Index     1     2     3

ACT THREE

SCENE: The same as Act One.

TIME: Early afternoon the next day.

LINDA is sitting in a huge armchair. She has in her hand a typed manuscript—it is the first act and a quick outline of the second and third acts of GAY'S play, Dilemma. LINDA is just finishing the last page. Her expression is very grave. She lets the script fall in her lap. She is lost in profound thought. She is deeply stirred by an emotion which is undiscoverable till she expresses it later to GAY himself. She picks up the script again. She looks at the last page again. Carefully, she puts the unbound pages together. She sits a moment. She runs through the script to see that it is in order. She puts her hand on the first page, the palm flat. Then she takes the whole sheaf, finds on the table, beside which she is sitting, the large Manila envelope in which the script came and carefully puts it back in the envelope. Abstractedly, she puts the envelope back on the table and on it a heavy glass paperweight. She gets up then and walks about the room, thinking. A knock on the door, right.

LINDA—Yes?

CLEMENTINE—[Voice from behind the door] Miss Lindy . . .

LINDA—[Impatient] Well, what is it?

CLEMENTINE—[Opens the door an inch and pokes her head through] Dere's a lady in de lobby.

LINDA—[In despair] But I told you I wasn't home to anybody.

CLEMENTINE—[In the room by this time] I told her dat but she says she knows you is home!

LINDA—Who is it?

CLEMENTINE—Mrs. Smith, she say she is.

LINDA—[Not too surprised] Oh, Mrs. Smith!

CLEMENTINE—She say to tell you Mandy. Who is dat Mrs. Smith? Does she belong wid dat Mr. Smith was here yesterday?

LINDA—[Answering mechanically] Wife.

CLEMENTINE—[Smelling a rat] We seem to have dose Smiths in our hair. What's de matter wid 'em? Ain't dey got no home of dere own?

LINDA—Just what did she say?

CLEMENTINE—She says it's [Imitating] ab-so-lutely necessary—she jest got to come up. Lord, she talks like she's gonner faint de nex' second. [A moment's pause while LINDA considers] Is de boss playin' around wid her, Miss Lindy?

LINDA—Stop chattering, Clementine, please. . . .

CLEMENTINE—If he is, I'll jest nacherly mutilate her!

LINDA—[Deciding quickly] Ask her up.

CLEMENTINE—It's de first time de boss has stayed out all night on us. Don't like him doin' dat when he ain't drinkin'.

LINDA—Really, Clementine, you're too impertinent. I'm going to have to let you go!

CLEMENTINE—[Chuckling] Lord, Miss Lindy, I heard dat befoh. . . . [By this time she is at the telephone and talks into it] Dere's a Mrs. Smith callin' on 2103. Send her up to 2104, please. [She hangs up.]

LINDA—Did you call the studio?

CLEMENTINE—I been callin' every ten minutes for two hours while you was in here readin' dat play. Ef he was out all night he's probably sleepin' it off.

LINDA—Not necessarily. He never answers the telephone.

CLEMENTINE—Spose I jest get in a cab and go down to 57th Street an' rout him out?

LINDA—How would you get in?

CLEMENTINE—Dat's true. He don't answer telephones and he don't answer doorbells. Dat man's deaf to all kinds of ringin'!

LINDA—He's not deaf. He's acutely sensitive to the annoyance of the ringer!

CLEMENTINE—I could find out from de Super ef he's dere.

LINDA—No point. He'd only be irritated.

CLEMENTINE—Dis Mandy—she pretty?

LINDA—Very.

CLEMENTINE—Ah knows one thing—ef he was out last night it wasn't wid dat one.

LINDA—[Who can't resist testing CLEMENTINE'S logic] What makes you so sure?

CLEMENTINE—She sounded awful blue, de Lord be praised. An' dat boy called you up, Miss Lindy—dat boy wid de name dat ain't true.

LINDA—Pym?

CLEMENTINE—Ah likes his real name—what kinder modder he got to wish a name like dat on him? What is dat name, Miss Lindy?

LINDA—Never mind. [The doorbell rings] There's Mrs. Smith.

CLEMENTINE—What is dat name? [It bursts on her suddenly as she gets to hall door] Makepeace. Dat's it! Oh, Lordy! I calls it to my husband when I wants to get him mad. . . . Oh, Lordy! Makepeace. . . . [Shrieking with laughter she goes out through the little hall to admit AMANDA. LINDA walks up-stage toward hallway to greet AMANDA as she comes in. AMANDA is a bit tense.]

LINDA—I'm very glad to see you.

AMANDA—Do forgive me. You must think me terribly—persistent.

LINDA—Not at all. I'm very sorry that Clementine told you I was out. I had some reading to do and I shut off the telephone. [CLEMENTINE pauses on her way out to scrutinize AMANDA] Clementine, will you tell them downstairs that I'll take my calls now?

CLEMENTINE—[As she goes out, right] Yes, Miss Lindy.

AMANDA—I interrupt you then. I shall be only a very few minutes.

LINDA—Not at all. I'm quite finished. May I offer you a drink?

AMANDA—Thank you, no.

LINDA—Some tea then?

AMANDA—Thank you very much—I really don't want anything. The truth is, Miss Paige . . .

LINDA—We'd gotten beyond formality last night. I thought we had. Cigarette?

AMANDA—[Taking one] Thank you. [LINDA strikes a match for her.]

LINDA—It seems to me a great gap of time since last night. Does it to you?

AMANDA—Not really. I'm afraid I was very rude. I've come to apologize.

LINDA—If I remember correctly, I was insufferable.

AMANDA—Oh, Linda dear, don't say that—you make it impossible for me!

LINDA—Nothing is impossible for you, Mandy. I've come to that conclusion. I admire you very much. I've thought about you and thought about you. I conclude—that in our little—discussion of last night—you were right and I was wrong.

AMANDA—You are too gracious. . . .

LINDA—What is it that I make impossible for you?

AMANDA—[After a moment] To tell you—what I have to tell you.

LINDA—After the home-truths we exchanged last night, can anything be . . .

AMANDA—I wish, Linda dear, that I didn't like you so very, very much. It would make it . . .

LINDA—Easier?

AMANDA—Yes. Much easier.

LINDA—You will end, I am sure, by not letting your affection for me stand in your way. You have such character, Mandy.

AMANDA—Please don't let's quarrel. I really couldn't bear it.

