The Expatriates Query and Synopsis

The Expatriates is the second full-length dramatic work I have written, and the culmination of over a year and a half's research, rough drafts, and improvisations. Though it has taken me this long to finally bring it near completion, I would like to say that there is still room for improvement, and that is why I chose to submit it to the Playwrights Workshop of Scotch n' Soda.

The script is largely based on fact, though there are of course obvious deviations and creative licenses taken with several scenes and many of the characters and their attributes. It is set in Paris during the first thirty years of the Twentieth century, in the salon of Gertrude Stein, peopled by some of the most prolific authors and artists of our times, including Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Pablo Picasso.

To me, the action of the play does not center around the artists' works, though there are many references to them, but more importantly on their private lives, and how they felt to be part of an "oppressed" group after World War I, since the social standards of America shifted greatly at that time. The play is in some ways a historical drama, but there are many underlying themes that I have tried to work into the structure of the plot. The most important and apparent, I hope, is that the piece is a thinly veiled account of the life of anyone who seems to be or is an outsider. It also deals with the struggles of creating something, whether it is fiction or poetry or visual art, and how others around you can affect artistic vision. Another theme is that of escapism; the fact that all of these people fled their homelands in search of a place of refuge for their creative outlets is one of the common traits among all the characters. Even in this place of "sanctuary," however, they were unable to avoid the kinds of problems and responsibilities they gave up after leaving America. Paris, to them, was both a place to express themselves, but also a place to hide from their own troubles and emotions. During a time when life was seemingly becoming more and more realistic and disturbing and utterly unbearable, each one created his or her own world to live in, ignoring their troubles until it was too late to pretend. In the end it is these truths about themselves that metaphorically "destroy" them. One could even consider the salon as nothing more than a masquerade ball where the dancers never seem to leave the floor, even after the strains of the last waltz are echoing into nothing.

The play deals with Stein's lesbianism, Hemingway's bullishness and adultery, Hadley's naivete, Fitzgerald's alcoholism, and Zelda's schizophrenia. It can be performed simply enough, with ten high back chairs, assorted furniture, and a massive collection of Twentieth Century art, which hangs from either a cyclorama, a fly, or is simply the back wall. The action is continuous, with an intermission between acts. The cast calls for six men of varying age, four women of varying age, a young boy, and numerous servants who act as crew in moving set pieces on our off with the actors. Running length is about two hours, give or take.

The Expatriates

A Play in Two Acts

by

Charles L. Cron

"...you do not grow up in America, you and your children and their children with the goyische names. You do not live in America. No such place exists."

• Tony Kushner

Angels in America

Cast of Characters:

Gertrude Stein Ernest Hemingway Alice B. Toklas F. Scott Fitzgerald Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald Hadley Richardson Hemingway Sherwood Anderson Leo Stein Ezra Pound Pablo Picasso John Hadley "Bumby" Hemingway Various Servants, a Photographer, and his Assistant

Setting

The action takes place in the salon of Gertrude and Leo Stein, 27 rue de Fleurus, Paris, during the first thirty years of the Twentieth Century.

Act One

There is no front curtain; the stage and its setting are visible as the audience begins to enter the theater. Placed on the stage are ten gold high back chairs, each with red velvet seats and backs. Five of the chairs are placed downstage at the proscenium running parallel to the apron. The other five are placed slightly upstage of these. Hanging upstage of the chairs is an enormous array of cubist and fauve paintings. Beyond this hangs a blank cyclorama.

The lights dim down to almost nothing, making the chairs nearly indiscernible. At the same time, the light and shadows of a paneled glass door fall on the stage near the extreme left proscenium, making it appear as if it were dawn. Bathed in the light is a stout, elderly woman, looking off left into the distance, admiring the sun rising on the new day. This is Gertrude Stein, more than seventy, clutching her hands to her breast almost in awe. As she speaks, half to the audience and half to herself as if in a trance, the lights on the chairs dim out completely.

STEIN (dreamlike and almost inaudible): In my life I have seen many people. I have sat with the most gifted and prolific men and women of my generation, as well as the next. I have made many friends, and nearly twice as many enemies, but that is of precious little concern to me. And in my life I have written more than twenty books, and encompassing a countless number of words. My life had amounted to nothing more - a word. (turning) Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the right word and the wrong word is like the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." I would tend to agree with him, on most accounts. I have read many books by men and women, and corrected the works of such men as Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I have written of my own life through the life of my companion, and I have found that when one examines one's own life, one can only realize how frivolous that existence can be. And in my life, I have found that mine was the most frivolous of them all. I made my domain Paris, in a tiny salon filled with the paintings of struggling artists, all of whom are famous now. I have had writers and admirers alike sit at my feet and listen to my every word, as if I were a goddess they were sacrificing to. In these days my callers are young GI's on leave in France; not that there is anything wrong with that, but I do miss the geniuses who once people my studio, long ago in the early days. (pause, turning left) The sun has come at last - and it will bring another day, and another crowd of eager visitors, waiting to nod and gaze at the dowager empress who it seems will never die. Me, who is really no one in particular. Just the fact that I once knew men and women who have become modernlegends is enough for tourists to come bustling by, and drop in to see this chapter of history. I have often thought of writing an autobiography of my life with the world of geniuses and almost-geniuses who have inhabited it. It has been nearly forty years since they came to visit me, and I have forgotten many of their names and thoughts and ideas and works. Yet I can still see their faces.

