Index     1     2     3

ACT TWO

SCENE I

The scene is the same as Act One: BINKIE'S cottage now occupied by CHRIS. It is four months later—August, late in the morning. A card-table with papers, scripts, etc., on it is in the center of the room. A portable typewriter is on the card-table. As the curtain rises, TOGO is discovered. He starts picking up cigarette-butts from the floor near the card-table. WILDA comes in from door right.

WILDA—Hello, Togo.

TOGO—Hello, Miss Doran.

WILDA—Where's Mr. Christophsen?

TOGO—Not in, Miss.

WILDA—No? Have an appointment with him. I'll wait.

TOGO—Maybe he's walking, Miss. Misser Christophsen is always walking. He'll be back right away, Miss.

WILDA—Nice of Mr. Niebuhr to let Mr. Christophsen use his cottage while he's away, isn't it, Togo?

TOGO—Oh, Misser Niebuhr he don't know that, Miss!

WILDA—Oh?

TOGO—No. Misser Hanlon he arrange it.

WILDA—Well, it's nice of Mr. Hanlon.

TOGO—Yes, Miss Doran. [TOGO goes out. WILDA absently looks around, sees papers and mss. on which CHRIS has been working on center table. Goes idly to them, looks at them without particular curiosity, absently. But involuntarily something catches her eyes—she picks up a sheet of paper—looks at it—reads it with curiosity and amusement—she finds herself reading it avidly—she sits and drinks the stuff in. CHRIS comes in, finds her absorbed in his mss. For a moment he does not speak to her—he lets her read on.]

CHRIS—[Finally] Interesting?

WILDA—[Looking up—not at all embarrassed] Very. Beautiful handwriting. Very easy to read.

CHRIS—They're only notes.

WILDA—But they're interesting notes. [Puts papers down] I bet you're furious.

CHRIS—I don't like my work looked at till it's finished.

WILDA—Serves you right for being late.

CHRIS—[A moment's pause. Pulls his papers together] I work upstairs usually. Don't know what made me come down here this morning. Restless.

WILDA—Well, Chris, the Princess of Java is finished and she looks good.

CHRIS—Congratulations!

WILDA—Laddy's showing it tonight. Will you come?

CHRIS—Certainly.

WILDA—You liked the story rather, didn't you? Or did you just say that and not read it?

CHRIS—Of course I read it.

WILDA—And liked it.

CHRIS—Excellent of its kind. I like escape fiction really to be escapist and no nonsense. The Princess of Java takes you very far away indeed.

WILDA—Were you surprised when I called you this morning?

CHRIS—No.

WILDA—Suddenly thought of you. Felt excited—and—released. Let me work it off on you.

CHRIS—[Regretfully looking down at his mss.] Wish you'd saved it till this afternoon.

WILDA—Your precious morning! You're a creature of routine.

CHRIS—I am.

WILDA—Break it. Break it today. Let's roam.

CHRIS—This afternoon.

WILDA—The hell with that. This afternoon I mightn't feel like it.

CHRIS—Why don't you roam with Laddy?

WILDA—Don't dare show Laddy how excited I am! He thinks I'm blasé. He wants me blasé.

CHRIS—You're quite right to give him what he wants. [Is this a dig? She decides not to pursue it.]

WILDA—[With a quick look at CHRIS] You're a stick-in-the-mud, Chris.

CHRIS—[Mechanically—his script is automatically in his hand and he is looking at it as he says] Too bad.

WILDA—I haven't gotten over your book yet, Chris. It left such a powerful impression. When is it coming out?

CHRIS—Pretty soon. Week or so.

WILDA—Marvelous!

CHRIS—Lots of books are published. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

WILDA—You never say anything brilliant—or seldom. Yet you give an impression of talent. How do you manage that?

CHRIS—It's not difficult.

WILDA—You baffle me. I resent it. [He has been making conversation mechanically as he has been looking over his mss. Now he is absorbed in it—he hasn't, so far as one might tell, heard her last remark at all. In any case he does not answer it] What are you working on now? The new one?

CHRIS—Yes.

WILDA—Imagine going ahead with a new book before you know how the first one comes out.

CHRIS—What do you mean by that?

WILDA—What the critics say.

CHRIS—Having got by me the book won't have to worry much about the critics.

WILDA—What's the new one about?

CHRIS—I never talk about my work while I'm doing it.

WILDA—Is it about us?

CHRIS—Us?

WILDA—In those notes I caught Laddy's name and Binkie's and my own.

CHRIS—Your risk.

WILDA—What struck me was not what you said actually, but the way you said it. You wrote about us [She indicates mss.] exactly as if we were all wild animals or foreigners, noting down our funny habits and customs: they do this—they feel that way—they look at things from this point of view—like a naturalist describing strange flora and fauna—more than impersonal—it was—

CHRIS—Yes?

WILDA—Inhuman. As though, for you, we were in a different category altogether—a non-human category.

CHRIS—Perhaps for me you are.

WILDA—[After a moment] You remind me of somebody, yet you are quite different too.

CHRIS—Whom?

WILDA—Louis Crane.

CHRIS—The painter?

WILDA—I was his model. [He looks at her as it that gave her a fresh point of interest.]

CHRIS—Read about him not long ago. Kicked out by W.P.A. for apostrophizing Lenin in a bank-building in Omaha.

WILDA—Like Crane!

CHRIS—[Contemptuously] Is he a practical joker?

WILDA—You wouldn't do a thing like that, would you?

CHRIS—I would not!

WILDA—Waste of energy, I suppose.

CHRIS—Among other things.

WILDA—I hate people who hoard their vitality. I'm afraid you haven't much sense of humor, Chris.

CHRIS—I'm afraid I haven't.

WILDA—Are you proud of it?

CHRIS—Laddy has humor. Binkie has humor. Ryder has humor. That's the trouble with them.

WILDA—It's generally regarded—

CHRIS—I know how it's generally regarded. Actually humor is a vice. It cushions suffering.

WILDA—Well, isn't that good?

CHRIS—Very pleasant for those who haven't endured the suffering. [Looks at her.]

WILDA—It's uncanny—

CHRIS—What is?

WILDA—How in little things you're like Crane. You looked at me just now—as Crane used to when he was painting me—when he had a quick illumination—just before making a brushstroke. [She pauses, but he says nothing] Let's be friends, Chris.

CHRIS—We are friends. We are very good friends.

WILDA—There's no outer evidence of it.

CHRIS—There's interior evidence.

WILDA—Is there? That's reassuring! [A moment] Chris—

CHRIS—Yes?

WILDA—Why is it during the months you've been here I've seen you only a few times and yet I feel—

CHRIS—I know. So do I.

WILDA—You don't know what I want to say.

CHRIS—I thought I did.

WILDA—You don't. I feel with you completely—natural—that I can talk myself out to you—while with Laddy, even with Ryder—I feel under some—constraint—

CHRIS—Because there's no use pretending with me. You don't have to.

WILDA—Is that it?

CHRIS—Probably.

WILDA—I've wired Ryder about the picture tonight but I haven't heard from him. I don't suppose he'll come—now that he's a Senator I guess he's too busy. [CHRIS says nothing] Do you hear from Ryder?

CHRIS—Yes.

WILDA—Do you like Ryder?

