Index     1     2     3

ACT ONE

The scene is the upstairs living room at Dr. Talley's in an old brownstone house in the East Sixties in New York City. The house is a combination office and residence. The furniture is a mixture of antique and modern. Somehow, though, the amalgam is homely and cheerful rather than grotesque. Tea time of an afternoon in early Spring.

AVIS—[Hanging up] Still busy!

PHILIP—Are you nervous?

AVIS—Not a bit. Why should I be nervous?

PHILIP—I'm a little embarrassed. Something embarrassing, somehow, about one's father getting married.

AVIS—I don't think so. [She sits on couch, picks up magazine and pencil and proceeds to make notes] Besides, they're not married yet. Maybe Dad's just having her in for inspection.

PHILIP—Is she a femme fatale, do you suppose?

AVIS—I wonder. This time Dad seems to have applied the Talley Method with a vengeance. Imagine marrying a patient!

PHILIP—Why? Sensible. If she has nothing more to reveal at least there must be little left to conceal. Shall we show our best side?

AVIS—Didn't know we had one. Let's be natural.

PHILIP—Then she'll never marry Dad.

AVIS—[Satirically] Think we'll be able to adjust ourselves?

PHILIP—If she can, we can. If she can, all I can say is she's highly adjustable.

AVIS—[Rises] How much have you read? [She goes to telephone.]

PHILIP—Of our prospective mother's poems? About half.

AVIS—[She dials a number] Well?

PHILIP—Oh, nostalgia in a vacuum. Nicely written. Charming phrasing. What would be called, I believe—sensitive.

AVIS—[By this time she has her number] Hello. . . . Mr. Geist, please, Manfred Geist . . . Miss Talley . . . Avis Talley. . . . Thank you . . . Hello, dear. . . . Look here, Manfred, a rather devastating thing has happened. . . . Dad's bringing a bride home to meet us. . . . Well, a fiancée or intended or whatever you want to call her. . . . It's such a bore because I wanted to get an early start to Washington. . . . Oh, no, I wouldn't think of it. Tonight's the opening session and I wouldn't have you miss it for anything—besides, I'm an officer. You see, darling, the Youth Congress isn't like the Federal Congress—every session is important. . . . Well, come here, will you, and we'll get off as soon as possible. Come right away. . . . Good-bye, darling. [She hangs up] He's coming over. We're driving to Washington. Cy Blodgett's coming with us. We can squeeze you in. Want to come?

PHILIP—No, thanks.

AVIS—Do you like Manfred?

PHILIP—Very much. He's charming—and something very touching about him.

AVIS—Don't pity Manfred. He's been through everything. The rest is velvet. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to marry him.

PHILIP—If I didn't pity him before, I do now.

AVIS—No, we'll be wonderful together.

PHILIP—If it isn't too vulgar to inquire, what are you going to marry on?

AVIS—Our youth.

PHILIP—He's twice your age.

AVIS—On our hopes.

PHILIP—A penniless refugee.

AVIS—We've got the future. There'll be a new world.

PHILIP—Undoubtedly. Will it be desirable?

AVIS—I think so.

PHILIP—Don't think Dad will back you in a venture like that!

AVIS—Do you think I'm counting on that? Do you think I'd let him support us?

PHILIP—You will if you have to.

AVIS—I'll translate Manfred's books. I'll work. We'll manage. Don't you worry about us!

PHILIP—I'm worried about Manfred. I like him. [A pause] One of his books was translated, wasn't it—his prison memoirs? Did anyone buy it?

AVIS—I wish Dad and his bride would hurry up.

PHILIP—Miracle, isn't it? Dad in love! When did he get the time, do you suppose?

AVIS—Between whiffs of anesthetic, while she was on the operating-table, he might have noticed her.

PHILIP—I wonder if he felt he should provide a mother for us? Has that occurred to you?

AVIS—Nonsense. He rushes from duodenum to duodenum. Where would he get the time to think of us? The mystery to me is why, when she got out of the anesthetic, this poetic gal should have consented to marry Dad.

PHILIP—Is that incomprehensible? He's one of the greatest surgeons in America. He's preoccupied, I admit, but he saves people's lives.

AVIS—I wonder. He has a knack of knitting sutures. Very skillful, like tying sailors' knots or fancy embroidering.

PHILIP—You're unfair to Dad. [CY BLODGETT comes in, carrying a newspaper which he flourishes portentously. He is about twenty-four. He greets them with an embracing, flamboyant gesture.]

CY—Well, mes enfants. Wonderful news—millennial!

AVIS—Hello, Cy.

PHILIP—How are you, Cy?

CY—It will alter all our lives.

AVIS—For the better?

CY—This makes it possible for you, my dear Avis, to break forever the platinum cord that ties you to your father. For you, my good Philip, to marry your strip-tease artist.

PHILIP—She's not a strip-tease artist. She's a fan dancer.

CY—What's the difference?

AVIS—A fan dancer discards the fan.

CY—You will be able to buy her wondrous fans of Chinese jade. She will be able to discard a fortune in fans. As for me—I shall probably quit Columbia.

AVIS—Come on, Cy—come to the gag.

CY—No gag. For six years I have been killing my leisure with post-graduate work at Columbia. You and Phil have been lured to less innocent diversions. But all that's over. It is finished—we are free!

PHILIP—Are we? I'll bite. How?

CY—Well, if you read this article, cold and statistical, you will find that there is no unemployment in America.

AVIS—Really!

CY—Absolutely. Never has been. There is no unemployment at all. If we are unemployed it is because we are capricious. We're O.K. We're all set. I may even ask for a raise.

PHILIP—You must be getting a good deal now.

CY—Oh, yes. Very decent honorarium, old fellow.

PHILIP—If it isn't too personal, my dear Cy, how much do you get?

CY—[He drops his voice to a confidential tone] Wouldn't want Avis to overhear, old chap; that sort of thing makes Communists . . .