She stops and remains frozen. From the right side we hear a door open and close, and Gertrude's lifelong companion, Alice B. Toklas, enters, dressed in a Chinese nightgown and carrying a silver tea service.

ALICE: You are up early this morning, Gertrude.

She sets the tea things down on one of the upstage chairs, and begins to cross left.

STEIN: Nonsense, I never went to bed. It is my custom to start my work near midnight, and fall asleep as the sun begins to rise.

ALICE: As you have done so many times before.

STEIN: Yes, but standing here and remembering has made me forget to go to bed.

ALICE: No matter, lovey, I brought breakfast. There are some excellent croissants from across the Seine...

STEIN: Not this morning. I am tired, and I need my rest.

Gertrude turns back and looks off left again. Alice nods and crosses right to take the tea things off right. As she does, Gertrude speaks.

STEIN (listlessly and dream-like): The sun is already nearly over the hill.

Alice picks up the tray, and begins to exit; then she half-turns toward Gertrude on her way out.

ALICE: It sounds like a very good opening line for your autobiography.

Gertrude turns and looks toward her as Alice exits right.

STEIN: My companion, Miss Toklas, has been an extremely devoted friend and confidante over the course of my life, and it was she who first thought of writing an autobiography. I teased her about the idea, and after several days of prodding, she told me she would be incapable of writing it herself. So I wrote it for her. (motioning to herself) I have never truly had an autobiography. It shall become my crusade, as Jason's was to seek the Golden Fleece.

The lights suddenly come up on stage.

STEIN (crossing to the second chair): I must first explain the place and time. The setting is constant - Paris, France; most specifically, my apartments in Montparnasse, 27, rue de Fleurus, to be precise. The time - varying, dependent on subject, but mostly during those Roaring Twenties the people in America were so constantly abuzz about. And the characters... (acknowledging herself) Myself... my companion, Miss Toklas...

Alice comes on again from the right, now dressed in a simple dove gray dress and hat, carrying a massive needlepoint she will work on during the course of the play when the action is not focused on her. At the same time, Ernest Hemingway, a little more than twenty, and his wife, Hadley, eight years his senior, enter from the left. He is dressed in a newsman's suit of light brown, she in a dark skirt and faded blouse.

STEIN (motioning to the left): My prized pupil, Ernest Hemingway.

HEMINGWAY (motioning to Hadley): And my wife, Hadley Richardson Hemingway.

He helps her to her seat, the first in the second row near the left proscenium, then goes to his seat, the first of the front row. As he does, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald enter, dressed in traveling clothes and coats. He is a handsome, post-college type young man, his wife is a fiery and vivacious Southern belle.

STEIN (motioning to them): F. Scott Fitzgerald, patron of the Jazz Age.

FITZGERALD (motioning to Zelda): And my wife, Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald helps Zelda to her seat, the fourth in the front row. She impishly regards it and sits down poutfully with a swish of skirts. He smiles and goes to his seat, the third in the front row, and sits. At the same time, Sherwood Anderson, an astute, older gentleman enters from the right, dressed in a dark suit and carrying himself with an assured manner.

STEIN: My good friend from Ohio, Sherwood Anderson.

Anderson bows slightly to her, then goes to his chair, the fifth and closest to the right proscenium in the front row, and sits. As he does, Leo Stein, Gertrude's older brother, enters and comes down to her side. He is just as dignified as his sister, in the way he walks, speaks, and dresses.

STEIN: My brother, Leo, who shares identical tastes with myself, especially in the arts.

He sniffs and walks to his seat, the third in the second row, and sits. As he does, Ezra Pound enters, dressed in a shabby brown suit and hat. Despite his clothes, he is passionate in appearance, with a dark goatee beard and penetrating eyes.

STEIN: Ezra Pound, every inch the vie de Boheme, from head to toe.

Ezra goes to his seat, the fourth in the second row, and sits. As he does, Pablo Picasso enters, dressed in an artist's smock and carrying his easel. He is wide-eyed and humble-looking.

STEIN: And Pablo Picasso, my one and only genius discovery of art nouveau in the Twentieth Century.

He sits. Gertrude takes a step forward and with a swooping gesture acknowledges all on stage.

STEIN: These were the prominent people in my world, the world of Paris in the early Twenties.

The stage goes suddenly black, except for a tight light on Gertrude near her chair.