LINDA—But I am quite sincere, believe me. As I say, I've been thinking and thinking. And you've opened up for me new vistas, undermined, so to speak, all the major premises on which I've based my life. Last night I sat in your living room. I was determined to fight you for Gay. And suddenly I began to doubt myself. I began to see myself as odious, destructive, unadventurous. . . .

AMANDA—[Insincere denial] Linda!

LINDA—I remembered your phrase—the great occasions love makes. Was I obstructing one of them? You, I thought, were more audacious than I, more adventurous, more exploratory. Here you were, willing recklessly to enlist the impossible, admitting no limitations, like the successful wonder-workers achieving miracles by ignoring facts. Supposing that in your library Gay was giving birth—with you as accoucheuse—to a masterpiece? This, I thought, might be one of those very great occasions which love makes, and here was I standing in the way of it. I wavered. I retreated. I took myself away. . . .

AMANDA—I came back to apologize to you. You were gone.

LINDA—I came back here and called up Pym. He's a darling, really. He sat up with me till nearly dawn, holding my hand. I made a new resolution. . . .

AMANDA—Did you?

LINDA—To turn over a new leaf. To praise indiscriminately, to appreciate and inspire and convert myself, if ever I get the chance again—into a general builder-upper! You see what an influence you are, Mandy—not only on Gay—on me!

AMANDA—[With a wan smile, a little frightened] And have you begun?

LINDA—Haven't had the chance yet.

AMANDA—[Perking up, she doesn't know what has happened since last she saw GAY] No?

LINDA—Gay didn't come back last night.

AMANDA—[Greatly relieved] Oh, didn't he?

LINDA—No.

AMANDA—You haven't seen him, then?

LINDA—No. Haven't you?

AMANDA—No. I'm frightfully worried.

LINDA—You needn't be.

AMANDA—I was sure he'd be here.

LINDA—He's at his studio probably.

AMANDA—I've called there. No answer. Suppose something happened to him!

LINDA—He's all right. I've heard from him.

AMANDA—[Unable to bear it] Did you? Oh, did you really? Did he phone?

LINDA—No. He sent me his play.

AMANDA—[Amazed] Dilemma?

LINDA—Yes. There it is. [Points to script on the table] I've been reading it.

AMANDA—Well?

LINDA—It's only one act really. The last two are just outlined.

AMANDA—But surely you can tell. . . .

LINDA—It's very interesting.

AMANDA—[In a glow] Interesting! It's marvelous!

LINDA—It's hard to tell—not exactly my dish of tea.

AMANDA—Of course not!

LINDA—Don't be complacent. . . .

AMANDA—[Taking it as a personal affront] You don't like it!

LINDA—It's so out of Gay's normal vein that I confess I was a bit startled!

AMANDA—[Carried away] The boy killing himself at the end—to justify his father's belief that he is dead—the scene between the father and his dead son, between the girl and her dead fiancι . . . Isn't it too . . .?

LINDA—Yes. It is!

AMANDA—I'm very proud of it. For the first time in my life, Linda, I feel justified. Can you understand that?

LINDA—Yes.

AMANDA—You don't really like it though! I feel you don't. . . .

LINDA—I do. I do. Only . . .

AMANDA—You don't . . .

LINDA—I had a curious, wretched feeling while I was reading it . . .

AMANDA—[Miffed] As you had no share in its inspiration I can't expect you to appreciate the play.

LINDA—Is that it? Is that all of it?

AMANDA—[Who is eaten by this] What made him send it to you? He felt always you wouldn't be sympathetic to it.

LINDA—I was very much surprised to get it.

AMANDA—Please don't discourage him.

LINDA—Haven't I told you, Mandy, that I am—thanks to you—a reformed character?

AMANDA—You'll tell him you like it, won't you, that you think it's wonderful?

LINDA—I'll try.

AMANDA—[After a moment] Linda?

LINDA—Yes. . . .

AMANDA—I have something to tell you.

LINDA—Have you?

AMANDA—You'll think me horrid.

LINDA—I couldn't.

AMANDA—But it's an awful thing to have to tell you—I don't know how to put it—I really don't. . . .

LINDA—Whatever it is I shall know that your motives are irreproachable.

AMANDA—You are so decent, it makes it all the more . . .

LINDA—Nevertheless—tell me!

AMANDA—Well, Gay and I . . .

LINDA—Yes?

AMANDA—Gay and I . . .

LINDA—I suspected it.

AMANDA—No. It's not that at all. It's worse. I mean—from your point of view. . . .

LINDA—[After a moment, quietly] Are you going to be married?

AMANDA—[Unable to face LINDA] Yes.

LINDA—[Very quietly] Well, my blessings!

AMANDA—Linda! I beg you to believe me! I struggled against this! [LINDA gives her a quick look] Only last night—just before he left—I told him it would be better for us not to see each other any more—I begged him to see that he was putting me in a false position—his play was well on the way—my usefulness over. I entreated him to return to you—and suddenly, out of a clear sky, he asked me to marry him.

LINDA—Infallible technique!

AMANDA—[Loftily] That's unworthy of you, Linda.

LINDA—Sorry.

AMANDA—I'm really frightfully worried about Gay. Don't you think perhaps we'd better try the studio again?

LINDA—Clementine's been ringing it for hours. No answer.

AMANDA—But what if something really did happen to him!

LINDA—You must get used to these little disappearances. Especially as you're going to marry him. If you find him elusive as a lover, as a husband, I assure you, he'll be practically nonexistent. [CLEMENTINE comes in. She looks, even while she is delivering her message to LINDA, with wry hostility at AMANDA.]

CLEMENTINE—Excuse me, Miss Lindy. . . .

LINDA—Yes, Clementine?

CLEMENTINE—Mr. Smith is on de telephone. Is you in or out?

LINDA—I'll speak to him. [LINDA goes to the telephone. Staring venomously at MANDY, CLEMENTINE goes out practically sideways. On the phone] Yes? Not at all. Please do . . . Any time . . . Of course. Good-bye. [She hangs up.]

AMANDA—[Unable to conceal her astonishment and even her pique] Philo! Not Philo!

LINDA—Yes.

AMANDA—He likes you!

LINDA—Do you mind?

AMANDA—But it's so astonishing!

LINDA—[Wryly] Thank you!

AMANDA—No, I didn't mean that. Obviously any man would. You're entrancing, my
dear. . . .

LINDA—Thank you, Mandy!

AMANDA—But if you knew Philo! If you knew how cold and unresponsive he is!