PHILIP—[Understanding] Naturally!

CY—Well, just between you and me—man to man—it runs away up into the zeros.

PHILIP—I'm not surprised. You're worth your weight in zeros.

CY—Thank you, old fellow.

PHILIP—Not at all, old chap. [They shake hands solemnly.]

AVIS—Perpetual adolescents! [The telephone rings. CY picks up book from table and starts to read. AVIS starts to answer the phone.]

PHILIP—[Jumping up and going to phone] That's probably for me. [Into phone] Hello . . . Sybil? I'm sorry, darling . . . I tried to get you before . . . I've got to wait on a bit, but I'll meet you at the Club. Oh, please, Sybil, I couldn't help it, honestly. When I tell you you'll understand. . . .

CY—[To AVIS, as he looks through the book] Do you think she'll understand, Avis?

AVIS—If she does, it'll be for the first time.

PHILIP—[At phone] I'll meet you after the supper show and take you to dinner.

CY—What does Sybil wear to go out to dinner in, do you suppose?

AVIS—Oh, she just clicks her costume and sallies forth. [AVIS makes a gesture of snapping a fan open.]

PHILIP—[Still on phone] I'll be there right after the supper show. Good-bye, darling. [He hangs up. He is very angry] I heard your bright remarks about Sybil . . .

AVIS—All in fun, Philip.

PHILIP—I want to tell you neither of you is in position to patronize Sybil!

CY—Oh, come now, Phil, where's your sense of humor?

AVIS—Don't appeal to the non-existent.

PHILIP—Sybil's supporting herself and three younger sisters. She works like a slave. That's more than any of us do. We're parasites and she's a worker.

CY—I'd do a strip-tease in a minute if anybody'd engage me. I get no offers. [Puts down poetry book] What about you, Avis? Let's see. Stand up. Turn around. [AVIS rises and does a turn] Take off something. [AVIS starts to loosen her belt] Something more strategic. [AVIS pulls her dress up a little, reaching for her garter.]

PHILIP—You're too damned bright, both of you. In fact you make me sick! Where the devil is Dad? If he doesn't come in a few minutes I'm leaving anyway—bride or no bride.

CY—Bride? What bride? Whose bride?

AVIS—Dad's.

CY—Really? Congratulations! Who is she?

AVIS—Enid Fuller.

CY—The poet?

AVIS—Yes. Have you read her?

CY—Here and there. Very subtle.

PHILIP—[He is very morose] We're no good—any of us.

CY—Don't be defeatist, Phil.

PHILIP—People like us are in the worst position. If we were downright poor—poverty-stricken—we could go on relief. If we'd learned to use our hands instead of our heads we'd probably be better off. But as it is there's nothing but parasitism—post-graduate courses at Columbia—till our parents die, when we'll probably have to borrow to meet the inheritance tax.

AVIS—All of which is true—but what are you doing about it?

PHILIP—Not deluding myself with the millennium the way you're doing!

AVIS—[Rises] You're a self-indulgent, ineffectual little cry-baby!

CY—[Rises] Avis—moderation!

AVIS—You're sentimental, my dear Philip. Sentimental and inadequate . . . [ENID FULLER comes in through archway. She is a very attractive woman of about thirty-five.]

PHILIP—If you say that again I'll . . .

AVIS—What will you do—strike me?

PHILIP—I'll kill you! I can't bear you, Avis; you bring out the worst in me . . . [ENID starts to go. CY sees her and tries to stop the fight.]

AVIS—Well, I don't exactly have to excavate!

PHILIP—One of these days I swear I'll just . . . [When PHILIP and AVIS see ENID, they subside quickly.]

ENID—I'm sorry.

CY—Little family quarrel.

ENID—I'm Enid Fuller. I've been waiting downstairs in the doctor's office—getting courage to come up.

CY—You'll find nothing here but sweetness and light—with a touch of murder. I'm Cy Blodgett.

ENID—[She shakes hands with him] How do you do?

CY—[Presenting] Philip Talley.

PHILIP—Hello.

ENID—Hello, Philip.

PHILIP—[He has not regained control of himself] I'm very angry. I . . .

ENID—Take your time with it!

CY—Avis Talley. [AVIS comes to meet her. They shake hands.]

ENID—Hello, Avis. Your father's told me a great deal about you.

AVIS—How would he know? [ENID turns to CY for aid.]

CY—Brother and sister squabble.

PHILIP—She's not my sister.

CY—Now, Phil . . .

AVIS—I was adopted when he was four to be a companion to him!

ENID—Oh?

AVIS—Didn't Father tell you that?

ENID—[Looking from one to the other] I'm sure he's forgotten which one he adopted.

CY—That's very graceful.

AVIS— Where is the bridegroom—may I ask?

ENID—[Amused] You mean your father? The bridegroom was called on a case at the last minute . . .

AVIS—Already?

ENID—He wanted to call you to make another arrangement but I wouldn't let him. I thought I'd take the plunge by myself.

AVIS—That gives you a rough idea of what you'll be in for.

ENID—I've discounted that.

AVIS—We never see Father. He breakfasts too early and dines too late.

ENID—I'll try to arrange for you to meet him.

AVIS—I think the conversation would lag.

ENID—[With a rather desperate, at once hopeful and helpless look at CY] Perhaps Mr. Blodgett would come and fill in the gaps!

CY—[Gone for her] Mrs. Fuller . . .

ENID—Miss Fuller.

CY—Oh, I'm sorry. Miss Fuller . . .

ENID—Yes, Mr. Blodgett . . .

CY—If your commitment to Dr. Talley is not irrevocable . . .

ENID—[Taking courage, plays along on nerve] Very few things in life are irrevocable, Mr. Blodgett.

CY—Will you consider me?

ENID—I'm doing it. I'm doing it now.

