Index     I     II-I     II-II     III

ACT Two
SCENE I

SCENE: The same as ACT ONE. Afternoon, four days later.

CLENDON WYATT'S voice, SASCHA accompanying on the piano, is heard singing a spiritual. NIKOLAI JURIN sits by, listening. The curtain rises during the first lines of WYATT'S song. WYATT is an attractive young Southern American who won a Rhodes Scholarship for making a spectacular dash on the football field. JURIN is an aristocratic Russian, middle-aged, tired, very gentle.

WYATT'S VOICE

Away up thar
My massa's settin'
Settin' on
His judgment chair
He looks down on
All creation
He sees sorrow
He knows care . . .
He sees sorrow
He knows care.

[There is a moment's pause when he finishes singing.]

JURIN—Thank you, Mr. Wyatt. I have always wanted to hear one of these songs. Sascha, please . . .

SASCHA—Yes?

JURIN—This spiritual which Mr. Wyatt has just sung for us—did it make you think of anything, did it remind you of anything?

SASCHA—Musically, you mean?

JURIN—[Eagerly.] Yes. Musically.

SASCHA—Not especially. Why?

JURIN—Ah, that's because you were never in Streilna before the Revolution, where Maria Nikolaevna used to sing the gypsy songs. [He closes his eyes and sings.]

Utro Tumannoye
Utro Sedoye
Nivi Pechalnia
Snegom Pokritiya

Do you see what I mean about the resemblance?

WYATT—I see what you mean. . . .

SASCHA—[Argumentative.] Not a bit alike! The Russian is sensuous, earthy . . . [LAEL comes in. Grouped around the piano, the others don't see her at once.]

JURIN—[Trying to persuade SASCHA.] But in the melancholy of both, there's . . .

WYATT—I know what it is they have in common—resignation!

JURIN—Yes! Resignation. Yes!

LAEL—[Coming up to them.] What's this about resignation? [They all rise.] I don't approve of it. I think people ought to fight.

JURIN—[Standing above his chair.] There comes a day, dear lady, when you cannot fight—then you need resignation.

LAEL—[Briskly.] I don't admit that day!

JURIN—Had you been in Russia when the Bolsheviks came, you would have recognized such a day.

LAEL—Well, I'm prepared to admit that resignation may have its uses, a recuperative interval, a kind of hibernation of the soul—but you can't be resigned forever. That's Buddhism.

JURIN—No, pardon me, dear lady, but I do not agree with you. There comes a day when you wake up and you find yourself, though you are living and breathing, a part of the past. [HUGO enters.] You are historic. You realize that you have survived yourself. That's sad. That's strange. And for that day you need resignation.

LAEL—Oh, I understand it, but temperamentally I'm agin it.

JURIN—But really to understand it, you have to undergo persecution and contempt.

SASCHA—It's no joke the way things are going nowadays.

LAEL—It was never a joke at any time the way things were going. Was there ever a moment in history when you weren't surrounded by blood and tears? [HOBART enters. He is fingering a telegram and is very business-like.] It depended always on where you looked. [The last of this she has said looking at HOBART.] Oh, hello, Hobart.

HOBART—[Aggressively.] I've got to go up to London. Where's Rand?

WYATT—On the tennis-court I believe. Shall I get him for you?

HOBART—If you please. [With a look at LAEL, WYATT goes out.]

LAEL—I'll join you in a minute, Clen.

JURIN—What a nice boy that is. How does he, an American, happen to be at Oxford?

LAEL—He's a Rhodes Scholar. He says he's so grateful to Mr. Rhodes for letting him stay at Oxford that he's always wanting to write him a bread-and-butter letter.

JURIN—[Puzzled.] But I thought Rhodes was dead?

LAEL—[Laughs—in explanation to JURIN.] American humor, Jurin! [JURIN rises and kisses her hand.]

SASCHA—I'll find Joan and we'll play doubles. Mrs. Eldridge doesn't want to play. What do you say, Jurin?

JURIN—I'll do my best. [To HUGO.] Perhaps you would like to play, Herr Willens?

HUGO—Thank you, no.

LAEL—[To SASCHA and JURIN.] We'll be out in a second to watch you. [SASCHA and JURIN exit.] Now, then, Hobart, why must you go up to London? Why can't you relax? You're always so busy.

HOBART—I've just been down to the post-office . . .

LAEL—I could have a ticker-tape in your room?

HOBART—[Smiling grimly.] A telephone would be some help. But this isn't the Stock Market. I've got to go up to London. [RAND comes in flushed from tennis.]

LAEL—[To RAND.] Your brother's going up to London. I'm hurt!