STEIN: But before I proceed into that world, and what happened afterward, as well as the terrible insurrection that tore us all apart, I must first explain briefly how my brother and I arrived in Paris in the early days of the Twentieth Century.

The lights come up on the stage again, which is now empty, except for Gertrude and Leo, and their two chairs. The portraits and paintings have disappeared.

STEIN: Being of an old and distinguished family, my brother and I were brought up and educated in some of the country's finest schools. Why my brother first took to painting and writing is obvious. We had both traveled about Europe, and seen a great many works of art, but we had never been serious up until that time. My brother...

Leo clears his throat and interrupts her.

LEO: I was accepted at the Academie in Paris one summer, and Gertrude and I received a convenient telegram from a distant cousin of ours who was currently looking at studios in the Artist's Quarter.

A servant enters with a telegram, which Leo takes and reads. Gertrude crosses toward him and reads over his shoulder. Another servant brings out their coats and gloves.

LEO: "Charming, elegant ground-floor apartments in rue de Fleurus in Montparnasse, Paris, France. Atelier and rooms above optional. Needs decorum though. Wire in reply."

STEIN: Sounds a bit seedy, don't you think?

LEO: Why do you say that?

STEIN: I don't know. (putting on her coat and gloves) Come along, or we'll miss the steamer.

The lights change suddenly. They cross downstage to the apron.

LEO: We went to Paris that summer, and found the rue de Fleurus quite...

STEIN (interrupting): ...seedy.

LEO (looking at her perturbed): ...appropriate.

They turn upstage, and as they do, the lights change boldly to suggest that we are now in Paris, and the rue de Fleurus. Beat, as they walk upstage hesitantly, looking around, turning about in circles. Another long beat.

STEIN (finally): I told you it sounded a bit seedy.

LEO: It's large enough for all artistic purposes.

STEIN : It's perfectly awful. (regarding the blank cyclorama) White-wash wall, and in the middle of the suburbs. No one lives in the suburbs, except poor, seedy artists and poor, seedy tourists.

LEO: I think it will do quite nicely.

STEIN  : It needs some color.

LEO (absentmindedly): Well, perhaps we'll buy a few paintings to spice it up a bit.

Gertrude looks at him resolutely, and the lights dim down again.

LEO: Shortly after our arrival in our new studio we began a modest collection of new paintings. Our chief interests were in Matisses, but since my brother and his wife owned several exceptional canvases, and Gertrude and I had two or three ordinary ones, we developed other tastes. In Cezanne we found a celebration of life and shape. Our only difficulty in buying paintings was our different choices.

During the above, paintings have slowly descended from the flies.

LEO: Vollard was our chief patron in outfitting us with the new painters, and we often went to the vernissage of the independent, where we saw Duchamp and Seurat and others we would come to collect.

STEIN: It was at Vollard's one afternoon that we found, quite accidentally, a tiny nude portrait by a young Spanish gentleman.

They cross upstage and look back and forth as if examining canvases at Vollard's shop.

STEIN (turning to Leo): This Pablo Picasso is certainly talented.

LEO: Mmmm, yes. I like the blue color scheme, but not the forms. How about the large Cezanne landscape?

STEIN (motioning left): I'm rather fond of the Picasso.

Leo looks left, as if toward the Picasso, and rolls his eyes.

LEO (to audience): Our typical problem, as usual.

STEIN: And the typical solution was to buy the two of them, and satisfy the both of us.

A servant brings on two canvases, which he hands to Leo and Gertrude.

STEIN: I wonder where we could meet this Picasso.

LEO: What on earth for?

STEIN: I think he has potential. Potential to become a new renaissance artist. (to audience) On our next visit to the shop, I inquired to Vollard as to where we could find this extraordinary talent. After much dallying, which culminated in our buying two more Cezannes, he told me where his Picasso's flat was.

She hands her canvas to Leo, who exits off left as Pablo Picasso, in his white artist's smock, enters right. He places his easel so that the audience can view the painting he is working on now, another cubist nude. At the same time, a servant brings on a small stool and places it near the left proscenium.

STEIN: His studio was extremely, and terribly, but was not entirely devoid of charm.

PICASSO (bowing): Mademoiselle Gertrude...it is a pleasure to finally have you here. Vollard has spoken so highly of you.

STEIN: Thank you, Monsieur Picasso.

PICASSO: Please, sit down.

She does.

PICASSO: Was it something in particular you wanted?

STEIN (confused): I'm not quite sure what you mean.

PICASSO: I propose a portrait.

STEIN (surprised): Of me?

PICASSO (readying his brush): Yes.

STEIN (to audience): It was as simple as that. I had come to visit my new art interest, with nothing more in mind than talk, and he had instantly asked me to pose for him. It was an odd sort of patronage, but I liked it.

He gets up, and takes her hand, posing her for the portrait. He takes a new, blank canvas, and turns the easel away from the audience.