CY—I have an A.B. and an M.A. and in a year I'll be a Ph.D. You can't tell what I'll have when I'm fifty. Will you share them with me?

ENID—Am I worthy?

CY—I feel in you, Mrs. Fuller . . .

ENID—Miss Fuller.

CY—Why do I keep calling you Mrs. Fuller?

ENID—I wonder.

CY—I'll look that up tomorrow, Miss Fuller!

ENID—In what?

CY—Where were we?

ENID—You were sharing your degrees with me. If I were predatory I might take advantage of you.

CY—My impulse with you is to throw discretion to the winds. Avis, I am free of you at last! [Turns to ENID] Up to now I have been in love with Avis. [Again to AVIS] I realize now I haven't been too happy with you, Avis. Too much ideology, too little sex. [To ENID] Thank you, Miss Fuller. Thank you very much.

ENID—You should have told me you were committed. I'm sorry, Avis. May I call you Avis?

AVIS—Certainly.

ENID—I didn't know about you and Cy.

AVIS—It's all right with me.

ENID—I'm sure it isn't. It couldn't be. Cy is too sympathetic altogether for you to feel that way. Wait. Be patient. He will return to you.

CY—[To AVIS] Never!

ENID—Oh, dear Cy. I feel you cooling off already. I can feel it. I could sense it by the intensity with which you just said "Never." But it's been charming! I've heard of love at first sight. I've even written of it but I've never experienced it. Thank you, Cy!

AVIS—What about Dad? Wasn't that first sight?

ENID—No, I don't think so. Have any of you ever been his patient?

CY—We can't afford him, Miss Fuller.

ENID—I'll be glad to stake you—it's a wonderful experience.

AVIS—How is he when you're not his patient?

PHILIP—Don't listen to her, Miss Fuller . . .

ENID—Call me Enid. Please do.

PHILIP—[Awkwardly] Thanks!

ENID—What were you saying, Philip?

PHILIP—[Points to AVIS] Don't listen to her—to what she says—she'd try to break you up. She hates Father.

ENID—Now, Avis, that can't be true.

AVIS—I think if I knew him I wouldn't like him!

ENID—Why?

AVIS—Why?

ENID—Tell me why.

AVIS—[Marshaling her thoughts exactly] For one thing, he doesn't know and doesn't care not only about what goes on in this house but in the world at large. His outlook is limited to his specialty. He can't see beyond the end of his duodenum.

ENID—If yours were annoying you—as mine did recently—you might be grateful for that concentration.

PHILIP—Avis is a violent Red, though, like most Reds, she won't admit it. Any other shade bores her.

AVIS—[She jumps up, speaks passionately] That's right. That's easy. Red. Smear the epithet and finish me. That's all you have to do. Settles every argument.

CY—Tell me, Miss Fuller, what do you think of the Government's policy of buying Mexican silver?

AVIS—Make fun of me, Cy. That won't alter me and it won't alter the facts.

PHILIP—Wouldn't you like some tea, Miss Fuller?

ENID—I'd love some.

PHILIP—I'll see if I can jog up Mary. She's willing but absentminded.

ENID—Thank you. [PHILIP goes out. A moment's pause.]

CY—[Trying to ease the silence] How does it feel, Miss Fuller, to become a mother overnight, as it were?

ENID—Very exciting.

CY—Ever happen to you before?

ENID—No—it's the first time. [She rises, looks at AVIS and smiles, hoping to make friends] Tell me, Avis—what does Philip do exactly?

CY—He's in love. He's in love with a strip-tease artist at a night club in the Village. Only he doesn't like her called that. He prefers her to be called a fan dancer. We all have our odd little vanities.

ENID—[To AVIS] Do you know her?

CY—None of us has met her. He holds her close. What do you suppose they talk about when they're alone, Avis?

AVIS—I haven't the faintest idea.

CY—He must get a great kick out of seeing her dressed! He's about the only one in town. [PHILIP comes back.]

PHILIP—[To ENID] In just a minute.

ENID—Thank you very much. Come—sit by me, Philip.

PHILIP—Thank you. I've got to be leaving in a minute—Dad or no Dad.

CY—We've been telling her about your romance, Phil.

PHILIP—[His back up] Oh!

ENID—What's her name, Phil?

PHILIP—Sybil.

ENID—Sybil! What a lovely name. And for a dancer—curiously right! Won't you let me meet her, Philip?

PHILIP—[Responding] Yes, you can meet her.

ENID—Thank you. We'll arrange it. Will you bring her to my apartment?

PHILIP—[Almost defiantly, to show the others] Yes. I will.

CY—[To ENID] Now Avis's love-life is something else again. [AVIS takes a step toward CY, threateningly.]

ENID—Really?

CY—Manfred Geist.

ENID—[Quite surprised] Really?

CY—You've heard of him?

ENID—The author of My Prison Year?

AVIS—[Blushing with pleasure] Yes. You know him then?

ENID—Well, I haven't met him. But I've read his book.

CY—So you were the one!

AVIS—[Speaks eagerly] Did you like it?

ENID—It's a wonderful book.

AVIS—He's a wonderful person.

CY—He's nearly fifty.

AVIS—[Hotly] What's that got to do with it?

CY—That tells her how old he is. [MARY enters carrying tea tray.]

MARY—I believe Mr. Geist just came in, Miss Avis.

AVIS—Oh, thank you, Mary! [She runs out. PHILIP picks up tea table, puts it in front of ENID.]

CY—You see the way things are, Miss Fuller. Before this poetic refugee came on the scene, I was making a good, slow progress. But since he's appeared, Avis won't even stop long enough to say "No" to me. I wish this damned war would end so that Manfred could go back to Europe.

MARY—I'm so glad about you, Miss Fuller.

ENID—Thank you, Mary.

MARY—It will be nice to have a woman in the house. [A moment] Everything all right?

ENID—[Smiling at her] Couldn't be better!

MARY—Good!