CHRIS—As Lenin said of Bernard Shaw: "He's a good man fallen among Fabians."

WILDA—I envy you, Chris.

CHRIS—Why?

WILDA—You're cool. You're confident. Secure in the conviction of your talents. Secure in the conviction of your beliefs. I'm afraid of you, Chris.

CHRIS—You needn't be. I'll be leaving as soon as my book's set.

WILDA—[Rises] Oh—when?

CHRIS—Pretty soon now. I have enough from Sieber to last me a while.

WILDA—Don't go. Please.

CHRIS—Have to.

WILDA—Let's make a date then.

CHRIS—All right.

WILDA—After the private showing tonight.

CHRIS—You'll be with Laddy.

WILDA—When then?

CHRIS—[Rises] Pointless.

WILDA—Why?

CHRIS—We're no good for each other.

WILDA—I feel that, too.

CHRIS—There you are!

WILDA—Yet I'd like to see you, Chris—

CHRIS—If you can manage it, all right.

WILDA—Gosh, you're hard as nails.

CHRIS—Are you a sentimentalist?

WILDA—Compared to you—I'm a softie.

CHRIS—[Quietly] So much the worse for you. [BINKIE comes in right with chauffeur carrying his suitcases, etc.]

WILDA—Hello, Binkie. When did you get back?

BINKIE—Just now.

WILDA—How are you?

BINKIE—Extremely vexed.

WILDA—Why?

BINKIE—I go away for a week and come back to find this young man has moved into my cottage.

WILDA—Now, Binkie! [To CHRIS] Don't mind him, Chris.

CHRIS—You needn't worry. I'm leaving very soon.

BINKIE—Good. How soon?

CHRIS—Day or so.

BINKIE—Why didn't you stay with your uncle?

CHRIS—We didn't get on.

BINKIE—My cottage is no place in which to write proletarian novels.

CHRIS—That's where you're wrong. It is. [CHRIS goes out. Takes typewriter with him from card-table as he goes.]

WILDA—[Reproaching him affectionately] Really, Binkie!

TOGO—[Comes in from up-stage door] Morning, Mr. Niebuhr. Welcome home, sir.

BINKIE—Togo, don't unpack my bags. Collins, put them back in the car. I'm going right on to the Harrison Williams'. [TOGO and COLLINS retreat.]

WILDA—[Wheedling him] Now, now, Binkie. [BINKIE starts out. WILDA intercedes, pushes him on to sofa—flings his hat down] Stop being so naughty!

BINKIE—[Suddenly mild] All right, my dear. I'll sleep at the Big House until he goes. But what an objectionable young man!

WILDA—You know perfectly well you like Chris.

BINKIE—Don't exaggerate, Wilda.

WILDA—You got his book published.

BINKIE—Many people have talent who are objectionable.

WILDA—Have you read the book?

BINKIE—My dear Wilda, frustrated apple-pickers in Oregon do not interest me.

WILDA—It's not about apple-pickers in Oregon. It's about sharecroppers in the South.

BINKIE—My indifference is generous enough to include even them. Oh, here's a telegram Davidson handed me for you. [He hands her the telegram. She opens it] Who's it from?

WILDA—[Reading it] It's from Ryder. I wired him about the showing tonight. He's coming after all. The wire's from Washington. He'll be here any minute. [Goes to phone—calls] Hello—Davidson—Miss Doran—as soon as Mr. Gerrard arrives will you let me know please? I'll be here. Thank you, Davidson. [She hangs up.]

BINKIE—By the way, Wilda—

WILDA—Yes, Binkie.

BINKIE—How did you leave things with Ryder?

WILDA—We were rather letting things go until the picture is finished.

BINKIE—Well, it's finished and, as far as I can gather, will be a success. What now?

WILDA—Exactly, Binkie. What now? [She sits beside him on the sofa.]

BINKIE—What are you going to tell Ryder?

WILDA—Not sure. The finishing of the picture hasn't clarified things somehow.

BINKIE—It should have.

WILDA—It hasn't.

BINKIE—You owe your success to Laddy.

WILDA—All roads lead to Laddy.

BINKIE—Agreeable terminal. What's the matter with you—Wilda?

WILDA—Nothing.

BINKIE—You're not fooling me. When I went away you were on the crest of the wave.

WILDA—You can't stay on the crest of the wave every minute, Binkie.

BINKIE—Ryder's return is forcing you to a decision—is that it? But it's so simple, Wilda.

WILDA—Nothing is simple, Binkie.

BINKIE—Oh, nonsense. . . . Why on earth do you want to exile yourself to New Mexico serving chile to small-time politicians when all you have to do—is to stay here with—[CHARLIE comes in.]

CHARLIE—Hello, Binkie! Wilda!

WILDA—Hello, Charlie!

CHARLIE—Well, Binkie, how was your trip?

BINKIE—I hate the provinces—St. Louis in August is beyond description.

WILDA—But I bet you were successful. I'm sure Daphne got the settlement.

BINKIE—Yes, she gets all her own money back and part of his too.

WILDA—Wonderful diplomat, isn't he, Charlie?

CHARLIE—Superb, and you too, young lady—

WILDA—I? What makes you think I am a diplomat, Charlie? [She gets up, a little annoyed, walks upstage to window.]

CHARLIE—[Evading] I have no idea.

BINKIE—I'm afraid he overestimates you, Wilda.

CHARLIE—You have so many irons in the fire, haven't you? What percentage of your marriages are successful?

BINKIE—I have no follow-up system.

CHARLIE—Perhaps it's just as well.

WILDA—[Calls out the window] Laddy—oh, Laddy—[She waves to LADDY and TRAUB—returns to BINKIE and CHARLIE] There are Laddy and Traub. They're arguing. They're always arguing.

CHARLIE—What about?

WILDA—The story probably.

CHARLIE—But it's finished, isn't it? It's being shown tonight.

WILDA—Oh, that's only the first rough cut. Plenty of time to argue. I'd better separate them before they come to blows. [She runs out through the garden doors.]

CHARLIE—Is my nephew in?

BINKIE—Upstairs working.

CHARLIE—How depressing. He's probably writing another of those winsome novels of his.

BINKIE—Have you read his first one?

CHARLIE—I couldn't read it—but I did! I loathed it. It spoiled my day. What a dreadful book! All genital and intestinal! It's a butcher's shop, an abattoir, a shambles. How horrid these young fellows make food seem in their novels! Compared to the wonderful meals in Dickens—in Dickens food stimulates the salivary glands—in writers like Aldous Huxley and my nephew—the emetic. Are there emetic glands? I wouldn't know.

BINKIE—I'm afraid, Charlie, you lack what they call "social consciousness."

CHARLIE—Naturally. I'm passé. And yet, in his odd way, Dickens had it, didn't he, though he didn't know it. What a vile phrase! What a vile modern phrase!

BINKIE—Ryder and Wilda think Chris is a genius.

CHARLIE—Ah! Miss Doran thinks he is a genius! I hear such glowing things from Laddy about your protégée, Binkie—that she's destined for great things.

BINKIE—Laddy is too sanguine. That prediction is a little premature, I'm afraid.

CHARLIE—Binkie, with you in charge, nothing is premature.

BINKIE—That sounds like the advertisement of a midwife.