HOBART—Just for a few hours. And I've got to take Rand with me.

RAND—[Appalled.] Oh, now, Bart . . .

HOBART—We'll be back in time for dinner. Right after, anyway. . . .

RAND—But I'm right in the middle of a set.

HOBART—An hour to London—half hour in Fleet Street—an hour back.

LAEL—[Unable to resist it.] Shall I ask Lord Abercrombie here?

HOBART—[Horrified.] Rand!

LAEL—Nonsense. Rand didn't tell me. I told him. Shall I ask him here?

HOBART—[Recovered.] Don't think you could get him.

LAEL—[Wickedly.] Shall I try?

HOBART—[Fearful of her magic.] No, thank you. I'm afraid you might succeed and I'd rather see him in London—away from you. Probably, like everyone else, Lord Abercrombie can't resist you.

LAEL—Well, up to a point he can't resist me.

HOBART—[Looking at his watch.] Please get ready, Rand. The longer you take . . .

RAND—[Turning to obey.] Right! [Stops.] Why don't you drive up with us, Lael?

LAEL—Shall I, Hobart? Look how frightened he is. No, I can't leave my guests.

RAND—[To HOBART.] Sure we will be back for dinner?

HOBART—If you hurry.

RAND—Be right down. [RAND exits.]

LAEL—[To HUGO.] Mr. Eldridge is organizing an Anglo-American Youth League.

HOBART—[Surprised that she should speak of it to HUGO.] Hum?

LAEL—[To HOBART.] Oh, it's everybody's secret. What are you going to ask the Anglo-American Youth to do for you?

HOBART—[As if he had memorized it.] We are appealing to the generous spirit of the youth of both countries to mobilize against the subversive forces current in the world today.

LAEL—Are you appealing to it because it's generous or because it's uncritical?

HUGO—It's a myth about the generosity of youth. Youth is bloodthirsty and savage—it's only the exceptional youth that's generous—just as it's only the exceptional man.

LAEL—I don't agree with you, Hugo. I think the impulse of youth is to be generous.

HUGO—When it's well-fed and romping it may be occasionally, out of excess of energy—but normally it isn't. But then, normally, who is? No point in being quixotic, is there? Excuse me, Lady Wyngate, I think I'll watch the tennis. [HUGO saunters out.]

LAEL—I hate Youth Movements. They all come to the same thing. Boy Scouts with bayonets. Do you want a private army, Hobart? Have you a little dictator hatching in your brain?

HOBART—[Urbanely.] As a matter of fact, Lady Wyngate, it's commonly acknowledged that democracy is passé. At home, the historic system of "checks and balances"—[He utters the phrase derisively.]—has brought us where we are. And your Parliament is—what does Lord Abercrombie call it?

LAEL—Vestigial! He calls it vestigial!

HOBART—Exactly. Vestigial!

LAEL—I hate dictatorship because it implies omniscience, and I don't believe in omniscience. That's theology applied to politics, and I believe it's dangerous. I can believe in God only if He's invisible.

HOBART—[Patronizingly.] Very good!

LAEL—Thank you!

HOBART—There's one thing about you—and people like you—that I don't understand . . .

LAEL—Oh, is there?

HOBART—. . . that I'd like to have explained to me.

LAEL—I have no secrets from you, Hobart.

HOBART—I can understand people who haven't anything being Communists. Naturally they want to take things away from the people who have. But why people like you, who have everything to lose by the destruction of our system, should be Communists, I never will understand. It baffles me. Frankly, it does.

LAEL—Well, in the first place, I'm not in the least bit a Communist. That's just an epithet that people like you apply to anyone like me who doesn't happen to share your prejudices. In the second place . . . Oh, dear . . .

HOBART—[Patiently.] In the second place? . . .

LAEL—Dear, oh, dear, I find the prospect of arguing with you appalls me.

HOBART—Why?

LAEL—Because the possibility of enlightening you—if you'll forgive me, Hobart, seems so—shall we say—remote? [He smiles benignly, patiently.] That benign smile!

HOBART—At least, I know where my interests lie.

LAEL—I'm sure you do.

HOBART—You don't. I am fighting your battles.

LAEL—Thank you!

HOBART—You ought to pray for my success.

LAEL—I will, if you insist.

HOBART—It means the continuance of a world in which you can entertain Communists like Mr. Jurin and . . .

LAEL—Because he is a Russian—and my guest—you assume—you put two and two together—get a colossal sum—typical financier. As a matter of fact, Mr. Jurin is a victim of the Communists—as anti as possible.

HOBART—Humph!

LAEL—That irritates you, doesn't it?

HOBART—[Still very bland.] Dear Lady Wyngate, inconsistency of any sort irritates me.