ENID—[As she picks up tea pot] I'll pour. May I?

PHILIP—Of course. [AVIS comes in followed by MANFRED GEIST.] Hello, Manfred.

CY—Hello, Manfred. [He rises and shakes hands with MANFRED. ENID rises.]

MANFRED—[As he shakes hand] Hello, Cy.

AVIS—This is Miss Fuller—my step-mother-to-be. Mr. Manfred Geist. [They shake hands.]

ENID—I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Geist.

MANFRED—Thank you. I am proud.

AVIS—Manfred has heard of you!

MANFRED—I have done more than that. I have read you.

ENID—Really?

MANFRED—With admiration. With envy.

ENID—[Pleased and embarrassed] Thank you.

AVIS—That's a tribute—from a great poet like Manfred.

ENID—It is indeed. Some tea?

MANFRED—Thank you.

PHILIP—[Rising] Well, I'm afraid I've got to go! Tell Dad I'm sorry, will you please, but I really couldn't wait. Anyway, I've met you, haven't I, and that's the main point.

ENID—Yes.

PHILIP—[Shyly] Well—good-bye.

ENID—[Offering him her hand] Good-bye, Philip. [ENID and PHILIP shake hands.]

PHILIP—When are you coming here to live?

ENID—Well, as soon as I can.

PHILIP—Oh, come before that.

ENID—Thank you very much, Philip. I hope I shall see you soon again and that I shall meet Sybil.

PHILIP—I'd love to bring her—when nobody else is home but you. Good-bye, Manfred.

MANFRED—Good-bye, Philip.

CY—So long, Phil.

PHILIP—So long.

CY—Catch a garment on the wing and bring it to me for a scarf. Will you, Philip? I like vermilion. [With a bitter look at him, PHIL goes out.]

AVIS—I'm afraid we've got to be going too, Manfred. [She takes MANFRED'S cup] It's a seven-hour drive to Washington.

CY—Why don't we take the train? With the three of us your Ford'll be none too comfortable. Have you ridden it, Manfred?

MANFRED—I have!

AVIS—If we don't mind, you shouldn't. What've you got to do?

CY—Just run home for my white tie.

AVIS—Well, run. We'll pick you up in half an hour. I'll ring your door-bell twice. If you're not there, we'll go without you.

CY—You see me, Miss Fuller, dominated, badgered.

ENID—Perhaps discipline is what you need, Mr. Blodgett.

CY—No, Miss Fuller, I need sympathy, indulgence, appreciation. [Moves closer to ENID] May I come to you one day and give you the data to help you to understand me!

ENID—I'd be delighted.

CY—Thank you. Gosh, it's wonderful to have an alternative! [During the following conversation MANFRED listens, amused.]

ENID—What an odd boy! Really an original.

AVIS—He clowns, but he's got a good brain if he'd only use it.

ENID—On what?

AVIS—On something constructive instead of collecting useless degrees at Columbia. You see, Miss Fuller . . .

ENID—Call me Enid. Please do. . . .

AVIS—I'd love to. You see, Enid . . .

ENID—Yes.

AVIS—Oh, how can I talk to you?

ENID—Well, you might try . . .

AVIS—You're very nice. One can see that only . . . [AVIS stops awkwardly.]

ENID—What?

AVIS—I mean how can I talk to you when I don't know what your prejudices are? Where you interests lie. What your background is.

ENID—Why can't you assume that I'm a human being? That is to say that I am selfish and egotistical, as it is very difficult not to be but that I am aware of it, that at my best I want to understand people and not hurt them, even help them, that if I had my way we should communicate everywhere affectionately—and even where possible, lovingly.

AVIS—I am sure you are well-meaning. I am sure you are benevolent. But you see—benevolence isn't enough.

ENID—[Humorously] It seems not to be.

AVIS—People in your generation had a chance. We haven't. In one way or another we're on the dole—all of us. Is that to be our future? There are millions of young people like me in this country who want their rights—not a dole. People pretend we're fanatics and cranks. They won't face what we're about. We're misrepresented. In novels and plays the charm is always reserved for the aging reactionaries. We're supposed to be ungracious and horrid . . . And why? Because we want to live. We want to live on our own. We don't want to be killed in wars for objectives that aren't our objectives. We want decency and truth. [She stops. There is a silence] I'm sorry.

ENID—Why?

AVIS—One shouldn't express oneself.

ENID—Why not?

AVIS—Manfred says I—Are you angry with me, Manfred?

MANFRED—Of course not.

AVIS—Are you ready to go?

MANFRED—Oh, yes. [He rises. To ENID] I'm looking forward to this trip to Washington. I've never been there.

ENID—It's a lovely city. You'll like it, I think.

AVIS—I'll be ready in a minute. Excuse me?

ENID—Certainly.

AVIS—Will you wait?

ENID—I will indeed.

AVIS—Thank you.

MANFRED—Don't forget the book you told me about.

AVIS—I won't. [She goes out and upstairs.]

MANFRED—I'm not, you know.

ENID—I beg your pardon?

MANFRED—I'm not the great poet Avis thinks me. I have written poetry and I have published poetry. But I am not a poet.

ENID—You are modest.

MANFRED—It is not modesty. It is criticism. As a matter of fact, you are an authentic poet—I am not.

ENID—You've really read my verses?

MANFRED—I know some of them by heart.

ENID—Really!

MANFRED—Shall I recite one?

ENID—Please not.

MANFRED—You said just now that each of us is vain and egotistical. How true! My vanity is to let Avis believe that I am a great man. Like most people reading a foreign language she is less critical than she would be in her own.

ENID—I cannot quite believe that a reputation which crosses the Atlantic has no authenticity.

MANFRED—It is an adventitious reputation!

ENID—After all, I've read your book. I was fascinated. You headed a putsch in Bavaria against the first Nazis, didn't you?

MANFRED—Yes.

