.

LINDA—Well, don't be overcome. . . . Good-bye, my dear. Sure you don't want to join us?

GAY—Quite.

LINDA—Good-bye, darling.

GAY—Have a good time. [She goes to him quickly and speaks in a low voice, very warmly.]

LINDA—I'm sorry you're out or sorts. I love you very much. I'll be back early if you feel like seeing me. Don't mope. Call up somebody and have some fun. You might read one or two of those plays—they'll cheer you up—show you how good you are. [She goes out through the hall. He is in a state. He is furious with himself and with her for not having given him more cause to be furious. He walks about like a caged and goaded animal.]

GAY—[Muttering to himself] Christ Jesus! [He stops to pour himself a drink. His eye is struck by the pile of plays. He goes to it—picks up one—throws it away—then another. Sits by the table with the telephone. His eye catches the slip with the list of the telephone numbers of his haunts—he knows this list, but looking at it casually his eye takes in the new number. He picks up the list—stares at it—and calls out loud for CLEMENTINE. There is no answer. He gets up and pulls the bell-cord. He puts the slip back on the table by the phone. CLEMENTINE appears.]

CLEMENTINE—Did you ring, boss?

GAY—[Murderously polite] If you don't mind.

CLEMENTINE—[Innocently] Shu I don' mind.

GAY—Thank you! You'd been trying to get me on the phone before I got home, hadn't you?

CLEMENTINE—Bless yet, boss. Called you ever' place but de police station.

GAY—[Picking up the list] What about this number?

CLEMENTINE—What number?

GAY—Regent 4-9777. How did that get on here?

CLEMENTINE—Is dat Mac's?

GAY—It is not Mac's! You know it's not Mac's!

CLEMENTINE—[Looking at the number] Whut you so hot about? Dat ain't my writin'. Miss Lindy, she must of put dat dere.

GAY—All right. That's all I wanted to know!

CLEMENTINE—Shall I order you a bite to eat?

GAY—No, thanks. I'm out.

CLEMENTINE—When'll you be back?

GAY—None of your God-damned business. [CLEMENTINE guffaws.]

CLEMENTINE—Lordy, boss, you shu's got lousy manners, but I loves you anyhow! [She goes out. GAY is in a cold fury. He has been spied on, he has been pumped. His hand reaches for the telephone. Reading from the slip before him, he dials Regent 4-9777.]

Curtain

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