LINDA—He indicates a thaw.

AMANDA—I knew last night he liked you. When Robert told me he came downstairs I couldn't believe it!

LINDA—Is that so irregular?

AMANDA—Irregular! It's a revolution. Once he goes upstairs for the night he never comes down again. It's never happened. [A moment's pause. She is very curious] After he came down, what did you do?

LINDA—We played backgammon.

AMANDA—What did he say—about us—I mean about Gay and me?

LINDA—Very little. He's not exactly—chatty.

AMANDA—[Flatly, accepting the incredible fact] He likes you! As a matter of fact, you know, Linda, it just strikes me . . .

LINDA—Yes?

AMANDA—You and Philo, you're just made for each other.

LINDA—Do you think so?

AMANDA—Both strong, self-reliant—may I say so?—ambitious. You are neither of you what I call—crepuscular. . . .

LINDA—Oh, Mandy, I love you!

AMANDA—You know what I mean by that?

LINDA—Exactly!

AMANDA—Both of you have this in common: you know exactly what you want and go after it. . . .

LINDA—I shouldn't say, Amanda, that, in your quiet way, you lack tenacity. [CLEMENTINE comes in again.]

CLEMENTINE—Miss Lindy . . .

LINDA—Yes?

CLEMENTINE—Mr. Lovell on de telephone. . . .

LINDA—I'll speak to him. [The same exit for CLEMENTINE, if possible the gaze at MANDY more malevolent than before. On the phone] Hello, Pym . . . How are you, you poor boy? [She laughs] Poor darling, I thought after last night I'd never hear from you again . . . I gave you an earful, didn't I? . . . What? . . . of course . . . any time . . . I'm not going out. [She hangs up] He's really a sweet boy. He sat up with me last night. I did not feel like being alone. We stayed up all hours.

AMANDA—[Somehow can't stand all this] You're enormously popular, aren't you?

LINDA—You exaggerate.

AMANDA—I envy you. What a radiant career! It must be wonderful to be an accomplished actress. . . .

LINDA—It has its limitations.

AMANDA—To appear every night before a thousand people, looking your best, lit and made up to the best advantage—exquisitely dressed. What a thrilling profession! Mass-seduction nightly. . . .

LINDA—I, on the other hand, envy your profession—where the seduction is individual. . . .

AMANDA—[Tragically] You don't like me, Linda. You don't really like me. I feel very unhappy about it.

LINDA—Let's hope that Gay will compensate you for that!

AMANDA—Oh, dear! It's going to be very difficult.

LINDA—Why?

AMANDA—Philo is so old-fashioned—his children and all. He'll never give me a divorce. Unless . . .

LINDA—Unless what?

AMANDA—Unless perhaps . . . I have a curious idea, Linda—a curious hunch—that you might persuade Philo.

LINDA—Do you really?

AMANDA—Definitely. Why prolong a marriage that has outlived its—validity? You might, I feel sure, shame him by your example.

LINDA—I haven't any grown children in Groton.

AMANDA—All the more reason. He has his sons—he has his work—his life is quite full.

LINDA—What makes you think that I am willing to give up Gay?

AMANDA—[Generously] Because you are a big person, Linda!

LINDA—It's not a question of size. . . .

AMANDA—As your marriage—like mine—is sterile—I mean artistically—surely you must see how important it is for Gay . . .

LINDA—I am afraid, Mandy, that, where marriage is concerned, I belong to the willy-nilly school!

AMANDA—But Gay no longer loves you, Linda.

LINDA—I am not convinced.

AMANDA—He loves me.

LINDA—Perhaps he does.

AMANDA—He told me so. He asked me to marry him. He has committed himself.

LINDA—It's a commitment I do not recognize. I mean to stick to Gay—as long as possible. I think I can survive you, Mandy. . . . I mean to try! [There is the sound of a door slamming in the hallway. GAY comes in. He is aquiver with nervous tension. He has not slept; he has been drinking but he is not in the least drunk. Since we last saw him, GAY has undergone a thousand changes of mood and of plan—but one emotion has remained constant: despair in a conviction that has crystallized in him that his play is no good. He would die rather than admit it, but he is here because he can no longer endure the suspense of waiting for LINDA'S opinion. He wants it passionately though he has a sickening conviction of what it will be. He wants to hear it from her own lips, the death-sentence from her own lips, the confirmation of his despair, and get it over with. The fact that MANDY is there—necessarily delaying the execution—drives him crazy.]

AMANDA—[Joyous and reproachful at once] Gay! Gay dear! Where have you been?

GAY—What are you doing here?

AMANDA—I was frantic. You were to call me. . . .

GAY—I did.

AMANDA—When?

GAY—Just now.

AMANDA—But you were to call me at noon. I waited hours. I couldn't get you at the studio. . . .

GAY—I wasn't at the studio. . . .

AMANDA—I was sure you must be here. . . . I didn't know what to do.

GAY—I resent your spying on me! I won't be spied on! [AMANDA is staggered. She doesn't know what to do under this barrage. She is on the verge of tears. In her bewilderment and despair she turns to LINDA.]

AMANDA—[Appealing for help] Linda . . .

LINDA—[Touched by her bewilderment, pats her] I know, dear!

GAY—And don't cry, for God's sake!

LINDA—[Quietly to GAY] She's not me, you know, Gay. She's not used to your infantile tantrums.

GAY—Please don't give me any of your Olympian advice. I came here to pack—to get my things out of here once and for all.

AMANDA—[Completely restored by this, smiles through her tears] Really, Gay?

LINDA—[Amused, still patting her] Feel better, dear? [To GAY] I'll go in and get your things together.

GAY—Don't touch my things!

LINDA—Very well. I shan't touch your things. [To AMANDA] Never touch his things! [She goes out. GAY strides about. A pause. Finally, in contrition, GAY comes to AMANDA.]

GAY—I'm sorry, darling. I'm in a state. You mustn't . . .

AMANDA—[Goes to him, kisses him] Of course—excuse me for coming here—it's just that I was so . . . [She clings to him.]

GAY—You're an angel. We're going to Spain!

AMANDA—[A little surprised] What?

GAY—I just ran into a newspaper feller in 21—just back from Madrid. Had a hell of a talk with him. We're going to Spain.

AMANDA—When?

GAY—Right away.

AMANDA—But, Gay—your play!

GAY—The play's no good!

AMANDA—[Wounded, her own child] Gay! How can you talk that way?