ENID—And the poems you wrote in prison—I read them in translation—I was very moved by them.

MANFRED—The poems had anguish and they had sincerity but these are not enough. They became famous not because they were remarkable but because I was young and they were written in prison. All these years I have had to sustain a reputation for greatness when I have only that most frequent of commodities—talent.

ENID—Courage is a kind of poetry. A high kind. A flouting of the Fates.

MANFRED—It's extraordinary, really . . . It's extraordinary . . .

ENID—What?

MANFRED—It's astonishing how under the shadow of the great tragedy that hovers over the world, one's personal tragedy can still make itself felt—insistent—insistent as a toothache.

ENID—Perhaps that's lucky. That indicates we haven't given up. That indicates we are alive. That defies regimentation.

MANFRED—You make me feel better. Thank you. Thank you very much.

ENID—For what?

MANFRED—You have given me some sort of excuse, some sort of justification. You ease my conscience.

ENID—Is it stained with guilt?

MANFRED—In a way . . .

ENID—As which of us isn't!

MANFRED—You know I am happy about you—that you are entering this family.

ENID—Thank you.

MANFRED—You'll be good for Avis. She needs a woman like you near her.

ENID—I like her very much.

MANFRED—I feel very concerned about her. She may seem to you difficult but, believe me, she is honest—she is wonderful.

ENID—I can see that.

MANFRED—For some obscure reason Avis is in love with me. Perhaps it is because I am a victim of the force she detests. It is her gesture of defiance. I am going with her to this meeting. I'm eager to hear her speak, to see her on the platform before these thousands of people . . .

ENID—A Jeanne d'Arc without armor . . .

MANFRED—Yes—I know I should stop her from loving me. I should disappear. And yet I am pleased. I am singularly pleased. The grinning little ego whispers: You are a penniless exile. You are no longer young—and yet an exquisite young girl is in love with you. It must be that you are not dead yet! [ENID rises and goes to table for cigarette box] I find it extraordinarily easy to talk to you. To be frank with you. Perhaps it is because I know your verses. By knowing your verses I know you.

ENID—[Offers him a cigarette] Do you write still?

MANFRED—Oh, yes—one writes . . .

ENID—In English or in German?

MANFRED—[Takes cigarette] Naturally—in German.

ENID—You speak so well—you might easily, I should think . . .

MANFRED—When I get a pen into my hand, I find it is German that I write. Avis is my translator. It is part of her crusade.

ENID—I am sure Avis will do it well. I have confidence in Avis.

MANFRED—And if she does, what then? Who wants to read a minor German writer? Surely the world is too busy for that.

ENID—The minor writers are often the most endearing—or so I often console myself. Sometimes—in fact very often—in fact nearly all the time—one may prefer Herrick to Milton.

MANFRED—Or Heine or Goethe.

ENID—Decidedly.

MANFRED—Now all one has to do is to be Heine.

ENID—For a writer to be bereft of his speech is a hard fate! To have mastered the intimacies of a language; to have achieved the signature of personality—and then not to be able to use it—that must be the greatest frustration of all.

MANFRED—Oh, there are a few giants and they tower above the divisions of language. They are international although they too have lost their natural audience in their own tongue.

ENID—I have thought of this—will you believe me when I tell you that I have thought often of this?

MANFRED—You are a poet and therefore no pain is foreign to you. Your imagination spares you nothing!

ENID—We live in a time when the truest voices are struck dumb by the loudest!

MANFRED—Avis thinks Communism will cure everything. I wonder. How shrewd our Leader is! There is something devastating in his propaganda that has appealed to the Fifth Column that lurks in every soul.

ENID—That I deny. That I repudiate.

MANFRED—I was cynical—till now. I believed that—till now! [AVIS comes in with an overnight bag.]

AVIS—Oh! I'm sorry! I seem to have broken into a mood.

ENID—I am grateful to you already, Avis—for letting me know Mr. Geist. Please let me meet more of your friends.

AVIS—Well—shall we go?

MANFRED—I am ready. You are leaving Miss Fuller alone?

AVIS—If she marries Father, she'll have to get used to that.

ENID—I am used to it already. I've been used to it for years.

MANFRED—Miss Fuller . . .

ENID—Yes?

MANFRED—I should like you to meet my daughter Ingrid.

ENID—I'd love to.

MANFRED—Thank you.

ENID—What shall I tell your father, Avis?

AVIS—He won't ask, but if he does, tell him I've gone to Washington.

ENID—When will you be back?

AVIS—In a few days.

ENID—You must promise to tell me all about it.

AVIS—[Turns to ENID] If you're interested, I'll be glad to tell you.

MANFRED—If Avis is too busy, I'll be glad to report it to you. I specialize in Youth Movements. I was nearly killed in one.

ENID—Let us hope you find this one more merciful. Good-bye, Mr. Geist. Pleasant journey.

MANFRED—Thank you.

AVIS—Enid, when you do marry Father I wish you'd get him to replace some of this furniture. Some of it comes from Dad's old waiting room. We call it the Manic Depressive style. On that sofa have sat all the patients Father killed before he hit on the Talley Method. Father can't bear to throw anything away—not only an old idea but even an old sofa. It would break his heart. [MANFRED manages to exchange a quizzical look with ENID and to get one word in before AVIS marches him out.]

MANFRED—Oh, come now, Avis, you will admit that at least Miss Fuller is an innovation!

AVIS—[With a quick look at ENID] Come on, Manfred! [She goes out.]

MANFRED—[Smiling] Courage! [He follows AVIS out.]

[Left alone, ENID has a reaction. She hasn't realized how much of an ordeal it was for her to face those children. She sinks down in the center chair, her arms falling limp beside her, as if she had been through violent exercise. Then she pulls herself together a little and looks around the room. She feels a certain unreality. She rises, looks at the Manic Depressive sofa, then turns and walks around looking at everything curiously. She takes off her hat, moves down to fireplace and spies a bit of marble bric-a-brac that makes her shudder. She turns, puts her hat on the desk. The office door opens and AXTON rushes in. ENID is overjoyed. She rushes to him. They embrace warmly.]