STEIN: The sittings were innumerable, and too often unbearable due to the chill now descending on Paris for the winter.

Picasso begins to paint, studiously examining his work and absentmindedly talking.

PICASSO: Did you hear that charming little story about Henri?

STEIN (to audience): Matisse. (to Picasso) No, what?

PICASSO: It seems that Henri bought some rather expensive fruit this autumn, to paint. But he had to keep it as cold as possible while he painted it to prevent it from spoiling. So he deliberately kept his studio quite frigid, in order to finish before it was rotten.

STEIN: Sounds a trifle excessive, don't you think?

PICASSO (dabbing his brush in a rag): That is his style, Mademoiselle Gertrude. The green stripe on the nose, pour example.

Beat. He takes a step backward and stops, examing his work.

PICASSO: I am done...for today, at any rate.

Gertrude turns her head, and gets up to look at the painting. Her face registers general disgust.

STEIN: It looks nothing like me.

PICASSO: Ah, but that is the charming part, Mademoiselle Gertrude, truly. I am not painting your face as it is now. I am painting it as it will be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. It is a portrait of the future, Mademoiselle Gertrude, not a portrait of the present.

STEIN (smiling): You must come to our flat in the rue de Fleurus this Saturday evening. My brother is giving a party for his friends at the Academie. You may perhaps find a potential buyer.

PICASSO (bowing): It would be an honor.

She smiles at him again, crossing to the center of the stage as the lights go down. Picasso goes off with his easel.

STEIN: My brother, of course, did not care for the portrait, neither when it was being painted nor when it was finished.

The stage is overtaken by a brilliant flash, and glitters almost immediately. The servants come onstage carrying trays of wine. Gertrude, in her dark corduroy dress, takes a glass and drinks. Leo comes onstage with Alice. Picasso, dressed in a tidy formal jacket, enters. Underneath, we hear the bustling sounds of voices and laughter from the "invisible" people. We also hear the opening strains of Mozart's Serenade in G. As the refrain begins, Gertrude addresses the audience.

STEIN: It became our custom to hold Saturday evening parties with our friends and associates. (turning) Monsieur Picasso.

PICASSO: Mademoiselle Gertrude.

STEIN (explanatory): His first mistress, Fernande, often accompanied him. She was a beautiful creature, every bit as beautiful as a young French girl should be. Leo's friends from the Academie would often come, as would some of our elder brother's and his wife's.

LEO: Gertrude, I would like you to meet Miss Alice B. Toklas. She has only just arrived from the United States, and has been staying with a friend at the rue Notre Dame des Champs.

STEIN: The same Miss Toklas whom Michael and Sarah met in San Francisco after that terrible earthquake?

ALICE (embarrassed): The same, I admit.

STEIN (delighted): Darling, it is a pleasure.

She kisses her on both cheeks. Alice is rather taken back by her extreme informality.

STEIN: How long are you planning to stay in Paris?

ALICE: I'm not sure. Harriet, my traveling companion, thought of returning next fall, but we still haven't made up our minds.

STEIN: It is good to get away from those troubles in America. Dearest Michael tells me that you would like to go abroad, perhaps?

ALICE: Quite possibly. I have always wanted to travel abroad. I'm afraid I haven't had much chance, until the death of my grandfather. His legacy to me has paid my fare to France.

STEIN: Then you must come with my brother and me on our next trip abroad this summer.

ALICE: That would be very nice, Miss Stein, but...

STEIN: Indeed, it would be very nice...

ALICE: ...But I should like to see what my companion thinks, first.

STEIN: Of course, you must. I've decided. Leo and I would love to have you come with us this summer. Wouldn't we, Leo?

LEO (surprised): I really haven't given it any thought.

STEIN: That was the whole point.

LEO (pausing): Yes, I suppose so.

ALICE: You are most kind, Mr. Stein. And you as well, Miss Stein.

STEIN: Miss Toklas, may I present Pablo Picasso, a friend who resides in Montparanasse. He is currently working on a painting of me for my studio. (as Alice shakes Picasso's hand) Monsieur Picasso's lady friend, Miss Fernande, gives several teas during the afternoons here, and is an excellent tutor in French. Are you learning much French, now that you are in our beautiful city?

ALICE: I was hoping to catch on to some of it as Harriet and I continue to live here.

STEIN: Oh, but wouldn't it be perfect for you to take French lessons from Fernande? She's truly very talented, isn't she, Monsieur Picasso?

PICASSO: Genuinely. She is a native.

STEIN: Then that is settled, too. Tomorrow afternoon, vous allez chez Fernande Picasso pour votre premier lesson de francais.

Alice is caught up in all of this, looking from person to person confusedly. The lights dim down slightly, and a light comes up on Alice.