CHARLIE—[Assenting] Accoucheur—

BINKIE—I never see enough of you, Charlie. Why don't you come to a dinner-party I'm giving on the 18th? I'll put you between Fannie Brice and Gertrude Stein.

CHARLIE—What a collector! You seem to be above economics, Binkie. Who pays for all this hospitality?

BINKIE—It does take every penny I get from people. When I run low, Abe Kreuger and Kingdon give me tips on the market.

CHARLIE—And what do you invest—good-will?

BINKIE—Not at all. Good money. I borrow it from Kingdon and Abe Kreuger.

CHARLIE—Just the same, Binkie—sometimes in the night—I find myself waking up in a cold sweat worrying about your old age.

BINKIE—You needn't. I can always come and stay with you.

CHARLIE—You'll never waste yourself on me. What you are really planning to do is to spend your old age with Laddy and your protégée.

BINKIE—I'd ask nothing better, but unfortunately Wilda, in spite of all I can do, prefers Ryder.

CHARLIE—Does she?

BINKIE—I'm afraid so. Sometimes, Charlie, my protégés elude me.

CHARLIE—So you've given up the idea of Laddy and Wilda?

BINKIE—I've had to. Aren't you relieved?

CHARLIE—I fear the Greeks even when they bring me gifts.

BINKIE—You're nervous, Charlie. Well, these days all endowed institutions have the jitters.

CHARLIE—I want to keep this institution steady, Binkie, because I live in it. I don't want it invaded from the outside.

BINKIE—Charlie, you are more Bourbon than the Bourbons.

CHARLIE—Yes, because the Bourbons won't defend themselves. They're too amiable. [LADDY comes in.]

LADDY—[Delighted to see BINKIE] Hello, Binkie! Wilda just told me you were back. How is the august negotiator?

BINKIE—Driven from pillar to post because his premises have been overrun in his absence.

LADDY—Oh, Binkie, why don't you give us a break and come up and stay at the Big House?

BINKIE—Well, Laddy, how does it look?

LADDY—Superb, and Wilda's marvelous. Wait till you see it. You'll come tonight, won't you, Charlie?

CHARLIE—I'm not exactly a fan, you know, Laddy. Outside of the other Charlie and Mickey, the art of the future leaves me cold.

BINKIE—What about Greta and Marlene? They're both nice girls.

CHARLIE—Ah, Binkie, if I were only a boy like you.

BINKIE—[Contentedly] It wouldn't do you any good.

CHARLIE—Too bad. I've often wondered about you, Binkie.

BINKIE—Dear, dear, Charlie. I'll have to think up an answer to that one later on. [He goes out.]

LADDY—[Calling to him after he has gone] Tell Wilda and Leo to come in, will you, Binkie? Y'know—[To CHARLIE] Traub's a pessimist. He says we need retakes.

CHARLIE—[Sits] Having a wonderful time with your new toy, aren't you, Laddy?

LADDY—It's more than that this time, Charlie.

CHARLIE—Is it?

LADDY—Yes. It's fun, it's a lot of fun, but besides that, I'm learning a lot from Traub, from the actors, from the property men, from the sound engineers, from everybody. I'm learning, Charlie.

CHARLIE—And after you've learned it? What are you going to do with it?

LADDY—Go on making more pictures. This time, of course, I'm just following Traub's lead and the directors. But I find I have ideas of my own. I'm inventive, Charlie! It's fun to discover that. And the next picture I make, I won't just follow—I'll take the initiative.

CHARLIE—And that will be with Miss Doran also?

LADDY—I hope so. [Feeling somehow that CHARLIE has to be sold on WILDA] You don't know what a swell girl Wilda is, Charlie. She's not like us.

CHARLIE—[Delicately] That alone gives her a great advantage, doesn't it?

LADDY—What I mean is she's had to fight and struggle and dodge, almost from the moment she was born, and look how she's come through it all—how radiantly she's come through it all! My God, Charlie, I didn't know it, but talking to you like this, I begin to realize that I like Wilda a hell of a lot! [TRAUB and WILDA come back.]

TRAUB—[As they enter] I'm sorry, Wilda, but the picture is long and we have to cut someplace—Hello, Charlie.

CHARLIE—How do you do, Mr. Traub.

LADDY—[To WILDA] Leo still at it?

WILDA—Yes. He says that the picture is great, but it has to be retaken.

TRAUB—I didn't say that, Wilda—twenty thousand dollars' worth of retakes—that's all.

CHARLIE—Tell me, Mr. Traub, I'm very ignorant. When you retake a picture do you improve it?

TRAUB—This time I want to do just the opposite. Watching the picture now, I see that my satiric impulse got the better of me. My horrified ears heard from the sound track wit and humor. I even sensed a point of view. They'll have to go—they'll all have to go.

CHARLIE—Then it will cost you twenty thousand dollars to get rid of wit and humor.

TRAUB—Exactly.

CHARLIE—What expensive talents you have, Mr. Traub. [He goes out.]

TRAUB—Hanlon's right. I should have exercised more sell-control. It's a singular phenomenon that with all my picture training, with all my contempt for the industry, for its practitioners, and for its audience, I have never yet learned to be commonplace by instinct.

WILDA—This worries me very much.

TRAUB—[With great emphasis] It needn't. I can tell you this—you are immense.

LADDY—Will you believe it now?

TRAUB—Yes, my pet, you threaten to be a menace.

WILDA—Only a threat—?

TRAUB—Does it occur to you how these nationally advertised heroines affect what is miscalled natural selection?

LADDY—[Tilting WILDA'S face up] So this is what the next generation will look like—not bad—

TRAUB—Now then, when I've cut out from this art work some of my cerebral and satiric dialogue, which, on your beautiful lips—

WILDA—Yes, Leo—

TRAUB—sounds like intellectual baby-talk, we will be sitting pretty!

WILDA—[Hurt] You told me I could read lines!

TRAUB—You can read lines, but you cannot express ideas. I shall cut out the ideas and leave the lines. [The telephone rings. WILDA answers it.]

LADDY—Somebody said the voodoo sequence was anemic, Leo.

WILDA—[Into phone] Hello.

LADDY—What can we do about it?

WILDA—Yes—Oh, thank you. [Hangs up] Ryder's on his way down from the Big House. I'll go out and meet him. Don't either of you say anything important until I get back. [She runs out to meet RYDER.]

TRAUB—[Dropping his pose for a minute] By God, Laddy, I don't mind telling you this whole thing's a miracle! In Hollywood this picture would have cost a million dollars. They'd have had fans and gold bedrooms and chariots. We take a haunted studio in Long Island City—a painter's ex-model—we take these dubious ingredients and we turn out a film that is intelligent, absorbing and, at the moment, even witty. And we get a new star into the bargain. A new type! And all for the insignificant sum of a quarter of a million dollars, which in Culver City, California, would not pay for the canopy beneath which the oversexed leading lady swoons into a lap-dissolve. You're going to make plenty of dough, Laddy.

LADDY—I hope so.

TRAUB—Of course you won't save much, because it will put you into the upper brackets. [They laugh.]

LADDY—It all sounds like a fairy story!

TRAUB—[Grimly] It will be by the time I get through cutting it! [RYDER comes in with WILDA.]

WILDA—Gentlemen—Senator Gerrard!

RYDER—Hello, Laddy. Hello, Leo.