GAY—Never mind! The hell with that!

AMANDA—You're depressed. Everything's been too much for you. You ought to be left alone for a bit.

GAY—[Irritated] I don't want to be left alone. I've been alone too God-damn much. It's just that I'm . . . [Pitifully] I've had no sleep. I can't sleep. . . . Mandy, please forgive me.

AMANDA—[Moved] Oh, Gay, don't ask me to forgive you—I can't bear it.

GAY—[Irresolutely] I've got to get my things out of here. . . .

AMANDA—Shall I go home and wait for you?

GAY—Wait for me downstairs in the cocktail bar.

AMANDA—[Delighted] Of course I will [She starts out, stops, can't suppress inquiry that has been gnawing her] Gay . . .

GAY—[Abstractedly] Yes?

AMANDA—Why did you send Linda the play?

GAY—[Furious] Did she tell you that?

AMANDA—Yes.

GAY—[Off again] She's a . . . [Controls himself with difficulty] What did she say about it?

AMANDA—Not her dish, she said.

GAY—[Insincere bravery] That's a compliment!

AMANDA—Of course it is. The play is wonderful!

GAY—What the hell do you know about it? [She is dumb with surprise and misery; he is stricken for having said it, at the same time he is so nervous that he can't stand this interview another second] Please, darling, I'm a brute. I know I'm a brute, but I don't mean to be. I'm awfully sorry. There are moments between people when they shouldn't discuss anything, when they shouldn't talk, when to exchange any but the most casual remarks is to run a gauntlet—like yachting in a mined area in war time. Be a darling, Mandy. Go down to the cocktail bar. Sit on a stool and have a drink. Presently I'll join you. I'll sit on a stool beside you and I'll have a drink. We'll be very happy. Well plan our trip to Spain. [As the incongruity of this strikes him suddenly he adds with saturnine humor] Pleasure cruise!

AMANDA—[Sees it is necessary to beat a retreat] How long will you be?

GAY—Just get together some manuscripts and a few books. Won't be ten minutes. [By this time he has walked her to the hall door.]

AMANDA—[Going up with him arm in arm] You're not serious about Spain?

GAY—We'll talk about it.

AMANDA—[As they disappear into little hall] Don't be long, will you, darling?

GAY—Five minutes. By the time you've finished one cocktail. . . . [A moment's pause. He is kissing her good-bye. How can she know—since he does not in the least suspect it himself—that it is a valedictory kiss? We hear the hall door close. He comes back into the room. At the same time CLEMENTINE comes in from the right, carrying whiskey bottle, syphon and glasses on a tray.]

GAY—[Pouring himself a drink at once] Clementine, you're psychic!

CLEMENTINE—[Her voice more falsetto than ever—at her most querulous] What do you mean playin' around wid dat Mrs. Smith?

GAY—[His voice alive with menace] I return, Black Beauty, to perform one final rite. . . .

CLEMENTINE—She's so wispy she looks like she won't last out de winter!

GAY—One final rite, Egeria, which will afford me intense pleasure!

CLEMENTINE—She talks so gaspy—what she got? De asthma?

GAY—You odious barbarian! Another word and I'll eviscerate you.

CLEMENTINE—[Faintly misunderstanding] Don't you go makin' up to me. I'se off yer!

GAY—You're fired! Do you hear that? You get out of here right away. My final official act in this transient establishment—clear out. This time you're fired for good!

CLEMENTINE—Lord, boss, de way Miss Lindy feels about you right now you's lucky ef you ain't fired yosef. I know Miss Lindy and I'm warnin' you, boss, her patience is jest about run out.

GAY—[Murderous] Oh, it is!

CLEMENTINE—Yeh, it is. Better take my tip an' make up to her purty!

GAY—Get out of here before I throw this decanter at you!

CLEMENTINE—[Unruffled] Yeah?

GAY—So help me!

CLEMENTINE—Lordy, boss, you's such a lush you'd never throw no decanter while dere's licker in it.

GAY—[With dignity] What you do not appear to recognize, Mignonette, is that my mood is exceptional!

CLEMENTINE—[Sizing him up as if for the last time, resigned to the sad fact] You's jest like my man exackly—full o' entertainment but jest nacherly no good. I hate to see yer go. I'll do what I can fer yer wid Miss Lindy. [She shuffles out. GAY is left alone, highball glass in hand. His temper is demonic but turned in on himself—a mood of terrific self-torture. Everything appears to have dropped away from him—every inner conviction and every objective support. He is lost in chaos! He walks around the room. His eye catches his manuscript on the table. He puts down the highball glass, picks up the envelope and takes out the typed manuscript. Has LINDA read it all? Has she scribbled anything in the margins? He finds nothing. Afresh the certainty weaves through him that this thing is no good, that he has been over-ambitious and failed, that he has overextended himself. He puts the script back into the envelope, methodically, and the envelope back on the table and the paper-weight on it. He stands there, staring into a vacant future. LINDA comes in.]

LINDA—Where's Mandy?

GAY—Downstairs in the cocktail bar.

LINDA—I didn't touch your sacred things. You will find them in their customary disarray. [A silence] Mandy tells me you're getting married. Is that true?

GAY—Yes. We're going to Spain.

LINDA—Peculiar place for a honeymoon. Why Spain? I might even add, if I were malicious, why Mandy?

GAY—[Vibrating with anger against her] I'll tell you why! To get away from you!

LINDA—But the world is wide. . . .

GAY—[Passionately] It's not wide. It's narrow. It's close. It's a closet. And I've got claustrophobia. I'm shut in it with you. I've got to get away from you. I've got to break your hold on me. God damn it, Linda, I've got to marry Mandy or somebody because it's the only way I can be unfaithful to you!

LINDA—That's the sweetest thing you ever said to me. Thank you, dear!

GAY—You're being very funny, aren't you?

LINDA—Not at all. I had no idea we were so close. I had no idea we were in a closet together. I really didn't. I thought you were unfaithful to me regularly and with ease. I'm delighted to discover you have to marry to achieve it. It seems drastic—a cumbersome method—but I must say I find it highly flattering. Thank you, darling!

GAY—How easily you fall into these verbal routines I've written for you so often. They nauseate me! Life isn't that!

LINDA—Too bad. Life is sad and cruel and ugly. Too bad!

GAY—[After a moment] Have you read it?

LINDA—[Lost for the moment in the contemplation of another vista] What?