ALICE: Up until now, I had not met so many geniuses in my life. I have only ever known three legitimate geniuses - two of whom I met that night at the Stein studio. The first was Miss Stein, who had an air of god-like assurance about her from the moment I met her. After reading some of her earlier works, I was convinced. The second was Monsieur Picasso, whose paintings I first saw on the walls in the rue de Fleurus, and which I examined later that evening.

The lights come up again.

STEIN (looking around): There are many important people here tonight, Miss Toklas, and I shall feel obliged to take you under my wing and introduce you to them all.

ALICE: That really is most kind of you, Miss Stein, but you needn't feel...

STEIN: Tut-tut, say no more. Come, we have guests to attend to.

Gertrude links her arm with Alice's, who is quite surprised and a little shocked at her forwardness. The lights dim, and Alice addresses the audience again.

ALICE: I had never expected to find so many polite and wonderful people. It was as if suddenly I had been thrust through the looking glass into a world peopled with geniuses and their counterparts, and I was suddenly caught up in that world. I wanted to be part of that world forever.

The lights remain dimmed as Gertrude and Alice pantomime walking through the crowds of people and talking and greeting and smiling and laughing. As they do, the humming and talking of the "guests" grows exceedingly louder until everything is overtaken by darkness and sound, and then sharply cut-off. When the lights come up again, we are in Picasso's studio. Gertrude is sitting in her chair, frozen, as Picasso is painting her portrait. Hanging center stage is the huge Les Desmoiselles d'Avignon. Alice is standing directly in front of it, engrossed in it. She turns around to watch Picasso and Gertrude, then back to look at the painting. Picasso turns toward her and addresses her.

PICASSO: What do you think of it, Mademoiselle Alice? It is beautiful, is it not?

ALICE: I don't quite know what to think of it, Monsieur Picasso.

STEIN (turning toward them): I believe it is a testament to modern art.

PICASSO (extremely flattered): Really?

STEIN: Yes, I do. I think it is visually stunning. I love the bold shapes.

ALICE: I like the...colors.

PICASSO: Thank you, Mademoiselle Alice, but I was not inviting a compliment.

STEIN: Oh, yes, you were indeed inviting a compliment. All artists like it when people fawn over them, and more especially fawn over their work.

PICASSO: Surely, Mademoiselle enjoys looking at my paintings?

STEIN: Yes, I do. But I won't enjoy looking at my portrait if you don't hurry up and finish it.

PICASSO: But, Mademoiselle Gertrude, it must be perfect.

STEIN: And how many more sittings until perfection will be achieved?

PICASSO: It is hard to tell. (beat) So, Mademoiselle Alice, when do you return to America?

ALICE: Harriet and I were thinking of leaving in about a month, maybe two.

STEIN (almost child-like): This is a disturbing subject, I don't wish to hear about it.

She folds her arms across her breast.

PICASSO (looking intently at the canvas, agitated): You have stirred from your original position.

She looks back at him, then unfolds her arms. He smiles at her and continues to paint.

PICASSO: How was your French lesson at Fernande's?

ALICE: I was very enlightening.

STEIN: It's such a shame you two have quarreled and gone away from each other. It certainly put a damper on last Saturday evening's party.

PICASSO: I'm very sorry to have upset your guests.

STEIN: Think nothing of it. I considered it entertaining. Fernande asked after you.

PICASSO: Did she?

Beat.

PICASSO: So, now do you speak French like a native, Mademoiselle Alice?

ALICE (laughing): Oh, hardly. I am still learning my pronunciations, and my verbs. The talk, however, never strays from the subject of hats.

PICASSO (stopping suddenly): That will be all for this afternoon. Have you brought the papers?

STEIN: Unfortunately, no, I gave them to Fernande as we were leaving.

PICASSO: You must bring them next week, then.

STEIN: I will indeed.

Picasso goes off stage, carrying his easel. As he does, the painting flies up and out, leaving Alice and Gertrude alone, as the lights dim down.

ALICE: I believe that painting is horrific.

STEIN: It will be remembered long after we're all dead and forgotten. I believe that's the beauty of art. Its permanence.

ALICE: Why did you promise him the comic papers the next time, after you promised Fernande you would do the same?

STEIN: Because, my dear, by that time both of them will be back together again, and we won't have to worry about who to give the comic papers to.

Alice nods, and the lights come up on Leo, sitting center stage reading. Next to him is a table with various articles on it, including two umbrellas and two fans. Gertrude and Alice join him.

STEIN: Oh, let's not talk about painting anymore. I so want to get away from here. Where shall we go this summer?

LEO: London.

STEIN: Oh, God, not again. Let's go to Venice.

LEO (moaning): Venice? If you plan to go to Venice, you can find some other traveling partner. I couldn't stand to see it again.

STEIN: Oh, very well, Alice will go.

ALICE (surprised): Me?

STEIN: Yes, of course, you. We've talked about it before, my dear.

ALICE: But Harriet and I were planning to...

STEIN: Oh, nonsense, you can go back to America alone after the trip, can't you?

ALICE: Yes, but...