ENID—Darling . . .

AXTON—Terribly sorry . . .

ENID—I'm so glad to see you!

AXTON—It couldn't be helped.

ENID—Thank God, you've come at last!

AXTON—Forty minutes late.

ENID—Those forty minutes!

AXTON—Did you meet them?

ENID—[They let each other go] I did indeed.

AXTON—Was it an ordeal for you?

ENID—I didn't realize how much—till it was over.

AXTON—Sorry it had to happen this way.

ENID—I'm glad it did. I broke the ice. It's all right now, but I'd built up in my own mind such a hazard over meeting your children. Well, I jumped it. I did it on nerve, but I jumped it. Whew, Axton! You gave me no idea—they're so bright—they're so keen—took all I had to keep up with them. Think I did it, Axton. They'll never know what it cost me. But I kept up with 'em! [A moment] I hope!

AXTON—Good.

ENID—[She looks at him with great concern] What is it, darling?

AXTON—Bit tired.

ENID—You look worn out.

AXTON—Am rather. Lost a patient. Seldom happens to me.

ENID—Something go wrong?

AXTON—No. Everything was right. Worked perfectly. But we miscalculated the patient's resistance. Died under the anesthetic. Some weakness somewhere. We didn't detect it. The postmortem will show it.

ENID—Who was he—your patient?

AXTON— It was a woman.

ENID—What was her name?

AXTON—Robinson, I think. Mrs. Robinson.

ENID—With you Death is anonymous, isn't it? Like war.

AXTON—You know, Enid . . .

ENID—Yes, dear?

AXTON—I worked as well as I ever did—really as quickly and surely as I ever did in my life. Everything was right and yet she died. It seldom happens to me. Some weakness somewhere.

ENID—As you made no slip—you can't blame yourself, can you?

AXTON—Shouldn't have operated.

ENID—If you hadn't—would she have lived?

AXTON—Not long. But it's her dying on the table I don't like.

ENID—[Delicately] You wish she had done it—independently?

AXTON—Some weakness—somewhere. . . . [ENID puts her hands on his shoulders.]

ENID—Well, darling, people do have weaknesses and often these weaknesses kill them. You can't remedy that.

AXTON—[Shaking his head gloomily] She had no stamina.

ENID—You must forgive her, darling. She probably meant well.

AXTON—[Has scarcely heard her] Poor diagnosis! Well . . .! [He shakes it off finally, looks at her, smiles at her. She smiles back at him. They rest momentarily on a little plateau of sympathetic understanding. She sits on arm of chair and puts her arm around him] Nice to have you here, Enid.

ENID—Is it? Is it really?

AXTON—Nice to come home and find you.

ENID—[Tenderly, murmurs] Axton . . .

AXTON—You'll be happy, I think.

ENID—I'm sure.

AXTON—How did you get on actually—with the kids? Did you mind them?

ENID—On the contrary. I like them very much. Although . . .

AXTON—What?

ENID—One thing about them I couldn't quite understand.

AXTON—[Dryly] There are many things about them I can't understand.

ENID—Their attitude about you—they don't seem to realize how wonderful you are.

AXTON—If they thought I was wonderful, it would worry me quite a lot!

ENID—As a matter of fact, I felt rather sorry for them.

AXTON—Why?

ENID—They feel betrayed. They're cynical. They're disillusioned.

AXTON—They're weak.

ENID—I didn't feel that. I felt potential strength.

AXTON—Look at Philip!

ENID—I liked him so much. He's charming!

AXTON—These days, I'm afraid, charm isn't enough.

ENID—What about Philip?

AXTON—Funked medical school.

ENID—Didn't he work hard enough?

AXTON—I didn't say he flunked. He funked.

ENID—How do you mean?

AXTON—Couldn't stand the dissecting-room. Walked out. Quit!

ENID—Doesn't it indicate, perhaps, that he's not suited to medicine as a career?

AXTON—Not at all. Most students get a bit nauseated in the dissecting-room. They stick it out, that's all.

ENID—It's a bitter disappointment to you, isn't it?

AXTON—[Shortly. He sits forward in his chair] Yes. It is.

ENID—What have you done about it?

AXTON—What is there to do? I've talked to the boy. I've argued with him. He won't go back. He won't accept what I can offer him. Where there's no character, Enid, you can't supply it.

ENID—Supposing he went back; supposing he stuck it out and were mediocre, how would you feel about that?

AXTON—The Talleys are not mediocre! My father, I think I've told you, was a distinguished Roentgenologist. His father was a country doctor in Wyoming. Philip would have been the fourth in an unbroken line. He's broken it. Here's a boy with a useful career set for him. A tradition set for him. He'd have inherited my practice. Didn't want it. When I'm dead there'll be no Dr. Talley. It'll be the first time since 1797. We reach back to the eighteenth century.

ENID—There'll be the Talley Method.

AXTON—Yes. Till it's superseded.

ENID—[Lightly] What a passion for survival!

AXTON—That's instinctive, don't you think? Why do you write poetry?

ENID—Because I can't help it!

AXTON—Maybe if the impulse were analyzed, that is what it would be found to be.

ENID—I wonder. Am I so vain? To make yourself legible to your contemporaries is difficult enough—to chat with the future positively foolhardy! [A moment's pause.]

AXTON—How'd you get on with Avis?

ENID—I liked her especially.

AXTON—Did you? [A moment's pause.]

ENID—Axton . . .

AXTON—Yes?

ENID—You don't see much of your children, do you?

AXTON—Well, you know how it is, Enid. I have a large practice. It keeps me going.

ENID—I think they feel it.

AXTON—Do they? Do they really?

ENID—They feel you're remote from them. I can see that.