LADDY—Well, Ryder. How are you? Welcome.

TRAUB—Ah! The Son of the Wild Jackass, the Messiah of the Millennium! [Shakes hands—bows.]

RYDER—[To TRAUB] How's the sentimentalist in reverse?

TRAUB—Hail to the new Senator!

LADDY—And what a stir he's made.

TRAUB—Stir, who made a stir?

RYDER—[Hat on desk] Among other things, I've been fighting your battles, Leo, the censorship.

WILDA—I read that. You had the elderly Senators reading Joyce's Ulysses.

TRAUB—Well, it's no duller than the Congressional Record.

LADDY—How does it feel being a Senator? How's the most exclusive club in the world? Is it fun?

RYDER—Well, it's not so exclusive—but it's fun. Well, children, I begin to understand what Calvin Coolidge meant when he said that "the Senate of the United States is a very curious body." Do I interrupt a story conference?

WILDA—Of course not.

LADDY—Wait till you see Wilda in the film, Ryder—

RYDER—Crazy to.

LADDY—Wait till you see the film—

RYDER—That's why I came here—to see the film and to see Wilda.

WILDA—I don't want Ryder to see it—I'm scared to have him see it.

TRAUB—If the Senator likes it we'll have to throw it in the ashcan.

WILDA—[Piqued] Chris liked it!

RYDER—Did he?

WILDA—I gave it to him to read—he liked it.

LADDY—There you are, Ryder. We've pleased the left wing—now if we can just get you. Where are you, Ryder? Left center? Sounds like football.

TRAUB—Well, if Chris liked it—that worries me too.

RYDER—You ought to be mighty flattered if he did. But he was probably kidding you, Wilda—too lazy to tell you what he really thought. Besides, from Chris's point of view—

WILDA—What?

RYDER—Well, the worse things are with a system he despises—I mean the worse its art, the worse its literature, the worse its education, the better he likes it.

TRAUB—What's his opinion worth anyway?

RYDER—His honest opinion—a good deal.

TRAUB—I suppose you think he's a great novelist?

RYDER—Yes, I do, Leo—sorry.

LADDY—Be careful, Leo, don't antagonize Ryder. He'll get the administration to crack down on you Hollywood Shakespeares.

TRAUB—Let 'em crack. This Chris, whom I may say, in passing, I find monumentally boring, is one of those high and mighty proletarian novelists who'd give their eyeteeth for a contract in Hollywood.

RYDER—I don't think he would, Leo. If Chris wanted to write film stories I'm sure he could manage it. It's as easy as lying.

TRAUB—If you think writing books about tomato canners is more difficult than writing for films—you're mistaken. If there's anything easier than being a proletarian novelist, I don't know what it is. You get your nice left-wing point of view to start with. Then you snuggle down cozily into the incestuous habits of some imbecile Georgia crackers, and—there you are. No matter how lousy a writer you are, you can't go wrong!

RYDER—I'm sorry, Leo. I had no idea you were so sensitive about your craft. Don't forget your role, Leo—you're a cynic, and mustn't be serious about anything.

TRAUB—[Rises] You bore me, really. All you uplifters bore hell out of me. Where's Togo? I'm going to read the script to him. To hell with what these highbrows say—if Togo likes it, we're set! [He goes out.]

RYDER—[Innocently] Have I offended him?

WILDA—I'm afraid you have.

RYDER—It seems your author can't take it. So the picture is finished?

LADDY—Yes, and I've been having a wonderful time at it.

RYDER—Have you?

LADDY—Yes. You see me, Ryder, succumbing to the general mania for incessant occupation. I wish I had the strength to hold out for a cultivated leisure, but there—I haven't the will power. Before long, I'll be as busy as you. When are you running for President, Ryder?

RYDER—Any time.

LADDY—I'll vote for you. I bet it'll take someone worse than F. D. R. to beat F. D. R.

RYDER—Thank you, Laddy. I'll count on your support.

LADDY—Done and done. You'll stay for dinner? [With a friendly gesture to him and a look at WILDA.]

RYDER—Delighted.

LADDY—I'll be seeing you then. As I've been trying with every means in my power and with cunning devices to double-cross you while you've been legislating for me in Washington, the least I can do is leave you alone with Wilda for a bit.

RYDER—[Maneuvering him out] Very sweet of you.

LADDY—Also, it may cheer you up to know that although I have exerted my well-known charm to the fullest, I have so far scored nil with Wilda—well, almost nil. [He goes out.]

WILDA—[After a moment] Well, Ryder? How are you, darling?

RYDER—[His manner belying it] All right.

WILDA—I wrote you a letter. Did you get it?

RYDER—Yes.

WILDA—You didn't answer.

RYDER—I've been in New Mexico—campaigning.

WILDA—You might have wired.

RYDER—I determined to exercise will-power. A bit like exercising a sword in a wound.

WILDA—[Touched] Ryder!

RYDER—You are my odd fate, Wilda.

WILDA—As I am my own!

RYDER—[With a sharp look at her] I did write Chris.

WILDA—Yes—I know.

RYDER—A little postscript in his letter gave me a bad quarter of an hour.

WILDA—[Quickly] What was it?

RYDER—[Quoting] "Miss Doran's career is about to flower—she appears not without gratitude to her entrepreneur."

WILDA—[Half to herself] That's what he thinks then—

RYDER—Up to the receipt of that letter I thought I'd done pretty well by forgetting you. I'd been campaigning in the wilds—making hundreds of speeches in Spanish and English. Night after night I heard issuing from my lips the clichés of persuasion. They sounded pretty good till a few nights ago—when I got Chris's letter.

WILDA—With the fatal postscript?

RYDER—With the fatal postscript.

WILDA—And did that—?

RYDER—It certainly did! I went to the pool-room where I was about to speak. Then, in a suicidal mood suddenly, I rushed back to my louse-infested hotel. That postscript ruined me.

WILDA—That's a shame, Ryder. Especially—as Chris's implication is a lie. He knows it's a lie.

RYDER—Does he? Chris is pretty honest, you know.

WILDA—Possibly he thinks it—or did when he wrote that letter—

RYDER—I gave up all pretense that you no longer mattered to me. I canceled my engagements for a week and rushed back to see you.

WILDA—Well, you needn't worry about Laddy.

RYDER—Darling, I do!

WILDA—You needn't. I've never lied to you. And you needn't worry about Laddy.

RYDER—[Watching her narrowly] About what then?

WILDA—Oh, Ryder—I'm beginning to tire of myself.

RYDER—You should be very happy.

WILDA—I know. I should.

RYDER—Everything within your grasp—

WILDA—Yes—everything—almost too much—

RYDER—Choice at last.

WILDA—You would think so—

RYDER—Wilda, what is it? What's troubling you?

WILDA—I wish I were like you, Ryder—all in one piece—no contradictory impulses tearing you apart.

RYDER—[Humorously] Is that what you think? Well, I shan't disillusion you. I am a Senator and therefore clear, wise and omniscient.

WILDA—[Laughing] Darling! [Their laughter simmers down. A moment's pause.]

RYDER—What is the matter? You're not as happy as I expected to find you. What's happened?

WILDA—I'm worried about myself.

RYDER—Why?

WILDA—Because—what I've been wanting—independence—life on my own terms—it seems within my reach and yet—

RYDER—And yet?