LAEL—Yes, I suppose it would.

HOBART—If I favor dictatorship as against democracy, it is because I've applied dictatorship in my business and in my private life, and have made it successful.

LAEL—[Who is pondering, while he is talking, another problem.] Have you?

HOBART—I flatter myself I have. I am a very rich man, Lady Wyngate. I should never have become so through a system of divided powers. In the political realm also such a system is impractical. The state of the world today proves how impractical it is.

LAEL—[On whom a light breaks.] Of course!

HOBART—[Misunderstanding.] Don't tell me you agree with me. That would make me dubious of the soundness of my own premises.

LAEL—Lighter, Bart, lighter . . . I'm afraid these heavy broadsides are wasted on me. Do you know what's been worrying me while you've been making these pronunciamentos? Rand! What has Rand to do with all this? Why are you rushing him into town to meet Lord Abercrombie? Of course it's perfectly obvious—the whole scheme. Really, it is a trifle shabby.

HOBART—[Olympian.] What is shabby, Lady Wyngate?

LAEL—[Deliberately and firmly.] Exploiting your brother's name and reputation for a movement the real motive of which he doesn't understand and which he'd loathe if he did understand.

HOBART—And may I ask what makes you think he'd loathe it?

LAEL—[Warmly.] Because he's generous-hearted and your movement isn't!

HOBART—In your opinion it isn't. As a matter of fact my brother does understand it and approves thoroughly.

LAEL—Will you risk my explaining it to him—from my point of view?

HOBART—That would hardly be fair.

LAEL—Why not?

HOBART—Because you are a lovely woman with whom he happens to be in love. [This gives her pause.]

LAEL—[Slowly, realizing HOBART is cleverer than he seems.] That's the most effective appeal you could have made. But perhaps I'll stop Rand joining you anyway. I must remember that people like you regard chivalry in others exactly as strategists in war regard weakness in defence. Shall I stop him? I can, you know.

HOBART—[Steely now.] If I were you, Lady Wyngate, I really shouldn't try.

LAEL—Probably not. After all, why should I?

HOBART—That's wise.

LAEL—It's because I don't believe in your survival, no matter how many Youth Leagues you organize. But don't threaten me—even by implication. Because if you do—I will stop him. I'm perverse, you know, Hobart . . . [RAND comes back. He has changed into a travelling suit. HOBART rises—looks at watch.]

RAND—[Transparently reluctant.] Well, here I am!

LAEL—[Her customary chatter.] Of course, any hostess with a nature less adorably angelic than mine would simply poison you for taking away her most celebrated guest in the middle of the day like this. The trouble is you're so used to Rand you have no idea the glamor he sheds.

HOBART—[Significantly.] I have some idea.

LAEL—I take it back. Of course you have!

RAND—I hate to go. [He smiles at his brother.] I wish, Hobart, you weren't so important!

HOBART—You two make me feel like the villain in the play separating the lovers. But it has to be done. Please, Rand . . .

RAND—[Obedient but not apologetic.] I want to talk to Lael—for just a second.

HOBART—[Looking at his watch.] I'll give you ten. [Faces LAEL.] Not so bad, am I? Any message to Lord Abercrombie?

LAEL—Give him my love—that's ambiguous enough.

HOBART—[With a laugh.] I will! [Holds up both his hands to RAND.] Ten! [He goes out. RAND goes to her. Takes her in his arms. She is not very responsive.]

RAND—What a bore! I have to go! [He sits on arm of LAEL'S chair.]

LAEL—I think so!

RAND—I can't very well refuse Bart, can I?

LAEL—I suppose not.

RAND—He's done so much for me. It seems little enough to do in return.

LAEL—Does it?

RAND—After all—a few hours in London—I'll be back at the latest by . . .

LAEL—I wasn't referring to the time involved.

RAND—To what then?

LAEL—This illustrates what I mean when I . . . Oh, well, never mind. [She was about to tell him how it illustrates the essential incompatibility between them—his leaving her to go on a mission she detests—but she is inhibited by recalling HOBART'S accusation of unfairness.]

RAND—But you must tell me. This illustrates—what?

LAEL—I can't tell you now—your brother's waiting for you—there isn't time.

RAND—There is. Tell me. Please, Lael, tell me.

LAEL—I promised your brother I wouldn't.

RAND—But . . .

LAEL—Oh, dear, life is very complicated!

RAND—You make it so.

LAEL—Do I?

RAND—I love you.

LAEL—You shouldn't.

RAND—I do though.

LAEL—Well, then—I shouldn't.

RAND—As long as you do! . . .