AXTON—As a matter of fact, Enid, you needn't worry about the children—not to excess. They won't be with us long.

ENID—Really! They seem so well!

AXTON—[Literally] I don't mean physically. They're in excellent condition physically.

ENID—That's good!

AXTON—What I mean is that I have every expectation that they'll soon get married.

ENID—Oh?

AXTON—There's some foolish young fellow sparking around Avis now . . .

ENID—Cy?

AXTON—His name is Blodgett, I believe.

ENID—That's Cy. And sparking is mild.

AXTON—They'll probably get married. . . .

ENID—[Innocently] You think so?

AXTON—[Grimly] I'll probably have to support them, but it'll be worth it.

ENID—[Unable to quench her delight in her superior knowledge] Oh, my darling, wonderful Axton!

AXTON—[Surprised] What's the matter now?

ENID—This brings you all the closer to me.

AXTON—What does?

ENID—Never mind.

AXTON—[A bit suspicious] These freshets of endearment are so—so unpredictable!

ENID—You'll be perpetually inundated—make up your mind to that. But now tell me about Philip. Is he going to get married too?

AXTON—I'm hoping so. He's interested in somebody. I've given him several strong hints. I know she's interested in him!

ENID—Sybil?

AXTON—Sybil? Who is Sybil?

ENID—Who's yours?

AXTON—Pat Ackerman, Rodney Ackerman's daughter. He's a patient of mine, very rich. As Phil hasn't either a job or a career, he might as well marry money. In any case you may have a reasonable expectancy that you won't be bothered with either of the children very long. After they've both gone, we can have this house to ourselves.

ENID—[She puts her arms around him] Oh, my poor darling!

AXTON—What is it now?

ENID—Nothing.

AXTON—Well, when you say "my poor darling" in that tone, I naturally conclude it is something.

ENID—It's just that I'm bewildered.

AXTON—About what?

ENID—About your relations with your children. You seem to know so little about each other.

AXTON—It isn't my fault.

ENID—[Frankly] It must be, Axton—at least partly.

AXTON—I've tried, God knows.

ENID—Try again.

AXTON—Do you think so?

ENID—I would, dear, really. I'd make an effort. Do it for me, will you, darling?

AXTON—Well, perhaps I will.

ENID—[Chiding him affectionately] Come now, I see you filing it away in your mind. You won't do it.

AXTON—I will, I promise.

ENID—[She puts her arm through his] Darling. You are a darling. I'm so proud of you, Axton—You know what I love?—To take you out to dinner, to show you off to my friends, to see you sitting there, silent and unapproachable in the welter of magnified small-talk, a Sphinx among the innuendoes . . .

AXTON—Didn't care much for the literati you introduced me to. Those few dinners you took me to—I was bored.

ENID—You made that evident!

AXTON—Lot of chatter. Your friends may be clever and all that. They may write well and all that, but they don't really know anything. Lot of chatter. I never know what they're talking about and I don't care.

ENID—Darling! Never, never did I love you so much as that night at the dinner-party at Waddington's!

AXTON—Waddington! What's he so famous for? He struck me as trivial.

ENID—[Slyly] He made a mot about you.

AXTON—[Not interested] Did he?

ENID—Prompted by your unbroken silence at his dinner.

AXTON—[Still not interested] Really?

ENID—Is the Talley Method, he wanted to know, for lip-reading?

AXTON—Is that funny?

ENID—Not very.

AXTON—Too much talk everywhere.

ENID—I agree.

AXTON—Cant. Everywhere. Speeches. Phrases. Imprecise. Untested generalizations!

ENID—Well, my little circle of sophisticated pals is inclined to cruelty a bit. You're so kind, Axton. [She looks at him] I could cry when I think how kind you've been to me.

AXTON—Oh, nonsense!

ENID—One has to have been your patient to know how wonderful you are really.

AXTON—Don't be deceived by my professional manner!

ENID—Your infinite care, your solicitude, your patience. How wonderfully kind you were! How strong and kind.

AXTON—My job!

ENID—Yes. Your job. How superbly you did it. How the nurses adored you. Just today, Axton . . .

AXTON—What happened today?

ENID—Well, I'd just rung the door-bell on the way up to meet your children. I got stage fright about it suddenly. I thought: "Oh, my dear, what will I say to them? Supposing they hate me." To pull myself together I walked into your waiting-room to sit down for a bit . . .

AXTON—Well?

ENID—There was an old woman sitting there. She was waiting for instructions from your nurse. We got to talking. We got to talking about you.

AXTON—[Simply] Hope she didn't give me away!

ENID—She blessed you, Axton. [AXTON makes a deprecatory sound] She told me how you saved her husband's life—a motorman on the Third Avenue El.

AXTON—Oh, Mrs. Pink!

ENID—Yes. Odd name for her. She blessed you. You'd never taken a penny from her, she said—you kept coming to her tenement, countless visits, treating her husband as if he were a millionaire. She said you couldn't possibly have taken more pains—"Not," said Mrs. Pink, "if my husband was Mr. Rockeyfelley."

AXTON—I soak people like you in order to treat for nothing people like the Pinks!

ENID—Which reminds me—I've never had a bill from you.

AXTON—[Dryly] I don't want to add to my liabilities.

ENID—Darling!

AXTON—You keep talking about what I did for you. What about what you've done for me?

ENID—[Tremulous] Have I, Axton?

AXTON—I was lonely, Enid. I didn't know it. It's difficult for me to say these things. . . .

ENID—Try! You've never told me, as a matter of fact. . . .

AXTON—Haven't I? I thought I had.

ENID—Darling!

AXTON—My life is quite a grind. I work till I'm exhausted. Then I take a holiday. But holidays make me vaguely unhappy. They rest me but they upset me. I know now why. I become conscious then that I'm alone. My next will be with you. That's wonderful.