WILDA—I feel that—may be unsatisfying too.

RYDER—That reassures me—That gives me hope—

WILDA—I'm afraid, Ryder.

RYDER—Of what?

WILDA—Of being engulfed. Sometimes I think I'm crazy, Ryder.

RYDER—Me too. Never mind—that's sanity.

WILDA—I am unstable—emotionally. I am restless—emotionally. That is what frightens me.

RYDER—[Smiles at her] You know, Wilda, I've made a heavy emotional investment in you. I don't mean to lose it. I mean to salvage it. I cannot be deceived in you entirely. I could not love you so were you not somehow—

WILDA—[Deeply touched] Oh, Ryder!

RYDER—Somehow part of me—mine.

WILDA—I am—I adore you, Ryder.

RYDER—Everything you say proves me right. Your whole attitude proves me right. You are what I thought. You haven't utterly succumbed to—well, to Laddy's film venture. You are not overcome by easy success. You are not dazzled by the glitter of the second-rate. Doesn't this all prove me right? Wilda!

WILDA—I feel like saying to you: Ryder—take me—marry me—save me—

RYDER—Say it then.

WILDA—I mustn't.

RYDER—Why not?

WILDA—To marry you, one would have to be surer than with anyone else.

RYDER—Why? Is the average marriage so tentative?

WILDA—Because you feel things deeply—because you are not casual—you are not—

RYDER—Does the finality of it overwhelm you?

WILDA—Yes.

RYDER—I'm willing to take a risk. I believe in what is soundest in you. You must too. You must.

WILDA—No—I know myself now—I know myself—and if I did—[She stops, horrified suddenly by a vision in her mind]—and I found myself swept off my feet and I—

RYDER—[His voice, involuntarily, as he seems to sense this vision, rising] What is it, Wilda?

WILDA—I don't know. [She turns away from him.]

RYDER—[Demanding] Who is it, Wilda?

WILDA—I should break your heart—[She turns her back to him] I won't do it to you, Ryder—

RYDER—Who?

WILDA—I'll never do it.

RYDER—Who is it? [The telephone rings. CHRIS comes downstairs. The telephone makes it unnecessary for WILDA to meet RYDER'S insistence—at the same moment as CHRIS walks into the room.]

WILDA—[At the phone] Yes? Oh, hello, Laddy—oh, what?—You're in a crisis? What about?—What does Leo say? And you're against it, I suppose—I thought so—and what does Binkie say? [She laughs] I see. All right, darling, I'll be there in a minute. [She hangs up. Sees CHRIS] Oh. hello.

CHRIS—Hello. Hello, Ryder.

RYDER—How are you, Chris?

WILDA—It's a question, boys, of my virginity.

RYDER—Oh!

WILDA—In the picture.

RYDER—Oh, I see.

WILDA—Leo insists the Princess of Java has got to be a virgin!

RYDER—What does Laddy say?

WILDA—Laddy's against it.

RYDER—Naturally. And Binkie?

WILDA—Binkie's neutral. What do you think?

RYDER—Like Binkie—neutral.

WILDA—And you, Chris?

CHRIS—A question so highly technical, I can only leave to the experts.

WILDA—Well, I'd better join the experts before it's too late. Wait for me—both of you. [She runs out. A moment's pause between CHRIS and RYDER. In the following scene, RYDER gives a bit the sense of prodding CHRIS to confirm a half-formed suspicion.]

RYDER—Well, Chris, congratulations on the novel.

CHRIS—Thanks. Having a good time in the Senate? [They shake hands.]

RYDER—Not bad. A bit clogged with red tape and inertia. But we'll struggle along—! [Alter a moment] By the way—Chris.

CHRIS—Yes?

RYDER—That little postscript in your letter—

CHRIS—Postscript?

RYDER—About Wilda.

CHRIS—Oh, yes—

RYDER—What exactly did you mean?

CHRIS—Only what I said—you can't expect her not to be grateful to Laddy.

RYDER—Well, your insinuation is groundless.

CHRIS—Is it?

RYDER—Yes. It's not true.

CHRIS—In any case Miss Doran is not for you. Exorcise her.

RYDER—What makes you so certain?

CHRIS—This is adolescent, Ryder.

RYDER—I can't help that—what makes you so certain?

CHRIS—Just my instinct. [A pause.]

RYDER—You've stayed on quite a while. You must like it here.

CHRIS—I've been working.

RYDER—I see. [A moment] Have you seen Wilda's film?

CHRIS—No.

RYDER—She told me with great pride you liked the story.

CHRIS—I said so. Escape stuff. What difference does it make whether it's good or bad?

RYDER—[Annoyed] Well, I should think it would make all the difference between good and bad.

CHRIS—Doesn't matter in the least.

RYDER—Well, I think it does matter.

CHRIS—I don't. [A moment's pause. RYDER looks at CHRIS—he makes a gesture including the whole environment.]

RYDER—You have—so to speak—written all this off, haven't you?

CHRIS—It's passé.

RYDER—Isn't that arbitrary?

CHRIS—Yes.

RYDER—Don't you like any of my friends here?

CHRIS—I am afraid they are charming!

RYDER—Is that a crime?

CHRIS—It's an irrelevance.

RYDER—I read somewhere in the letters of Lenin that he hated music even while it beguiled him because it made life endurable.

CHRIS—The delights of the world are an affront because they make tolerable an insupportable world.

RYDER—You want to sweep away the delights—

CHRIS—[With impatience] I have no time for them.

RYDER—I want to keep them—only make them accessible to more people. You might as well destroy anaesthetics—because they make operations bearable—

CHRIS—Difference in point of view. [A moment.]

RYDER—Chris—

CHRIS—Well?

RYDER—[Turns to him] There is something I should like to ask you. There is something I should very much like to find out.

CHRIS—Well?

RYDER—When I first met you in Santa Fe you seemed interested in what I was doing—you seemed keen on it, in fact.

CHRIS—I was making a living and I was killing time. Besides—

RYDER—Besides?

CHRIS—You were, I confess, a private error of mine.

RYDER—[Sits on sofa] Was I really? How?

CHRIS—I hoped to make you one of us. That was stupid of me.

RYDER—I see—

CHRIS—I should have seen from the first that you'd never break away from your class.

RYDER—[Drily] My friends think I've done pretty well!

CHRIS—[Contemptuously] They would!

RYDER—All this time then—while I thought you were my friend—and collaborator—you were merely studying me—observing me—scientifically—clinically—

CHRIS—From our point of view you and your kind are worse than Tories—

RYDER—I know. Ameliorative. We delay the coveted debacle!

CHRIS—[Assenting completely] You delay it!

RYDER—May I ask a bit more?

CHRIS—Why not?

RYDER—You've been staying here for several months. You've been living with my friends—it's extraordinary, by the way, how warm suddenly I feel about these ineffectual blundering nonentities—

CHRIS—Not extraordinary at all. Perfectly natural!

RYDER—Laddy, for instance—you make me feel suddenly that there is something marvelously worth preserving in Laddy. Against you and your kind I would preserve not his indolence but his chivalry—not his indifference but his generosity—

CHRIS—There is a code among parasites as there is honor among thieves!

RYDER—[His voice rising uncontrollably] I would defend it with my blood!