LAEL—You'd better go now, Rand, but when you come back . . .

RAND—Will you tell me then what all this mystery is?

LAEL—I will. I'll tell you then.

RAND—[Smiling at her.] A showdown!

LAEL—That's it! A showdown!

RAND—That's what I've been waiting for. We've got to get clear. [Takes her in his arms.] Good-bye, darling.

LAEL—Good-bye.

RAND—[Starts to leave, stops and faces her.] Come with me to the car, Lael, please. [He has returned to her.]

LAEL—[Crosses the room, stops at door and faces him.] All right. Rand—

RAND—Yes, Lael?

LAEL—Will you do me a favor?

RAND—Anything.

LAEL—After you've talked to Lord Abercrombie, tell him that before you make a final decision about anything you have promised to consult me.

RAND—Certainly I will.

LAEL—That'll cheer him up. [They exit through arch in alcove, laughing. HUGO comes in through the French windows from the garden, crosses to the end table by sofa, picks up a cigarette and lights it. From the garden also PHOEBE ELDRIDGE comes in, blonde, exquisitely dressed, an adorable Kewpie.]

PHOEBE—Are you afraid of me?

HUGO—Why, Phoebe?

PHOEBE—You seem to avoid me.

HUGO—Not at all.

PHOEBE—You've changed. You know that. You've got a lot of new lines in your face.

HUGO—Well, don't rub it in.

PHOEBE—At lunch I watched you. I thought: What is it about him that's changed?

HUGO—Age, my dear.

PHOEBE—No, not age. You don't somehow look older. Trouble, suffering. And I stopped hating you.

HUGO—[Suddenly Mephistophelean, making passes with his fingers over his forehead.] Look, I erase the little lines.

PHOEBE—[Piteously.] Do you want me to hate you?

HUGO—I don't want to be loved for a blemish. I am too vain!

PHOEBE—I didn't say that I loved you. I only said that I didn't hate you.

HUGO—In that dubious region between love and hate . . .

PHOEBE—What?

HUGO—Nothing. I succumbed to the cadence of that opening phrase. It seemed to be an opening phrase. Seemed to lead somewhere into some superb aphorism. But it doesn't. It doesn't lead anywhere. It gets ready to be magnificent and then dries up.

PHOEBE—There's one thing that I'd like to know—that I have a right to know.

HUGO—[After a moment.] Well?

PHOEBE—About her?

HUGO—Her?

PHOEBE—The woman.

HUGO—What woman?

PHOEBE—The woman for whom you left me in Munich.

HUGO—Oh! That woman! What do you want to know?

PHOEBE—Are you still in love with her?

HUGO—You overestimate my fidelity.

PHOEBE—Are you trying to comfort me? It's nothing to me. I'm just curious.

HUGO—Well?

PHOEBE—Where is this mysterious woman now?

HUGO—I haven't the least idea.

PHOEBE—Haven't you? Are you sure you haven't?

HUGO—Quite.

PHOEBE—You must wonder why I'm so curious . . . . Really it's for the most trivial reason. You know how feminine I am.

HUGO—Yes, Phoebe, I do—I do. I assure you, Phoebe, that like the whole of my life—this woman—is part of the past.

PHOEBE—When you left me in Munich—that last time—where did you go to meet her?

HUGO—Where?

PHOEBE—Yes.

HUGO—Oh, er—Bayreuth, wasn't it?

PHOEBE—You know perfectly well it was Bayreuth. As a matter of fact, you heard "Tristan" with her—and you were going to take me. [She bursts out suddenly at him.] You don't see her any more, do you? You don't know where she is, do you?

HUGO—What are you? . . .

PHOEBE—This Wyngate woman . . .

HUGO—What!

PHOEBE—The moment I saw you together I knew it. I felt it. And then I found out. I was talking to her before luncheon. It wasn't difficult, clever as she's supposed to be.

HUGO—Phoebe, Phoebe! Of all your intuitions, this is the most brilliant.

PHOEBE—I found out where she was that summer—in Bayreuth—where you went to hear "Tristan" . . . "Tristan." You and your wonderful titled Englishwoman!

HUGO—Phoebe, does it occur to you that there must have been several hundred titled Englishwomen in Bayreuth that summer, that month, that day? You must believe me, Phoebe. This is a fantastic caprice of your imagination.

PHOEBE—Is it?

HUGO—I never saw Lady Wyngate until the other day—when Sascha brought her up to London to meet me.

PHOEBE—It's no use, Hugo.

HUGO—Very well, have it your own way. There's nothing to be done about it, is there?