STEIN (taking an umbrella): Say no more...we're going.

She opens the umbrella, motions for Alice to do likewise, and the lights brighten a little. There is a sudden burst of bright music, as she and Alice cross right, and "circle" around Leo, who rises and calls after them as they go. As he speaks servants remove the table and chair.

LEO: You had better not bring anything useless back, like the last time. I still haven't found a place for the gondolier's hat.

He exits, and Gertrude and Alice come full circle downstage left, fanning themselves. They look out over the audience as if it were the Venetian countryside.

STEIN: Oh, isn't that breathtaking?

ALICE: Yes, it is.

STEIN: I could walk barefoot from here to Assissi, and not care at all how rough the road was. Just to watch the landscape go from here to the horizon, and beyond. (inhaling deeply, invigorated) Let's go walking now, shall we?

ALICE: Certainly, but I'm not taking my shoes off.

STEIN (laughing heartily): Oh, Alice! (crossing the stage leisurely) My first trip to Venice was shortly after my brother and I were in enrolled in Johns Hopkins.

ALICE: Was it interesting? I mean, with all that medical training and background?

STEIN: No, it was stifling, and really rather dull.

ALICE: Really? And why did you leave? Surely not because it was dull. Why did you go to Italy?

STEIN: Liberation. He and I were tired of living in that world of stiff-necked shirts and mechanical thinking. Medical school is an appalling place for a creative person to be imprisoned in. We felt that we needed to escape. Liberate ourselves. It was shortly after our trip to Venice that we left the medical profession. Then we went to London. There I discovered I had a flair for writing, more so than at Radcliffe of Johns Hopkins, and Leo discovered his flair for painting. Of course our interests then became chiefly both.

ALICE: You've really been to all those places?

STEIN: Yes, we have. We've never really settled down.

ALICE: And Leo will not marry, and settle down?

STEIN: Oh, no. He's been courting this woman, Nina, and he says that he loves her, but I don't believe him. I highly doubt that he's ever truly felt a love for anyone before.

ALICE: For no one? Not even your parents? Or you?

STEIN: Well, perhaps he adores our older brother Michael, but no, he's never been in love. As for loving me, I couldn't say. I never have, either, been in love, that is.

ALICE: Oh?

STEIN: No...I have never truly felt a liking or a loving for anyone on this planet. Anyone excluding myself...and Italy, of course.

ALICE: That does seem odd, doesn't it?

STEIN: Well, to a supreme narcissist it is a way of life.

ALICE (laughing): And that is how you picture yourself? As a supreme narcissist?

STEIN: To a certain extent, yes. I have never truly loved anyone else. Perhaps that is why I "settled" into writing. They say to write best, you should write what you know. I have never known anything other than myself. That is why many of my pieces are autobiographical. And many more are biographical. I have written portraits of Picasso, and Leo, and people I have met. But my strongest points are the autobiographies.

ALICE: Do you ever think that when you write your own autobiography, it will be very famous?

STEIN: Quite possibly. So long as I never fall out of love with myself.

Alice laughs.

STEIN: Let's stop in the piazza and feed the pigeons.

She stops and folds her umbrella, exiting off right. Alice folds her umbrella and addresses the audience.

ALICE: "Dearest Harriet - Our trip to Venice was wonderful. Gertrude and I strolled constantly up and down the city streets and talked and talked. We stopped and ate at little restaurants tucked away from society, and I must confess I feel their is something very remarkable and peculiar about my companion, the writer. I can't quite put my finger on it yet. Oh, well, it will pass, surely. I'm sorry you had to return to the States alone. I'm not sure when I'll be home. but when I am, I'll be sure to be in touch as soon as I can. Must close now; I'm attending another one of Gertrude's salon parties tonight. Goodbye for now. - Love, Alice B."

Simultaneously with her name, the lights come up on the salon. Light music and voices in the background again. Gertrude enters and greets her.

STEIN: My dear...(kissing both of Alice's cheeks)...It is wonderful to see you again. Has your friend left for America yet?

ALICE: Yes, while we were away.

STEIN: How sad. I'm sure you wanted to see her off yourself, or perhaps even go with her.

ALICE: Yes, I'd hoped to. She seemed quite upset when we left.

STEIN: But you'll surely make it up to her, then, won't you, my dear? (Beat) Listen, I've has the most insatiable urge for American food, good American cooking. I don't know what it is all of a sudden. Anyway, why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon and cook me something palatable from the States, I've so longed for some I'm wasting away.

ALICE: Very well, if you'd like.

The lights dim down and the voices and music cease.

ALICE: When I arrived the next afternoon, there was no one to be found. The maid let me in, and I could find no sign of my host. Leo had gone away for the afternoon, and I found myself quite marooned.

Gertrude rushes on from stage right.

STEIN: Alice...Alice!

ALICE: Yes, what is it? What is wrong?

STEIN: You must come quickly!