CHRIS—You will have to defend it with your blood. [A moment] It isn't that I resent your friends. It's that, for me, they are outsiders. They are as foreign to me as if they lived on Mars. Their thoughts and the way they spend their time—everything about them—I don't resent them. We note them. That's all. I am glad to have met them.

RYDER—Are you going away then?

CHRIS—Yes.

RYDER—Where to?

CHRIS—I don't know.

RYDER—Are you leaving the country?

CHRIS—I may.

RYDER—Russia? Aren't you afraid of being liquidated?

CHRIS—Russia is the last place I'd go to.

RYDER—Mexico?

CHRIS—Possibly.

RYDER—Well, Chris, you'll make an admirable dictator.

CHRIS—Thank you very much!

RYDER—You'll come back to this country I suppose?

CHRIS—I don't know.

RYDER—But you could face not coming back?

CHRIS—Why not?

RYDER—You have no special love for America!

CHRIS—There's no difference between countries—between peoples. Some have greater natural resources than others, that's all.

RYDER—Yes, I know, but when you were a boy—there is no magic in your mind of a childhood scene you would like to revisit?

CHRIS—My father was an intermittently employed worker in a canning factory near Spokane. We lived in a shed among slagheaps. That sort of environment does not induce nostalgia. [A silence.]

RYDER—When are you leaving?

CHRIS—As soon as I can get away. This afternoon.

RYDER—You have completed your observations, then? [A silence.]

CHRIS—[Involuntarily] This place is not without peril even for me.

RYDER—Really! This humanizes you. You who are locked in certitude. What is this danger? What can possibly threaten this superb ideology? What?

CHRIS—This is pointless.

RYDER—What?

CHRIS—I've got to go down to the village to send some wires and make final arrangements. [Annoyed that he has revealed himself even for an instant] We probably won't meet again. Good-bye, Ryder. [He goes out. RYDER remains lost in thought—WILDA returns in high spirits.]

WILDA—Well, darlings, it's settled. I'm a virgin. Where's Chris?

RYDER—He's leaving.

WILDA—Leaving? Right away?

RYDER—Yes.

WILDA—[Suddenly devastated, runs to stairs, calling] Chris!

RYDER—No, not up there. He's gone down to the village to send some wires.

WILDA—[Turns and runs across stage to the door—in passing RYDER, she instinctively touches him to placate him for the hurt she knows she has done him] I must catch him. There's something I have to tell him. [Runs out] Chris, Chris!

RYDER—[To himself—the suspicion now a certainty] Chris?—Chris!

Curtain

SCENE II

Some hours later. WILDA is sitting in chair trying to interest herself in a magazine. The attempt fails. She puts down the magazine and wanders out for a moment through the garden doors. She returns, sits, starts to read, gets lost in thought and throws the magazine down impetuously. After a moment CHRIS comes in from door through which he made his exist in the preceding scene.

WILDA—[Rising] Where have you been?

CHRIS—To the village.

WILDA—I've been hunting all over for you.

CHRIS—Well—what's all the excitement about?

WILDA—Ryder said you were leaving right away—

CHRIS—What of it?

WILDA—What's your hurry? Can't you wait over till tomorrow?

CHRIS—Possibly.

WILDA—Please do. You see tonight's no good after all—I can't see you tonight. I've got to be with Ryder. I haven't seen him in three months, and I'm so devoted to him—I—you understand, don't you, Chris?

CHRIS—Of course I do.

WILDA—Will you come to the picture tonight?

CHRIS—I don't think I can.

WILDA—Why not?

CHRIS—I've got lots to do.

WILDA—Please come.

CHRIS—What's the point?

WILDA—It'll be nice to know you're there even if I can't talk to you.

CHRIS—You're romantic.

WILDA—You say that as if it were the most awful—yes, I am, Chris—I admit it.

CHRIS—Even if I do stay over, I'd have to leave the first thing in the morning.

WILDA—It's good-bye then.

CHRIS—I'm afraid so.

WILDA—I have a feeling though—I like to think—

CHRIS—What?

WILDA—That we'll meet again—somehow—somewhere—

CHRIS—Unlikely—

WILDA—I believe it.

CHRIS—We move in different circles.

WILDA—Will you write to me sometimes? [Trying to be flippant] Even though letter writing is a lost art, they say.

CHRIS—I doubt if it's up to me to revive it.

WILDA—Where are you going?

CHRIS—Not sure.

WILDA—What about your new book?

CHRIS—I can write anywhere. In fact I can't help writing anywhere.

WILDA—[Salutes him in farewell] Well, glad to have met you!

CHRIS—Same here. I've got to pack. [Nevertheless he doesn't go.]

WILDA—Isn't it awful—the moment I heard you were going—I felt such a sense of loss—[Laughs a bit] It isn't often you meet somebody you feel you can—one's alone really.

CHRIS—Have you just found that out?

WILDA—I express myself so badly. If I could make you see what I mean—

CHRIS—Now listen. Don't be a fool. You've got your Cinderella slipper on the first rung of the ladder. Climb. This is your medium. Stay in it.

WILDA—[Dully] I guess you're right.

CHRIS—Of course I'm right.

WILDA—I'm crazy, I guess. Just crazy.

CHRIS—The point is—we're both outsiders here. You're an outsider ambitious to get in—I'm an outsider ambitious to stay out. We could never possibly be any good to each other. Probably we'll never see each other again, at least if I can help it.

WILDA—[Change of tone, quiet and serious] Chris—

CHRIS—Well—

WILDA—[She feels encouraged suddenly that he is fighting something as well as she is] I wish you wouldn't go away.

CHRIS—I'm going.

WILDA—Chris, listen—give me a chance—give us a chance.

CHRIS—For what?

WILDA—Let me establish myself here. I can make enough money for both of us. You can sit back and write anything you like.

CHRIS—I intend to do that without your aid.

WILDA—Let my career feed yours.

CHRIS—Not the proper nourishment.

WILDA—All right—you win.

CHRIS—[Annoyed by this emotionalism] Win what, and over whom?

WILDA—I feel we belong together—and the curious thing is—I feel you feel it too.

CHRIS—Nobody belongs together. Least of all we. [A pause.]

WILDA—Well, if you're so sure—Nothing more I can say, is there?

CHRIS—No.

WILDA—[Offers her hand] Good-bye then, Chris.

CHRIS—[He takes it] Good-bye.

WILDA—Kiss me good-bye, Chris. [He does. It engulfs them] Don't go away. I love you.

CHRIS—I'm the last man on earth for you.

WILDA—Don't go away—[They are interrupted by CHARLIE HANLON. They break quickly.]

CHARLIE—[Cheerfully] Hello. [They cannot speak. They are dumb with passion. CHARLIE helps them out] Just taking my constitutional. Anybody home?

CHRIS—Just us.

WILDA—[Mechanically] Hello, Charlie.

CHARLIE—Hello, Wilda. Haven't seen you for twenty minutes! Missed you! Where's Binkie?

WILDA—Up at the Big House.

CHARLIE—Oh—is he? [He disappears. They start to embrace.]

CHRIS—Go upstairs—[She leaves him and slowly walks up the stairs. A pause. CHRIS calls] Togo.

TOGO—[Entering] Yes, sir.