GAY—Don't ask me what. You know damn well what!

LINDA—Oh, the play. . . .

GAY—Have you read it?

LINDA—Yes.

GAY—Well?

LINDA—It isn't easy to say in a word.

GAY—If you lie to me I'll break your neck.

LINDA—[Quietly] I have no intention of lying to you.

GAY—Well, tell me then. Tell me the worst!

LINDA—I was very touched by your sending it to me.

GAY—The hell with that. I know myself but I want to hear it from you. I know it's terrible—I knew last night—it came over me in Mandy's library—just before I came in to talk to you—it came over me in a dreadful . . . What the hell was I doing, with this idea, with these characters? I knew then it was terrible!

LINDA—It's not terrible. That's nonsense and you know it's nonsense. In a macabre way it's fascinating. And the first act is wonderfully written.

GAY—[Breathing oxygen suddenly] Linda! You think so? You really think so?

LINDA—Of course I do. You couldn't write anything terrible.

GAY—Linda darling. . . .

LINDA—Only . . .

GAY—Only what . . . [She says nothing; he insists; he hangs on her pronouncement] Only what?

LINDA—I don't quite see the reason for doing a play like this. What does it accomplish? Whom does it demolish? It tells bereaved people who cling to a hope in immortality, because without it they must give themselves up to despair, that their hope is an illusion. Why? Why go out of your way to do it?

GAY—Because the whole notion of immortality is destructive. A powerful and impotent concept which keeps people from facing reality. Spiritual dope-taking. People must learn to face the real world, then perhaps they'll improve it.

LINDA—Who are you to say it's an illusion? How do you know?

GAY—I say it's healthier—and more practical—to assume that this is all we have.

LINDA—I don't like your last act. Why does the boy have to die?

GAY—To save his father's face.

LINDA—I hate ghosts on the stage. People aren't necessarily interesting because they're dead. You write so delightfully and charmingly for living people; why write lugubriously for corpses? I hate ghosts on the stage. Even Hamlet's father. He's quite a bore. And above all, Gay . . .

GAY—[Masochistic] Let me hear it—tell me everything. . . .

LINDA—I feel a revulsion from your play altogether because it is dominated by the idea of death. . . .

GAY—But we are living in an era of death. We are pervaded by death. Death is our hero, our protagonist—war and death—death and the fear of death. Death purrs over us, a giant bombing-plane—its shadow over the green pastures, darkening the still waters. That is why my play is dominated by it—because we are.

LINDA—What if we are? Why should your play be? One should keep in one's own mind a little clearing in the jungle of life. One must laugh.

GAY—It is easy for us here in America to laugh. We have the illusion of safety.

LINDA—This putting of dead people in plays does them a disservice really, strips them of the dignity of their silence. Aesthetic body-snatching! We know nothing of death and can know nothing. When we describe it even, we are describing life. . . . I beg of you, Gay, don't throw away your charming gift, don't despise it. . . . Is it more profound to write of death of which we know nothing than of life of which we may learn something, which we can illuminate, if only briefly, with gaiety, with understanding? Gay, I beg of you, don't turn your back on the gift you have, the instinct you have, the power you have. . . .

GAY—[Morosely] It's not that. . . . That's not the trouble. . . .

LINDA—Then what?

GAY—It's that I haven't pulled it off.

LINDA—Is it worth pulling off?

GAY—It is—supremely—if I could. This is only your way of telling me. . . .

LINDA—But, Gay, I assure you . . .

GAY—I wanted to hear it from your lips—I wanted confirmation. . . .

LINDA—Probably the play would be produced and received as the profoundest thing you had done—a masterpiece even. Only I should never be convinced. But who am I?

GAY—[Following his own conviction] No, I've failed or you wouldn't say these things. I saw it clearly enough last night—in Mandy's library—

LINDA—You saw what in Mandy's library?

GAY—That my play was inadequate to its idea—that I wasn't equipped to do it—indignation without form—passion without authority—I saw exactly what it would be—not tragic, but thin, petulant.

LINDA—But even if it were everything you wanted it to be I still shouldn't be impressed. I am not impressed by the dead. Your hero says to the girl that in Spain he learned how to die and now he will practice what he has learned. . . . That does not impress me—that he knows how to die. Millions of people know how to die—Stoics and fanatics—the insensitive and the robots. In any case it is an art that sooner or later Nature imposes on all of us. No, the difficult thing, the admirable thing is to live. That requires ingenuity, that requires skill, that requires imagination—that is the index of civilization—the ability to live, not the ability to die. Don't spin for me fantasias of death. Imagine for me variations of
life. . . .

GAY—I shall go to Spain—where death is not a fantasy—but a reality!

LINDA—But why? Why add to the holocaust? Why?

GAY—Why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm sick of improvising these variations on life, as you call them. I'm sick of it! It's a charming phrase—the kind of phrase I've written so often for you to say on the stage. What does it mean actually? Skimming for the eternal themes—sex plus what passes for sophistication. If this thing [He indicates the manuscript on the table] is no good it's because I haven't actually been through it—I haven't been through anything. While I'm improvising these charming variations people are dying—the innocents are being slaughtered. And in my personal life I improvise variations also—Mandy! No, I'm sick of it, sick of my work, sick of myself. I want something clear and outside myself to be enlisted for. I'm sick of the triviality, sick of ringing changes on what I've already written, sick of the futility. If necessary, I swear to God, I want it shot out of myself. [A pause.]

LINDA—It's Mandy then—you want to get away from Mandy. Insufficient motive I should think for going to Spain. . . .

GAY—It's like you to pick on that—out of all I've said. . . .

LINDA—I know you so well. You're such a Puritan. You've involved yourself to the point where you feel you've got to marry Mandy. That's so unnecessary, really. To avoid marrying Mandy you're leaving almost the only country left in the world where one may still live with some independence, with some decency—not paralyzed by fear. You should stay here, live here where and while it is still possible to live. The more inhuman the rest of the world the more human we. The grosser and more cruel the others the more scrupulous, the more fastidious, the more precisely just and delicate we.

GAY—That reminds me somehow of the aristocrats in the Bastille bowing to each other on the way to the scaffold.

LINDA—They are pleasanter to remember than the knitting women.

GAY—Manner—divorced from justice—the hell with that! [A moment's pause.]

LINDA—Gay . . .

GAY—Yes?

LINDA—Supposing I get you out of this mess you've got yourself into with Mandy. . . .