PHOEBE—I can't help it, Hugo. I love you still. I've never stopped thinking of you. I can't do anything about it. I used to wonder who the other woman was. For three years I've wondered. I felt if I knew, it would be easier. Well, now I know—and it isn't.

HUGO—Phoebe! Phoebe, whatever you think about Lady Wyngate and me, it isn't true.

PHOEBE—Why did you come here then?

HUGO—I had to go somewhere. Phoebe, I assure you . . .

PHOEBE—Do you still love her?

HUGO—Oh, Phoebe!

PHOEBE—Is there anything between you now?

HUGO—Not a thing. You've got to believe me.

PHOEBE—Promise?

HUGO—Promise.

PHOEBE—Word of honor?

HUGO—[Stands at attention and clicks his heels.] Word of honor.

PHOEBE—[Leans back in chair, then speaks.] Still—I suppose I'd better leave here today.

HUGO—[In panic—dreading a scene.] No, no! Don't do that! You mustn't do that! [Going closer to her.] Phoebe, I want you to stay.

PHOEBE—[Coquettishly.] You don't—you don't in the least.

HUGO—I do. When I saw you here today, I felt . . .

PHOEBE—No, you didn't—you didn't feel anything.

HUGO—That's not true. Stay, Phoebe, and I'll show you how wrong you are.

PHOEBE—[Rises—about to put her arm about his neck.] All right, Hugo. I'll give you a chance to explain. [JURIN enters from the French windows. He sees that he is interrupting and starts to leave.]

HUGO—Phoebe . . . [HUGO sees JURIN and is delighted, grasping this as a means of escape from PHOEBE. He calls out to JURIN, but remains standing at right of PHOEBE.] Oh, come in, Mr. Jurin, come in! I've been wanting to speak to you. It's most important that I speak to you!

JURIN—[Crossing to left of PHOEBE'S chair.] Please?

HUGO—Are you fond of music, Mr. Jurin?

JURIN—Naturally.

HUGO—Ah! Then you can help me. You can help me no end!

JURIN—Can I?

HUGO—Yes. I want to do an article on Russian music.

JURIN—[Interested.] Oh?

HUGO—Russian music since the Revolution. From Glazounov to Sostakhevitch. Did you by any chance know Glazounov, Mr. Jurin?

JURIN—No. [Sensing something is amiss, glances amusedly at PHOEBE, then continues.] I admire him greatly—but as a matter of fact. . .

HUGO—[Interrupting him.] You see the point I want to make, Mr. Jurin, is that music is the only Russian art which has eluded political dictatorship—now Sostakhevitch . . .

JURIN—As a matter of fact, Herr Willens, Sostakhevitch . . .

PHOEBE—[Unable to bear any more, rises and speaks to JURIN—rather coldly.] When you've both finished this fascinating subject. . . [To HUGO—warmly and sincerely.] I'll be waiting for you down by the river, Hugo. [HUGO and JURIN bow to her. She goes to the French windows and exits. JURIN and HUGO watch her go and then HUGO looks at JURIN and sinks into the chair.]

JURIN—[Quite aware of the situation—slightly teasing.] You see, Herr Willens—I left Russia in 1917. Sostakhevitch is a post-Revolutionary phenomenon. The first time I heard anything by Sostakhevitch was not in Russia but in the Bowl.

HUGO—[Absent-mindedly.] The Bowl?

JURIN—Yes, the Bowl, in Hollywood.

HUGO—Oh.

JURIN—But it is a very interesting topic, although I am very much afraid, Herr Willens, that you will have some difficulty in proving your point. These days it would seem nothing eludes political dictatorship. Not even music. To hear people talk you might think that music is a form of political pamphleteering. Hindemith is Bolshevik. Strauss is reactionary. Sostakhevitch is the orchestrator of the Five-Year Plan. Even dead composers are pulled out of their graves to hang in effigy. [HUGO is slumped in his chair. JURIN goes to him and glances off after PHOEBE.] However, my dear chap, if I can help you still further in any way, I shall be delighted.

HUGO—Thanks.

JURIN—You're welcome. [LAEL enters.]

HUGO—[Suddenly conscious of JURIN.] Mr. Jurin, have you been wandering over the face of the earth since 1917?

JURIN—Since 1917.

LAEL—[Amused.] You ought to publish a refugee's hand-book, Jurin.

JURIN—A time-table?

LAEL—There ought to be a marvelous place set aside somewhere for all the refugees.

JURIN—But I thought it was here, Lady Wyngate!

LAEL—A little bigger, Jurin. My accommodations are so limited. A semi-tropical paradise set aside by the League of Nations. A government of refugees—by refugees—for refugees. What sort of a government would it be, I wonder.

JURIN—[Humorously.] Probably a—dictatorship! [JURIN exits through French windows into the garden.]