CHRIS—[As he goes upstairs] If anybody drops in I'm not around. Understand?

TOGO—Yes, sir. [CHRIS goes out, following WILDA up the stairs to his study. If TOGO has any thoughts, his face does not reveal them. He tidies up the room a bit. The cheery HANLON appears again—drifting by like Mr. Pym. He peers in.]

CHARLIE—[Chirping] Hello, Togo.

TOGO—Hello, Misser Hanlon.

CHARLIE—Anybody home?

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon.

CHARLIE—Just having a little constitutional—thought I'd look in. Nobody around, eh?

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon.

CHARLIE—Oh, Togo, you wouldn't mind mixing me a little drink, would you? [He sits.]

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon. What you like?

CHARLIE—Oh, a mild highball, with just plain water. It's a hot day, Togo, and I'm getting to be an old man.

TOGO—I bring you a drink right away, Misser Hanlon. [TOGO goes out. The cherubic CHARLIE loses his gaze of bland benevolence; his movements sharpen. He becomes less like Mr. Pym and more like Lloyd George. His eye takes in a bright scarf which WILDA has dropped. He stops and thinks a moment. Then he trots swiftly to the telephone and calls. His voice over the telephone is crisp, youthful, and incisive.]

CHARLIE—[At phone] Hello—this is Mr. Hanlon, that you, Davidson? Where's Mr. Laddy? I see—I am at my nephew's cottage. Ask him to look in on me as soon as he comes in, will you? I'll wait for him. Thank you, Davidson, thank you very much.

TOGO—[Enters with highball] Here's your drink, sir.

CHARLIE—Thank you.

RYDER—[Comes in from right] Hello, Charlie.

CHARLIE—Hello, my boy.

TOGO—[To RYDER] Have a drink, Misser Gerrard?

RYDER—No, thanks, Togo.

CHARLIE—Oh, Togo. Did Mr. Christophsen leave any message at all when he'd be back?

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon.

CHARLIE—Have you seen him since lunch?

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon.

RYDER—Is Miss Doran about?

TOGO—I haven't seen her all day, sir.

CHARLIE—You haven't seen her all day?

TOGO—No, Misser Hanlon.

CHARLIE—All right, Togo. [TOGO goes out] What a race! What a race! [He looks after TOGO.]

RYDER—Togo has great charm, I think.

CHARLIE—His charm is in direct proportion to his mendacity.

RYDER—Does Togo lie?

CHARLIE—I think if he had to—he might!

RYDER—As which of us wouldn't?

CHARLIE—[Assenting] As which of us wouldn't! [They laugh. There is a moment's pause] My nephew Chris is by way of being your protégé, isn't he?

RYDER—I'm not sure I'm not his.

CHARLIE—Neither am I!

RYDER—You don't like him—that doesn't surprise me.

CHARLIE—As he is my only living blood relation, I was prepared to like him. I hadn't seen him since he was a little boy. I wanted to make up my mind whether to leave my money to him.

RYDER—You're not going to, I gather!

CHARLIE—I'd consider it more humanitarian to leave it to a fund for homeless cats.

RYDER—Well, some people are far more concerned over the plight of animals than they are over human beings. Not long ago in California I was taken by some people from the labor office for an inspection tour near Bakersfield. I saw conditions of such squalor that I did not believe possible in this country—twenty thousand families living in tents on the bare ground. A fashionable woman in our party suddenly cried out with an exclamation of pity: "Look," she cried out indignantly, "how they keep that poor dog! Why, he's starved!" I looked and there was a half-starved hound dog shambling about among the tents—the human misery that woman never even saw.

CHARLIE—[Tranquilly] I understand that perfectly.

RYDER—I thought you would.

CHARLIE—There is a story of the first Napoleon, that the only time in his life he was ever moved was when he heard a dog howling for his dead master among the countless corpses on the battlefield. That story always humanized the Little Corporal for me.

RYDER—Humanized! The bloody little egomaniac in the gray coat despised the human race!

CHARLIE—And quite right he was too, to despise a race willing to die for him in such numbers.

RYDER—Ah! But since then, my dear Charlie, the contemptible race has learned a thing or two.

CHARLIE—I don't think so. I don't think it's learned anything. There were sentimentalists then. There are sentimentalists now.

RYDER—Nevertheless, the sentimentalists have a different perspective now on these self-glorifying butchers.

CHARLIE—It is their own perspective, not the historic one. In Napoleon's day war wasn't butchery—it was a fine art and he the practitioner extraordinary. Nor do I think the point of view has changed much in the last hundred years. Look around you. As far as my poor dim eyes can see, the self-glorifying butchers on the grand scale have a bigger vogue than ever. Hard work being a humanitarian, Ryder—hard work—the material you have to work with is regrettably so poor. I sympathize with you, indeed I do. [There is a moment's pause. His own knowledge of contemporary events stymies RYDER for an instant.]

RYDER—It's easy to be cynical. That's a cinch. Detachment plus superiority plus self-indulgence. Hey, Charlie?

CHARLIE—[Ruminatively] How much more of the realist my nephew is than you, Ryder! He seizes the instant. Be careful of him, Ryder. While you theorize over your right to possess it—he takes what is yours. In every realm, my dear Ryder—in every realm. [His voice is so alive with venom that RYDER feels himself taut and apprehensive suddenly.]

RYDER—What are you hinting?

CHARLIE—[Chuckling] Really, Ryder—I'm tempted to test your admiration of my relative—by God, I am!

RYDER—What do you mean?

CHARLIE—[Enjoying himself hugely] But no, it would be too cruel. And I, myself, in a small way, am more of a humanitarian than you think. I couldn't—I really couldn't. [BINKIE and TRAUB come in.]

BINKIE—[Surprised to see CHARLIE settled there] Well, Charlie, you must have taken that nephew of yours to your bosom. You seem to have moved in with him.

CHARLIE—I just dropped in to disinherit him.

TRAUB—It's a funny thing but with all the previews I've been through, I'm nervous about this showing tonight.

BINKIE—Why? A picture doesn't have to be good. It just has to be less bad than another picture.

RYDER—That shouldn't be difficult for you, Leo.

TRAUB—Does my sensitive ear detect a nuance of superiority?

RYDER—It does.

CHARLIE—The whole countryside is agog about the picture, I hear.

BINKIE—Yes, the horsy intelligentsia will be present with spurs on.

TRAUB—What are they like?

BINKIE—They won't laugh or applaud. If they're pleased, they'll just toss their heads and neigh.

TRAUB—Tell me, Binkie, where did you get your sporting education? In Latvia or Lithuania or wherever you come from, did you ride to hounds?

BINKIE—No, our pastimes were less physical. For a while my father did raise horses. But not to keep—to sell. If you want a family tree in your stable or in your home you must take root somewhere—we were transients.

CHARLIE—And still are, eh, Binkie?

BINKIE—And still are, Charlie.

TRAUB—Ryder, have you ever heard that story of Binkie's about the military governor and the rosettes?

RYDER—No, I haven't. I'd love to hear it, Binkie. [LADDY breezes in. He is at the top of his form.]

LADDY—Hello, Charlie. Davidson just told me you wanted to see me.

CHARLIE—Yes, I do, Laddy.

LADDY—What about?

CHARLIE—I'll tell you later, Laddy.

LADDY—Say, Ryder, where's Wilda?