ENID—[She puts her arms around him] You need never be lonely again, darling. Never again.

AXTON—Have I told you now?

ENID—You've conveyed it!

AXTON—I love you, Enid. Yes. It's true. [A silence. They look at each other.]

ENID—It's a miracle. After all my wanderings—emotionally, I mean—to have found you. It's a miracle. Do you know, Axton . . .

AXTON—What?

ENID—There's something I haven't told you.

AXTON—What?

ENID—That before I met you, before I came under your care—I had reached such a state of mind that I wanted to die.

AXTON—[Surprised] Really, why?

ENID—I had a kind of—sickness of life.

AXTON—[Flatly] Physical.

ENID—[She turns to him] Unfortunately, no. Spiritual.

AXTON—Well, the fact is you did emerge. And you seemed to like it.

ENID—That was you. You gave me a reason for living—a new lease on life. I've got to tell you, Axton. You've got to know—what a fragile creature I really am!

AXTON—[Indulgently] Well, then—tell me!

ENID—When I went into the hospital—I had reached the end of my rope.

AXTON—You see you were mistaken.

ENID—I had been hovering on the brink of psychoanalysis, but I couldn't quite take the plunge. I was inhibited somehow about embarking on an endless career of audible introspection.

AXTON—Quite right!

ENID—Nevertheless, I saw no way out. I was sick of myself and of life. . . .

AXTON—Was it that nephew of yours that was killed in the plane?

ENID—It was beyond even that, deeper even than that. How sick I was of the endlessly swinging arcs of my own imaginations! Robert's death, it is true, became a symbol to me of what the machines were doing to young life everywhere. What were my little subtleties, the thin line of communication I was trying to establish? What if I did establish it? The people I try to reach are of the same mind as I am. Could I ever affect the others? Probably not. The same kind of people talk to each other—and what are we in this world of screaming death and swooping machines? [She puts her hand in his] You see I am weak, darling. When I was told I had this illness, I was glad. I prayed it would do for me what I lacked the initiative to do for myself.

AXTON—[He pats her hand] You're too introspective.

ENID—Occupational disease!

AXTON—What's accomplished by that sort of mooning about?

ENID—Behind it, I'm afraid, there was something personal, intensely personal.

AXTON—Oh?

ENID—Behind most abstract griefs, there is a core of personal unhappiness. I've made several bad choices, Axton—in love.

AXTON—[Brusquely] Don't want to hear about 'em. Stick to the present, which is myself.

ENID—I will, Axton. I promise you that. [A moment] You know, darling, lying there in the hospital, convalescing, waiting for your step in the corridor—I composed a poem to you!

AXTON—Oh, did you? You never let me see it.

ENID—I never wrote it down. I composed it in my head. I think I could write it from memory. I believe it's the loveliest poem never wrote.

AXTON—What was it about?

ENID—Your encompassing skill, the swift virtuosity of your healing skill. I thought: While you despair, he saves. The areas sick and lost he reclaims. I thought: Here is a way of life, free and constructive and clearly good. Do many of your patients fall in love with you, Axton?

AXTON—They do while they're weak. . . .

ENID—[With a quick smile at him] My weakness persists—rather, it's supplanted by your strength. Please kiss me. [He kisses her. They embrace warmly] You know, darling, it seems to me now that always before—when I thought I had found love . . .

AXTON—I thought we weren't going to talk about that!

ENID—No, but this is what I want to tell you: It seems to me now that there was always a premonition of doubt. This is the first time—this is the first time, darling, that I feel secure—this is the first time I feel completely—at home. I'm home.

AXTON—Yes, of course. You are home.

ENID—It's what we all want deep down, isn't it, Axton?

AXTON—I suppose so.

ENID—At this moment particularly, when we're all on the verge of an abyss, it's such a blessing—to know: This at least is mine, this I can count on, this will not fail me. [AXTON kisses her. While he is thus engaged, MARY comes in through the archway. Embarrassed at having intruded on this tender scene, she knocks on the archway. AXTON turns quickly, a bit embarrassed.]

AXTON—Come in. Come in, Mary.

MARY—Dinner is served, Doctor.

AXTON—All right, Mary. We'll be right down. This is Miss Fuller. [He turns and sees ENID is still kneeling. His embarrassment returns.]

ENID—Mary and I have met.

MARY—Indeed we have!

AXTON—Where's Philip?

MARY—He's dining out.

AXTON—Where's Avis?

MARY—Miss Avis has gone to Washington.

AXTON—What's she doing in Washington?

MARY—It's a big meeting!

AXTON—[To ENID] More palaver! [To MARY again] We shall want a cocktail, Mary.

MARY—Yes. Edward made your favorite—a dikkeree. [MARY goes out.]

ENID—[Going to AXTON and taking his hands gaily] Dikkeree. She pronounces it like a nursery rhyme. Dikkeree-dikkeree-dock . . . Oh, darling, I feel very gay suddenly. Don't you? I have great reserves of gaiety—you release them.

AXTON—You mustn't overdo!

ENID—You give me confidence, and you can't really be gay without confidence. I'm terrifically up and down, Axton. You're not, are you? How can I keep on an even keel, darling? Will you help me to do that? Will you be my compass?

AXTON—[Patiently] A compass does not keep you at an even keel!

ENID—What does?

AXTON—The nautical engineers have developed—stabilizing instruments.

ENID—What are they called?

AXTON—Gyroscopes.

ENID—Will you be my gyroscope? Doesn't seem right, somehow. No, I'd rather have you for my compass. Accurate or not, you're going to be my compass. Come on, darling. Let's get to those dikkerees. I feel like getting a bit tight, don't you? [She takes his arm and starts walking out with him.]

AXTON—[Affectionately and yet with a touch of professional severity] Cocktails are not particularly good for you.

ENID—[As they go out] Oh, now, darling. Why should I be prudent when I'm marrying the Talley Method?

Curtain

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