LAEL—Great charm, that man! One of those rare souls whom suffering doesn't embitter but makes mellow somehow. Oh, dear—I'm very depressed, Hugo. I'm in a funk. I want building up.

HUGO—Then I'm afraid I'm the last person you want.

LAEL—If you let me talk I'll gradually build myself up. I'm irrepressible. Do you ever despise yourself, Hugo?

HUGO—Just now—before you came in here—I had occasion to despise myself.

LAEL—Did you? So did I! What a beautiful coincidence! Just now with Rand . . .

HUGO—[Quickly.] Yes?

LAEL—I was strongly tempted to coquette him into doing something for me—like a film vampire shedding sex-appeal. Not nice!

HUGO—Well, we're even.

LAEL—How do you mean?

HUGO—Just now I overheard myself almost beginning to make insincere love to a woman for whom I feel nothing whatever—God knows why—but it was probably the only thing to do at the moment.

LAEL—[After a moment—understanding.] Oh. Mrs. Eldridge?

HUGO—You know then?

LAEL—I found out today.

HUGO—Did you?

LAEL—Yes, just before luncheon.

HUGO—[Realizing that PHOEBE. hadn't put anything over on LAEL.] Oh.

LAEL—Nothing so thankless as to warm over an old love affair, is there?

HUGO—[Rises.] Two weeks ago I was in a land suddenly hostile to me. I thought: If ever I get out of it—I'll live austerely. Now I am out and I find myself dawdling about and being agreeable where agreeableness is indicated. Really, human nature is too resilient!

LAEL—Isn't it lucky it is—How often—if it didn't bend, it would break!

HUGO—Better to break!

LAEL—That's too austere. That's Calvinist.

HUGO—[Smiles.] Just now, while I was being agreeable to Phoebe, I kept saying to myself: "Why don't you tell her the plain truth—that you can't endure her?" I couldn't though. I kept on being agreeable.

LAEL—But of course you had to. The other would be too cruel.

HUGO—Would it? I wish I'd told her long ago in Munich—instead of what I did tell her then.

LAEL—What did you tell her then?

HUGO—I was so desperate to get rid of her and so determined to be ruthless that I told her there was another woman.

LAEL—Wasn't there?

HUGO—Not a soul. Pure improvisation. "Titled Englishwoman." I told her I was leaving her for a "Titled Englishwoman," a phrase from a ten-penny novel of "High Life." I heard it again today, the same phrase—she's treasured it: "Titled Englishwoman!"

LAEL—Did she demand to know who the "Titled Englishwoman" was?

HUGO—She did. Morbid curiosity.

LAEL—Not morbid at all. I'd have wanted to know too.

HUGO—[Suddenly overcome by the grotesqueness of the situation, he bursts into laughter.] Really, it's too funny!

LAEL—I suppose you couldn't tell her there was nobody. No, that would be too pointed.

HUGO—Having improvised a rival, she tried to force me to produce one for her and since, for obvious reasons, I couldn't do that, she's done the job for me—conjured one out of the clear air! You!

LAEL—What?

HUGO—You! You are the "Titled Englishwoman." She is certain of it. Nothing I can say will dissuade her of it.

LAEL—But I . . .

HUGO—One of those sudden, irrational convictions jealous people get. The evidence is incontrovertible. A: You are a titled Englishwoman, aren't you? B: You were in Bayreuth during the Wagnerian cycle of the summer of '32, weren't you? C: So was I. A—B—C

LAEL—[Laughing.] Q. E. D.

HUGO—[Ironically. Rises and bows to her.] I congratulate you!

LAEL—[Enjoying it all.] But I think it's marvelous! [All graciousness.] And I may say—I congratulate you!

HUGO—[Sits again on sofa beside LAEL.] I'm terribly sorry.

LAEL—But why? I don't mind, if you don't.

HUGO—It's too silly. It's so unfair to you.

LAEL—Nonsense! If I were to be upset by rumors about me—this is mild compared to some. I've given up years ago worrying about what people say. Do you know why? Because everybody else in the world is anonymous really except those few—it can never be more than a very few—who really matter to me. One, at most two absolute friends.

HUGO—[Not too seriously.] There's no such thing as absolute friendship. Like everything else, friendship is relative—a thermometer of expediency.

LAEL—That's too cynical. Not bad as an epigram though. But you can't compress the truth about anything into a sentence. It's like pressing a drop of blood on a slide and saying: "This is the stuff that flows in your veins!" It isn't though. When it's in your veins it's something different.

HUGO—I'm glad you can believe in friendship. It must be a great comfort to you!