ALICE: Why, what has happened?

STEIN: Come!

Gertrude grabs her hand and quickly pulls her across the stage. The lights slowly come up on two chairs, facing each other, placed on the stage right apron. On one is a pile of papers.

STEIN (smiling): Read.

Alice looks down at the papers, then up at Gertrude.

ALICE: This was the emergency? This is what was so exciting?

STEIN: Yes.

ALICE: My meal is getting cold, and you know how I hate eating cold meals.

STEIN (adamant, but not forceful): Read.

Alice looks down at the papers, sighs, and sits and reads. Gertrude sits also. Alice is dazzled by what she holds in her hands. She speaks with awe and happiness as she addresses the audience.

ALICE: It was amazing...It was a portrait...of me. My name was changed, of course, to Ada...and it was beautiful. It was so touching, so hauntingly evocative of my past life, that at that moment, I knew I had been imprisoned, and that by reading this manuscript I would be free. Liberated, as Gertrude said when we were walking down the piazzas in Venice. I nearly wept. I was so overcome with joy.

Alice looks up at Gertrude, who leans forward and tenderly places her hand against Alice's cheek. Beat.

STEIN (quietly): This is for you...Alice...

ALICE: This was her declaration of love...this portrait...

STEIN: I have fallen for you, Alice...I have fallen out of love with myself for you...

ALICE: This was her handwriting...

STEIN: I have found what I want in life...and that is for us to be together, forever and ever...

ALICE: This was her signature...

STEIN: I want you to come and live with my brother and me. I want the two people whom I know I love to be close to me. Will you have me?

Alice has been totally taken aback by this sudden burst of feeling. She slowly nods her head as the lights fade out. When the lights come back up, Alice is standing center stage. The chairs to the right are gone. Upstage, and with their backs to the audience, are Gertrude and Leo, with their arms distinctly folded across their chests.

ALICE (quietly): Thus began my thirty years as the wife of a genius. The marriage would have been handled more discreetly at that time, had it not been for our strange openness. My first duty as secretary was to finish typing the documents and proofs of Gertrude's Making of Americans, her everlasting chronicle of her family, which had oddly turned into an everlasting chronicle of everyone's family. As I sat one day in the atelier typing I distinctly heard my destiny being quarreled over by Gertrude and her brother.

Gertrude and Leo turn and march downstage toward each other as if going to war. Alice crosses downstage between them, facing the cyclorama.

LEO: Why didn't you come and talk to me before you went ahead and asked her?

STEIN: What for?

LEO (outraged): What for?! May I remind you that you are not the only living, breathing person in this household! We could have discussed this rationally first.

STEIN: What was their to discuss?

LEO: Do you think we can afford to have another mouth to feed?

STEIN: Certainly we can afford. We've been affording many more mouths every Saturday evening for nearly a year now, if you don't recall.

LEO: I wasn't referring to once every so often, but constantly.

STEIN: You make it sound as if Paris were the most expensive place in the world to live.

Leo stops, defeated, and pauses. He is groping for a more pertinent excuse.

LEO: I'm not opposed to it financially...

STEIN: Then why all the fuss? It seems to me like you can't find an excuse to object to it.

LEO (pause, stuttering): It's the principle of the thing.

STEIN: What "thing?"

LEO: You know damned well what thing I mean!

STEIN (looking surprisedly at him): What, Alice's coming to live here?

LEO: Exactly.

STEIN: Why should anyone care one way or the other what I do or think?

LEO: Because...don't you have any pride?

STEIN: Pride? I don't see where pride has anything to do with it.

Leo turns away from her, covering his face with his hands.

LEO: You could have at least come to me to consult this sudden addition to the staff.

STEIN: Nonsense. Alice is no "addition to the staff."

LEO: Then what is she then?

Beat.

STEIN: She is my everything. She is the light that awakens me in the morning, the face I see opposite my own at breakfast, the woman I walk with during the afternoons, the lady who corrects my handiwork. Alice is more to me than another addition of hired help. She is much more than I can say.

LEO (beat): And you don't care whether or not you'll be the talk of every cafe in Paris before the season is over?

STEIN: They've talked of me before, why should I care about what they say now?

LEO: Yes, they've talked of you before, but not in this vein.

STEIN (coolly): Have you ever truly known what it is like to love someone?

LEO (resolved): Yes.

STEIN: Then put yourself in my place.

Alice now comes downstage to join them as Leo looks at Gertrude in contemplation.

ALICE: Dinner will be served at any moment now.

She stops a moment, looking at Leo, whose stare is transfixed on Gertrude. Gertrude looks from Leo to Alice and back again.

ALICE: Excuse me.

She passes between the two of them, and exits quickly off right. Beat before Leo speaks again.

LEO: I've decided to leave here.

STEIN (level-headed): Leave? But where will you go?

LEO: Nina and I are to be married. We are going to live in Italy.