GAY—It's no mess. Your assumption that this is the major factor in my—in what I . . .

LINDA—I know. That drives you crazy. Nevertheless I'll get you out of it.

GAY—What makes you think I want to get out of it?

LINDA—I know it worries you—and it should!

GAY—Well, it doesn't. I've asked Mandy to go to Spain with me.

LINDA—Mandy in Spain! She'll wait for you in Paris, I promise you, and shop. Look, darling—don't pretend with me—you don't have to. I know you're worried sick about it. I'll get you out of it. You won't have to do a thing. . . . And your friendship can remain intact. Mandy can go right on inspiring you. Only you can get it at odd moments instead of in the steady stream which marriage would let you in for—a perpetual shower-bath you couldn't stop. . . .

GAY—Well, if she won't go she won't go. But I've got to, in any case. I've got to get up against a genuine experience. . . . What else will I do? I've got nothing to work on. . . . What will I do? This thing [He indicates manuscript] I'm going to put away till I've come back. I'll see how it looks to me then. . . .

LINDA—[After a moment] Gay . . .

GAY—Well . . .

LINDA—Let's talk a minute. . . .

GAY—I've got to go in and pack my lousy manuscripts. I get nausea when I think of
them. . . .

LINDA—I know what you're running away from. Not only Mandy—but yourself. You feel sterile at the moment and that you'll fill in the vacuum with experience. I know perfectly well that if you had an idea you were excited about you wouldn't go. . . .

GAY—But I haven't an idea I'm excited about. I haven't even an idea.

LINDA—I have.

GAY—I doubt it.

LINDA—I know what you always say—that no writer ever gets an idea from anyone else that they give him consciously. But I think—I honestly think—that I have one—that I can give you consciously—and it's right up your street.

GAY—[Impatient and skeptical] Well, what is it?

LINDA—Mandy and me.

GAY—What are you talking about?

LINDA—Why don't you write a play about Mandy and me? Two opposite types of women in the life of a man, an artist, a writer—the builder-upper and the breaker-downer—the critical faculty versus the clinging vine—What Every Woman Knows in reverse.

GAY—I see you allocate to yourself the superior role!

LINDA—Not at all. A lot to be said for Mandy. Great crises, she says, great occasions, great loves make people extend themselves—exceed their capacities—whereas the other woman—I—is skeptical, critical. Stay in your little street, I say, cultivate your garden—don't try to make a forest out of it—if you are a miniaturist remain content with that and don't attempt the Michael Angelo frescoes—a playwright like you for instance caught between the upper and nether millstones of these two points of view. . . . Which wins out in the end? Whom does he stay with?

GAY—[Interested as a technician] It would depend a good deal, I should think, on how the builder-upper's advice worked out. . . .

LINDA—Exactly. . . .

GAY—Supposing, say, the play he wrote and produced under her influence were a great success. . . .

LINDA—Then I'd be sunk! Dilemma, say—supposing it turned out a masterpiece—at least supposing it were called a masterpiece because the characters are dead. . . . What then?

GAY—[Fascinated for a moment] Might be interesting. . . .

LINDA—[Holding her breath] Right up your street!

GAY—Who would win out?

LINDA—Who would win out!

GAY—If the play is a success, it's a toss-up.

LINDA—Odds on Mandy.

GAY—If it weren't, if it stank . . .

LINDA—What then?

GAY—Then he'd turn to the builder-upper certainly. . . .

LINDA—Think so? Why?

GAY—He'd never forgive the wife for being right.

LINDA—[Laughing] Gay darling. . . . That's charming. You could have a lot of fun with it. Why don't you try it? Please try it!

GAY—[Ruminating the theme] I hate you often because you know more than I do. Mandy massages my ego. It's very pleasant.

LINDA—There you are! It's right in your hands. Do it, Gay. Do it for me.

GAY—No.

LINDA—But I'm sure, Gay darling, that you could make a most amusing comedy out of it!

GAY—What if I did?

LINDA—What's wrong with an amusing comedy? I'm very much afraid that Mandy has made you pompous.

GAY—Who cares? People aren't interested in the private lives of actresses. It's old stuff. People aren't interested in playwrights. Why should they be? They're interested in themselves—not in the people who write about them. We're such exhibitionists that we think that because other writers and other actresses discuss us endlessly that the general public cares. They don't give a God damn! And they're quite right! [The telephone rings. LINDA answers it.]

LINDA—Oh, yes. Ask him to come right up please.

GAY—[Irritated at being interrupted in a flight] Who's that?

LINDA—Philo.

GAY—What the hell are you doing with that stuffed shirt?

LINDA—He's less a stuffed shirt than you think. He's recklessly, even insanely impulsive.

GAY—That tycoon!

LINDA—He proposed to me last night.

GAY—No!

LINDA—Yes. He did. I was really quite surprised. One never knows about people. Faηade of a Doric-pillared counting-house outside, and in . . . He's not a stuffed shirt at all, just suppressed. I was quite bowled over.

GAY—[He suddenly feels a cold fury of jealousy] Well, why don't you marry him? Great marriage—the two critical faculties—the two skeptics. You'll produce a lot of question marks!

LINDA—Oh, but, Gay, really . . .

GAY—I'm going in to pack my extinct masterpieces! [He goes out. LINDA is left alone. The telephone rings again. LINDA answers it.]

LINDA—[Into phone] Yes, Mandy . . . He'll be right down . . . He's just finishing packing . . . No, thank you, my dear, I have a friend coming up . . . In fact it's Philo . . . Yes, I'll tell Gay. He'll only be a minute now . . . Not at all. [She hangs up. CLEMENTINE comes in. CLEMENTINE is distressed.]

CLEMENTINE—De boss is packin'.

LINDA—I know.

CLEMENTINE—Is he goin' away shu nuff?

LINDA—Yes.

CLEMENTINE—Where to?

LINDA—Somewhere—anywhere . . .

CLEMENTINE—Can't you stop him?

LINDA—No. I can't stop him.

CLEMENTINE—He's a terrible man, but his goin' away is terribler. [The doorbell.]

LINDA—Answer it, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE—[Shuffling toward hall] Who all is it? [She goes out into hall, admitting PHILO a moment later. CLEMENTINE walks back across the room scrutinizing PHILO sideways in her fashion as she does so.]

LINDA—[Greets PHILO] I'm awfully glad to see you . . . [To CLEMENTINE as CLEMENTINE goes out] Help Mr. Esterbrook if he needs you, Clementine. He never can pack anything. He never can find anything.