LAEL—Don't you? Don't you really?

HUGO—I did once.

LAEL—During the trouble at home—did no one stand by you?

HUGO—I was aware of one friend. He was an unknown playwright. I felt this man to be, though he was even then middle-aged, the freshest and the most living voice, since Ibsen, in Europe. In my first published book a large part was devoted to him. But the book brought me more success than it brought him—as a result of it I was invited to lecture in America. I took his plays with me, I translated them and lectured on them from New York to San Francisco. Now, you must understand that in all this, I was exalting myself; it was the most any critic can be, a disciple of greatness.

LAEL—[Knowing he has begun to be afraid she will think him conceited.] I understand, Hugo.

HUGO—And I had the greatest reward such discipleship can have. As a result of my enthusiasm a curious phenomenon took place; the fame I created for him in American reverberated to Germany—and we began to accept him at home!

LAEL—You mean Lehrmann, I suppose?

HUGO—Yes, Lehrmann.

LAEL—He's your Grand Old Man, isn't he?

HUGO—Something like that. He's over sixty. I've hero-worshipped him for thirty years. I came to see him, sure that in his mellow greeting I would be in some sense—restored. Because I actually felt a wavering of sanity. I had sent him the manuscript of my pamphlet. I began to tell him how disturbed I was by the New Dispensation when I detected a new look in his eyes, a new manner. He had not smiled in greeting; he had not given me his hand. He refused point-blank to read my pamphlet; in a hard voice he advised me to tear it up. "This is a new day," he said to me. "There is no place in it for Oriental decadence!" Oriental! My family had lived in Germany for hundreds of years. I sat there staring at him. In his eyes, already glazed with mortality, I saw something impenetrable, incurably hostile, something that no appeal to the past could soften. That look did for me. I'd never had such a sense of helplessness. For in his youth this man had been the voice of the submerged—he had written the saga of the oppressed and the poor; he had been a living instrument of justice. There he sat, impersonal, hard, fanatical. He let me go without asking me to come to see him again, as you let go a servant who has cheated you and to whom you refuse to give a reference. . . . Friendship! [A pause. He tries to gather himself together and speaks lightly.] After all—it's none of your affair, is it?

LAEL—[Very quietly.] That's the unkindest thing, I think, that anyone's ever said to me.

HUGO—I'm sorry. But, really—I came here a complete stranger to you—you invite me to stay out of a fantastic goodness of heart. The least I can do in return is to be—jolly. As a matter of fact, I'm going away and that is partly why. It's too unfair to you.

LAEL—You mustn't go until you've had a chance to get a perspective on yourself. Besides, where would you go?

HUGO—I was going to borrow from Sascha passage-money to America. They've started something there they call the University in Exile. Maybe I could get into that. I've cabled the director.

LAEL—We'll see what can be done for you here.

HUGO—It won't be easy. To be at once an émigré and a critic—that is a double parasitism. Before I can be eloquent I need a masterpiece and before I can be witty I need something which fails to be a masterpiece.

LAEL—[Amused.] Have you heard yet from America?

HUGO—Not yet.

LAEL—Well, I do wish you could feel welcome here, Hugo. Don't you like me?

HUGO—You've been very—gracious. It's that—! I feel—! [He doesn't finish. She gives him a quick look. She realizes that she has a problem on her hands that will not yield to simple tact merely.]

LAEL—Hugo—

HUGO—Yes?

LAEL—Do you mind if I speak to you—frankly. That is to say, critically?

HUGO—[Smiles quizzically.] Do you think I'm thin-skinned?

LAEL—I've avoided rather speaking to you about your—special experience. I've avoided it in a mistaken effort to keep your mind off it—but aren't you mistaking a mass antagonism for a personal one? Hugo, you don't want to develop a persecution mania.

HUGO—Is it a mania for the persecuted to believe in the reality of persecution?

LAEL—No. The truth is there's a pest over all the world just now, an epidemic of hatred and intolerance that may engulf us all. That is perfectly possible. People have suffered too much during the last twenty years—they can't stand any more, that's all. In one way or another they're letting off steam—the form it's taken against you is peculiarly detestable. Everyone here abhors it. The whole world revolts against it. That is what you must remember. This is a different climate, Hugo; you are like a man who continues to shiver when he's left the Arctic—and moved into the tropics. There are other worlds, you must remember, than the one you've left. . . .

HUGO—Are there?

LAEL—Oh, I know what you're saying to yourself: "It's easy enough for her to talk. She's at home, she's comfortable, she's secure." Am I though? There is no longer, in this curious moment of history, any security for anybody. What security should I have, as a liberal person, if the world goes Communist? Or Fascist? I think Hobart Eldridge and Lord Abercrombie might be—to say the least—unsympathetic to me. In any dictatorship, subtleties of opinion and temperament are swept away; you're either black or white.