CHARLIE—She's upstairs.

BINKIE—[Surprised] Upstairs?

CHARLIE—She's conferring, I believe, with my nephew. [RYDER who has been standing by the open door in the garden shuts it quickly. He sees clearly now CHARLIE'S intention. He determines to do what he can to frustrate it. In this BINKIE instantly becomes his ally.]

LADDY—You know, Charlie, you're the only one around who doesn't like Chris—Dad's crazy about him. He says you take his ideas too seriously. Blood will tell, says Dad.

CHARLIE—[Drily] Almost invariably.

LADDY—Well, let's break the séance up, whatever it is. [He starts for the stairs] I'll get Wilda.

RYDER—[Intercepting him] Oh, Laddy, you just interrupted Binkie.

LADDY—Did I?

RYDER—He was going to tell us a story about his youth. I'm longing to hear it.

LADDY—Oh, which one?

RYDER—Something about a military governor.

LADDY—[Lighting up] Oh, that's my favorite story. That's the rosette story. I was trying to tell it to somebody only this afternoon, only I couldn't remember your home town, Binkie. I never can remember your home town. What is it, Binkie? Tell it to me just once more.

BINKIE—Chupolpik.

LADDY—Of course! Chupolpik. It's quaint. But do you mind if I change it to Rosedale? Somehow though calling it Rosedale wouldn't give it the same flavor.

BINKIE—Laddy, your father wanted to talk to me this afternoon. Why don't you walk up with me?

LADDY—All right.

CHARLIE—[Holding them] But you were going to tell us a story, Binkie!

BINKIE—Laddy overestimates that story.

CHARLIE—Let us be the judge of that.

RYDER—Come on, Binkie, tell it.

BINKIE—Well, once upon a time in the little Lithuanian town where I was born—

LADDY—Rosedale?

BINKIE—Rosedale. Some way, though I was young and intensely obscure, I became friends with the Military Governor—

TRAUB—Wherever you are you'll be friends with the governor—

CHARLIE—Don't interrupt, Leo.

BINKIE—One day I invited the governor to our hovel to taste some special dishes—you see my sainted mother was a superb ethnic cook. The great man came, ate his fill and was delighted. There were six of us—my mother, and my little brothers and sisters. As I saw him to the door he put his hand in the pocket of his greatcoat and took out six rosettes. "Here," he said. "Enough for the whole family. Wear them—wear them."

LADDY—[Gets up] I know the finish—it's wonderful—excuse me while I get Wilda.

RYDER—[Intercepting him] No, no, it's all right—I'll get her. [He goes upstairs.]

CHARLIE—Go on, Binkie. What were the rosettes for?

BINKIE—The governor explained. "There's been so much unrest," he said, "among the unemployed factory workers, that I've ordered a pogrom for tomorrow—do the lads good to let off a little steam. By tomorrow night the Jewish population of Chupolpik will be considerably reduced. But I am giving orders that those wearing rosettes will be immune. Not at all, my dear boy," he said. "I want you to ask me to lunch again some day."

TRAUB—Your mother must have been an awful good cook.

LADDY—Isn't it marvelous?

CHARLIE—I find it a little sad.

LADDY—I wish I could locate the governor who did me the service of sparing Binkie, and reward him personally. But Binkie says they've killed him. Too bad. Here, Binkie, a rosette for you. [He takes gardenia from his lapel and pins it on BINKIE'S. RYDER comes back] Well, Ryder, where's our girl?

RYDER—You're mistaken, Charlie, Wilda's not there.

CHARLIE—Isn't she?

RYDER—No. Chris is there and he's writing but Wilda hasn't been there. Chris hasn't seen her.

LADDY—What gave you the idea, Charlie?

CHARLIE—Togo's English confuses me.

RYDER—Laddy, you're always talking to me about showing me your picture. Why don't you run it for us all now? Do we have to wait until tonight?

LADDY—Not at all. Of course I'll run it for you now. If there's anything I love to do, it's run the picture. Gives me a sense of personal power. I press a button—orchestras play, tropical atolls bask in the sun. Wilda transforms a beachcomber into a Marshal of France. She can do that, Ryder. You'll believe it.

RYDER—Will I?

CHARLIE—Laddy's too credulous—far too credulous—isn't he, Ryder?

LADDY—No, you'll believe it too, Charlie—you'll see it happen. It happens right before your eyes.

RYDER—I'm afraid I haven't much time, so if you're going to show it to us, show it to us now.

LADDY—You're always going places, Ryder. You're always catching planes. Remaking the world is a full-time job, isn't it?

RYDER—It's more exacting than yours, Laddy—wasting your best years worrying about the chastity of impossible heroines in improbable films. How long are you going on this way, Laddy?

LADDY—Which way?

RYDER—Being the adorable playboy. How long are you going on being flippant about serious matters and criminally negligent of your responsibilities—how long?

LADDY—And when are you going to turn over a new leaf and be nice?

RYDER—Not till I'm dead.

LADDY—You touch my secret misgivings, Ryder. I'm sensitive. You make me feel low suddenly.

RYDER—Sorry, Laddy. Come on, show me your masterwork.

LADDY—I warn you, Ryder, the sight of Wilda in this will make you give up politics. [He goes out.]

RYDER—[At door] Come along, Binkie.

BINKIE—[Following up] Yes, I'd like to see the Princess too. I've thought of a change—an important change.

TRAUB—Over my dead body, you'll make a change.

BINKIE—Well, Leo, if that's the only path to perfection—I'll have to take it!

RYDER—Come on, Leo! [RYDER goes out with LEO, leaving BINKIE to take care of CHARLIE.]

BINKIE—Coming, Charlie?

CHARLIE—You don't believe that Ryder was telling the truth, do you, Binkie?

BINKIE—I have no reason to doubt his word.

CHARLIE—There, my dear Binkie, epitomized in Laddy and Ryder, you have the weakness of the poor, lost aristocracy—on the one hand inhibited by a code, on the other emasculated by charm. My brilliant nephew will be triumphant—too fanatical for charm, too ruthless for codes, but, thank God, I have no code either—save perhaps loyalty to the race of the Sears. For me they are the salt of the earth and the savor of the seasons, and with my poor strength I mean to preserve them, Binkie.

BINKIE—[Quietly] Are they threatened?

CHARLIE—On all sides.

BINKIE—Who made you the custodian of the upper classes, Charlie? Self-appointed, aren't you?

CHARLIE—I saw them go upstairs. Ryder saved her for the moment, but only for the moment. You must call her off, Binkie, or—!

BINKIE—Or what—?

CHARLIE—Or I shall have to do something about it myself—She belongs where she is—with my nephew. [He turns and goes out.]

BINKIE—[Quietly] Take care of yourself, Charlie! [BINKIE'S lips, as he looks after CHARLIE, form a familiar imprecation. He turns and regards the silent room. For once the imperturbable BINKIE has lost his poise. He is in a seething rage against WILDA for having so flagrantly disregarded all his teaching, for having so wantonly destroyed the edifice of his careful building. He picks up an innocent chair near the window, carries it downstage and plants it noisily direct center. He sits facing the stairs where presently WILDA, emerging, will have to run the gauntlet of his wrath. His foot taps impatiently.]

The curtain falls.

Index     1     2     3