CLEMENTINE—Yes'm. [CLEMENTINE goes out.]

LINDA—[To PHILO, smiling at him, conscious he is under a certain strain] How are you, Philo?

PHILO—Apprehensive.

LINDA—Really? Why? Will you have a drink?

PHILO—No, thank you.

LINDA—Gay is going away. Spain.

PHILO—Why?

LINDA—[Shrugs her shoulders] Experience. Fundamental experience.

PHILO—Forgive me, but this is romanticism. Literary romanticism. Nonsense. The wrong kind of nonsense.

LINDA—You are harsh.

PHILO—[After a moment] Last night—must seem fantastic to you.

LINDA—Probably not as fantastic as it seems to you!

PHILO—Yes. It is incredible to me also. And yet I went to sleep—thinking of you. I awoke—thinking of you. I am forty-eight. That in itself is absurd. And yet—after two unsuccessful marriages—after so many years of rigorous discipline—after a long renunciation of any idea of personal happiness—I tremble before you.

LINDA—I am very touched.

PHILO—I am glad I told you the truth. I came to see you yesterday—not because I wanted to tell you about your husband and Amanda—that meant less than nothing to me. I came because I wanted to see you—to talk to you. I came because, since I saw you at the Wylers', I could not forget you. I couldn't get you out of my mind. I thought: I'll go to see her—I'll talk to her and this will cure me. The effect was the opposite. [He smiles at her] Is this the onslaught of age? Is this senility?

LINDA—You can't expect me to think so.

PHILO—I am happy I told you. I am happy you know. It is fantastic. I know it well. But I am glad, after so many years of the strictest logic, to have ventured the improbable. [GAY comes in. He is jealous of PHILO. He thinks he conceals this by ignoring him.]

GAY—Where's my passport? Where the devil have you put it?

LINDA—I haven't put it.

GAY—I gave it to you when I came back in July.

LINDA—You didn't.

GAY—That impermeable robot of yours doesn't know anything!

LINDA—Have you met Mr. Smith?

GAY—[Abruptly] Hello.

PHILO—How do you do?

LINDA—Perhaps the passport is in your studio.

GAY—It can't be. I never took it there.

LINDA—Then look in the little black tin box on the shelf in your closet. You throw things in there!

GAY—[Remembering that is where he put it] That's it! That's where it is! [To PHILO abruptly; his instinct tells him he can find a legitimate issue on which to fight PHILO in the following direction; he is bitterly jealous and resentful of what seems to him PHILO'S assurance] Are you interested in the Spanish struggle, Mr. Smith?

PHILO—Not particularly.

GAY—[Just spoiling for a fight] No?

PHILO—I'm sorry. I'm interested of course as a student of human folly. But not more than that.

GAY—No more than that!

LINDA—[Desperate to ward it off] I'm sure, Gay dear, your passport is in that little box in the closet!

GAY—No, wait a minute. This is interesting. This beautiful detachment is interesting. It doesn't arouse your anger that two aggressive countries are using Spain as a battleground to fight an undeclared war? That they are slaughtering women and children—that doesn't stir you out of your detachment?

PHILO—My dear Mr. Esterbrook, I am afraid you see the world not as it is but as you would like it to be. The history of the human race is a disgraceful history. Civil war is no new thing in Spain. They fought the Carlist wars for forty years. They kill each other because they want to—that is their pastime. You are like the sentimentalists who divorce the totalitarian rulers from their peoples. No such divorce is possible. They have the governments they want, the governments they deserve. The average man is bloodthirsty and contemptible. The great satirists, Voltaire and Swift, knew that. Your indignation is sentimental and romantic. It is infantile. [A moment's pause. GAY is trembling with anger. He turns to LINDA. He speaks very quietly.]

GAY—You were saying exactly the same things in different words just a few minutes ago. You two are made for each other obviously. I see you both cuddled together in a cocoon of detachment. So happy!

LINDA—[Stricken] Gay—Gay darling . . . please . . .

GAY—[Eaten up] Really—perfect! [He flings out. A silence.]

PHILO—[Finally] I'm sorry. But he started it. He provoked it. I'm very sorry. Are you angry with me?

LINDA—No.

PHILO—You are.

LINDA—No, only it's made me see. I'm afraid, Philo, it's made me see . . .

PHILO—What?

LINDA—I thought—after you spoke to me last night—I thought: well this might be peace. This might be tranquility and regularity—deep and quiet thought. I am an actress, but what I have really always wanted is love, to be loved. I am not a bohemian by temperament. In fact, I hate it. I am methodical. I was tired, tired of being buffeted about by the tantrums of temperament. But I must tell you now and quickly. No, Philo—no. It can never be—between us . . . I shall wait for Gay to come back. I shall, eternally, wait for Gay.

PHILO—You are angry at what I said.

LINDA—No, not angry. You are logical. You are right. I suppose that Gay is all you say—sentimental, romantic, even infantile. And yet not altogether. Oh, I can't believe it altogether. People do dreadful things to each other but often they are made to—they are sent. And there must be—I believe this—there must be millions in the past and now, millions of anonymous people who are kind, who ask only to be permitted to live—all these gentle humble voices unheard and unrecorded . . . In them one must believe, for them one must do illogical and quixotic things, for them one must—I use the expression as a symbol—go to Spain and fight!

PHILO—You hate me.

LINDA—Philo! Philo dear!

PHILO—Yes. You despise me.

LINDA—[Puts her hand on his arm] It isn't that. It's that you are independent, you are secure, you are islanded in contempt. Gay, for all his absurd little faults—whatever he may be—Gay feels. He bleeds. You don't bleed, Philo. I must be there, when he wants me, to staunch his grief.

PHILO—[After a moment. He is stunned and devastated] Yes . . . Yes . . . Good-bye, Linda.

LINDA—Good-bye, Philo. [She looks at him. His eyes, for a moment, meet hers. He turns and goes out of the room. LINDA is left done. She is deeply affected. She makes a little helpless gesture. CLEMENTINE comes in.]

CLEMENTINE—Dat boy is comin' up—dat Makepeace—he said you asked 'im . . . [Improvising little dialogue for herself just because she loves PYM'S name] Makepeace come to Mamma! Oh, Lord! An' de boss is ravin' mad, Miss Lindy, he's jest ravin' . . . An' guess why? 'Cause he kain't find his passport. An' guess why he kain't find his passport? 'Cause I stole it an' it's right here. [She takes GAY'S passport out from her ample bosom. She is delighted with herself.]