HUGO—[Quizzically.] But you're not a luxury commodity!

LAEL—I beg your pardon!

HUGO—Like the race of which I find myself suddenly an involuntary member!

LAEL—But, Hugo, these days every hereditary aristocracy is a luxury commodity!

HUGO—[He takes her hand and kisses it.] You're very sweet—but I'm afraid the analogy is not quite complete. They, I suppose I ought to say we, are like passengers on a vessel that lets them stay on board—and even enter the first-class salons occasionally—as long as the weather is fair—but ho! for the sharks the minute there's a storm. Our science and our art are tolerated and even praised while the economic level is high. Once the golden stream is dammed and constriction sets in we are the first to be squeezed. Of course the world has suffered, we among the rest, but, in its misery it singles us out to levy a secret and an ageless revenge.

LAEL—[After a moment.] Where is your legendary patience, your legendary capacity for endurance, your legendary—resignation?

HUGO—[Almost gleefully.] I haven't it! That's my special dilemma. I am neither patient, nor resigned, nor enduring. You forget I am only a Jew by fraction! I suffer the disabilities without the hereditary armors. The Aryan seven-eights of me wars against the Semitic eighth—wars and retreats—and I'm afraid nothing can be done for me.

LAEL—That, Hugo, is a challenge to my resourcefulness! Promise me that you won't run away—if only because I like you and find you very sympathetic. [Humorously.] If you don't enjoy adapting yourself to Phoebe—adapt yourself to me.

HUGO—[A slight pause, sincerely.] Shall I?

LAEL—[After a second—candidly.] No. Don't.

HUGO—The idea tempts me.

LAEL—[Resolutely.] It was automatically flirtatious. You deserve better than that of me—and so do I!

HUGO—[Rather darting out at her.] You're in love with Rand!

LAEL—[After a moment.] One's an awful mixture, Hugo.

HUGO—[Accepting it instantly as a fact.] Don't you feel a sense of—incongruity?

LAEL—All the time. Yes. Keenly. It doesn't help though. [A moment's pause. She walks about the room impatiently. He watches her.] One gets so tired of one's own complexities. There's Rand, a symbol of simplicity, courage and directness. There, in a world of cruelty and chicanery, are honest purpose and generosity.

HUGO—So eloquent—and so unconvinced!

LAEL—[Looks at him quickly, then away.] You're shrewd, Hugo. You're diabolically shrewd.

HUGO—[Watching her.] Am I?

LAEL—Of course I'm unconvinced, but whether I'm convinced or not—there it is!

HUGO—[Shrugging his shoulders.] Why attempt to rationalize the—elemental?

LAEL—[As if to herself.] Isn't it extraordinary how one can go on being agreeable and alert—so-called normal—and all the time nourish an obsession that has a life of its own, independent and arrogant—a fugue that seeks stubbornly it's own resolution—at no matter what cost—to oneself? [Rises and faces him.] Hugo . . .

HUGO—[Rises.] Yes?

LAEL—[Throwing away her pretences and appealing to him pitifully.] In you I feel—a special friend. Don't go. Please stay.

HUGO—[Crosses to her.] All right. I'll stay. [With great intensity.] But not as a friend.

LAEL—[Almost whispers.] Hugo . . .

HUGO—Not even as a special friend.

LAEL—On any terms.

HUGO—But because an obsession—may be destroyed.

LAEL—[Realizes the implication of what he has said and looks at him in surprise.] Hugo!

HUGO—[Terrific determination.] Yes! It may be destroyed! [His hand closes on her arm. They stand near together, close and warm spiritually also. PHOEBE comes in. She is eaten with jealousy, blind with rage, behaves almost like a person paralyzed with drugs. Speaks and walks as if in automatism.]

PHOEBE—Do forgive me!

LAEL—Hello, Phoebe. Won't you . . .

PHOEBE—[Without waiting to discover the invitation.] No, thank you very much. [She stands at door leading to staircase and addresses HUGO.] Liar! Liar! Liar! [She disappears.]

LAEL—Hugo! What does she mean? What did you tell her?

HUGO—[Drily.] Well, she demanded to know whether there was anything between us, and I said there was not.

LAEL—[Mischievously.] Well, you really shouldn't have lied to her, Hugo.

HUGO—That was twenty minutes ago—and I didn't know . . . [She is amused and provoked and still a little disturbed by PHOEBE'S plight. He stands looking at her, enchanted by her.]

Quick Curtain

Index     I     II-I     II-II     III