LINDA—[Beyond anger or reproach] Give me that passport!

CLEMENTINE—[Giving it up] Shu nuff. Ef you give him dat passport you's jest a fool. He kain't go nowhere widout no passport. [The doorbell rings] Don't give it to 'im, Miss Lindy. He'll go over dere where dey's fightin' an' get hisself into a mess o' trouble.

LINDA—Let Mr. Lovell in . . . [CLEMENTINE waddles out through the hall. GAY comes back. He has forgotten all about the passport. He feels he has been a little harsh to LINDA. He is greatly relieved to find PHILO gone and dying to communicate instantly to LINDA a new idea about which he is tremendously excited.]

GAY—Is that bastard gone, Linda? Listen, Linda darling, I see it . . . I think I see it . . .

LINDA—Here's your passport . . .

GAY—[Ignoring that] No, but listen, Linda—I've got a terrific idea . . . [PYM comes in, CLEMENTINE following. CLEMENTINE stops, tries to size things up. GAY gestures impatiently for her to be gone. CLEMENTINE goes out.]

PYM—[To LINDA] Hello, pet! [Bows formally to GAY] Mr. Esterbrook, I believe?

GAY—[To PYM] For God's sake, have I got to cope with you now? I've got to talk to Linda!

PYM—[To GAY] Where Linda is concerned you are frightfully possessive.

GAY—I beg of you, Pym, don't be light and witty. I've written lightweight boys like you so often that I can anticipate your every remark.

PYM—You are not quite accurate. I recognized myself in your last play—which by the way was so light it was imponderable—and I should say the dialogue of the character you imagined to be me was not so much anticipated as remembered . . . [The telephone rings. LINDA answers.]

GAY—[With passionate appeal] What the hell kind of a house is this? . . . Linda, I've got to talk to you. It's important . . .

LINDA—One second . . . [At phone] Oh, yes, Mandy—oh, I am sorry—Yes, I'll tell him. It's been quite hectic here. Gay's been unable to find his passport. Yes, he's got it now. Pym's just dropped in. He'd love to come down and have a drink with you. May he? Yes, I promise you Gay will be down any minute. He's just about set . . . Of course I understand. [She hangs up.]

PYM—[To LINDA] Your generosity is excessive.

GAY—[To PYM] I've got to talk to Linda for a minute . . .

LINDA—[Also appealing to him] Be a darling, Pym. . . .

PYM—[Resolutely] I refuse absolutely to be a darling!

LINDA—Mandy's in the cocktail bar. She's been there for hours, waiting for Gay. You go down and have a drink with her and as soon as Gay gets there you can come up again. I'll have dinner with you.

PYM—No.

LINDA—Oh, do. I'll love you forever. After all, it's not asking much for you to hold Mandy's hand for a few minutes.

PYM—[With dignity] I am not a professional hand-holder, Linda. I don't mind holding your hand here and there because I derive a certain secondary pleasure from it. But why Mandy's?

LINDA—Because I ask you to.

PYM—You are the most tyrannical of women. I warn you, one day I will revolt and your life will be quite empty.

LINDA—I just won't let myself think of it, darling.

PYM—It will be a brief revolution probably, lasting till you say hello to me!

GAY—[Dolefully] When I think that I write this kind of small talk for a living I feel like shooting myself!

LINDA—Please, darling, for me . . . [She goes to him, kisses him full on the lips] There!

PYM—This kiss does not reassure me. It is more clinical than passionate—like a doctor applying a poultice to a bruise. . . .

GAY—For God's sake, Pym . . .

PYM—[Tranquilly] How long will you be?

LINDA—I'll call you any minute.

PYM—All right. [As he is going] One thing I am grateful to you for, Gay. It will be so easy to be your successor. I'll seem so charming. Anybody would! [He goes. GAY is trembling with excitement.]

GAY—Linda . . .

LINDA—Yes, Gay . . .

GAY—I see it!

LINDA—[Completely bewildered] What?

GAY—The idea. The play. The idea you gave me.

LINDA—What idea?

GAY—The two women—you and Mandy—but I see beyond it—way beyond it . . .

LINDA—[Very excited and very happy. It is too good to be true] Really? Really? Tell me.

GAY—I see refracted through it the disturbances and the agony of the times. The whole thing formed in my mind—in there—just now—while I was looking for a shoe . . .

LINDA—I'm glad, dear. I'm awfully glad . . .

GAY—And I've got a hell of a title for it.

LINDA—What?

GAY—No Time for Comedy!

LINDA—[Considers a moment] Not bad!

GAY—I have a feeling—I have a feeling, Linda—if only I can pull it off . . .

LINDA—You can. I am sure you can!

GAY—It'll have some weight, some contemporary value—and a wonderful part for you.

LINDA—Don't worry about that. I'm going to revive The School for Scandal.

GAY—[Angry] Who the hell wants to see The School for Scandal? What the hell's it got to do with us now?

LINDA—It's a classic. I've always wanted to do it!

GAY—It's an anachronism.

LINDA—This isn't the only moment—just because we're so unfortunate as to be living in it. There were other times—and we should remember them. Here's your passport. [She hands him passport.]

GAY—What are you trying to do—get rid of me?

LINDA—[Lightly] Why not? [The telephone rings. LINDA goes to answer it.]

GAY—Because I love you. [LINDA stops on the way to the telephone. She turns, looks at GAY, smiles. She is moved. She does not want to reveal how deeply she is moved. The telephone rings again.]

LINDA—[On the telephone] Hello . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Of course . . . I'll tell him. [GAY knows the worst. His body stiffens with apprehension. He leaps to his feet from the couch] It's Mandy—for you.

GAY—[Speech fails him. He makes the inarticulate sounds of a wounded animal. LINDA is inexorable. He starts for the phone, cannot face it. He implores LINDA, he beseeches her, hoarsely.] What? . . . What? . . .

LINDA—You ought to know. You've got to write it. It's the curtain for your last act, isn't it? [GAY recognizes the wisdom of this: that there is nothing to be done; that he must face it. He goes to the phone. He picks up the receiver. He prepares to speak. His face is twisted in agony. No words come from between his parched lips. LINDA sits watching him, a knowing smile on her face. In the eternity of his inarticulateness, the curtain swiftly comes down.]

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