STEIN (pause): I wish you my deepest congratulations.

She leans forward to kiss him, but he takes a step back, then exits quickly off left. Gertrude looks after him as he goes, then turns resolutely to the audience.

STEIN: I sometimes blame myself for bringing Alice here. Leo always thought that her presence drove a wedge between him and me, and indeed the rest of the world. As much as I think of it now, I can see he was right. My acceptance of Alice isolated me from mankind. In any event, our years of happiness together would not have been had he not left. And with him, nearly half the collection of paintings.

The lights come up to reveal the better part of the collection gone. Hanging prominently, however, is Picasso's finished portrait of Gertrude. A solitary light comes up on it as the lights fade slowly, and a single light comes up on Gertrude.

STEIN: My first truly noteworthy guest in the salon, excluding Picasso, was Sherwood Anderson.

Sherwood Anderson comes on from right, carrying a letter. Two servants bring on two chairs and place them center stage as Stein speaks.

STEIN: He had written me an extremely flattering letter of introduction from his home in Ohio. I felt myself in Picasso's position, finally attaining a loyal subject.

ANDERSON (to audience): I had read many of her earlier works and found them amazingly structured and at first hard to comprehend.

STEIN: Sherwood was the first to look for context in my work, rather than dismiss it as a total, nonsensical rubbish.

ANDERSON (bowing to her): May I say how privileged I feel to finally meet you in person.

STEIN: It is I who should be thanking you. You are my first disciple, and I'm not quite used to being a patron.

ANDERSON: Nonsense. You have the manners of a saint.

STEIN: Thank you, dear Mr. Anderson. May I get you something to drink?

ANDERSON: Thank you, no, Miss Stein.

STEIN: Very well.

They sit facing each other.

STEIN: I feel awkward in your telling me that you are familiar with my work, but I am afraid I cannot return the complement by saying that I am familiar with your work.

ANDERSON: No matter. My pieces are not as well known as yours.

STEIN: Oh, if they were well known, you would surely not be the first to come and visit me. Still, you have had experience in writing?

ANDERSON: Yes, to a certain degree.

STEIN (smiling, turning to audience): The conversation was full of lovely innuendoes about how wonderful my work was. I felt like telling him that he was masterful at flattering people. Our talk lasted for hours, until finally my disciple was departing. But not before informing me of better things to come.

ANDERSON (rising): I have found the most promising young writer in my travels in the States.

STEIN: Really?

ANDERSON: Yes, he has become a European correspondent for a Toronto newspaper, and will be leaving for abroad shortly. when I return, I must tell him to come.

STEIN (to audience): I was having enough trouble coping with one follower, and before I could adjust, he was sending me another! (turning back to him) Yes, of course, of course he may come. (pause) What is his name?

ANDERSON (proudly): Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway.

STEIN: Hemingway.

Anderson smiles and bows, then exits off right. Gertrude comes downstage and addresses the audience. Two servants bring on two additional chairs, which they place together stage left. The other two are placed together stage right.

STEIN: Sherwood Anderson sent his prized pupil that March. Anderson had later spoken of Ernest's straight-forwardness, but had not overdramatized it one bit. I was surprised when the bell rang one afternoon, and Alice went down to answer it, and returned to inform me that...

Alice has entered during the above, and interrupts.

ALICE: ...a Mr. and Mrs. Hemingway have come to see Miss Stein and Company.

STEIN (turning to Alice): Send Mr. and Mrs. Hemingway up straight away.

Alice departs off left. Gertrude turns in the direction of the door. Hemingway strides on briskly from the left, carrying a bundle of manuscripts under his arm.

STEIN: I was immediately intimidated by his bullish nature as soon as he entered the room. His wife, however, was rather different.

Hadley enters from the left, timidly, her head slightly bowed. She looks up at the audience calmly and collectedly with indifference.

STEIN: Hadley Hemingway, formerly Hadley Richardson, had met Ernest shortly after World War I, and they were married in 1921. I must say the two seemed an extremely amusing couple, because of their overall appearance as a pair of the two most uncomfortable people I have ever seen together.

HEMINGWAY (to audience): There are only two ways of seeing Miss Stein's lavish home in the rue de Fleurus - one may be either asked to dine at her salon at one of her many parties, or one may suddenly appear on her doorstep late one Saturday afternoon and ask to be let in. The former being the more polite way, the latter being the more rough and casual, I decided, after the tales Anderson had told us, we could not wait forever for an invitation to dinner, so we came one lovely spring afternoon to see her beautiful studio of abstract and cubist art.

STEIN: I was to remain "Miss Stein" in his eyes for the next three years or so, and as far as I know he never even referred to Alice, or if he did, it was always as "Miss Stein's friend," or some other strange pronunciation of her name.

Gertrude crosses upstage to them.

STEIN: Mr. Hemingway, it is an honor to meet you at last. Sherwood has told me so much about you.

HEMINGWAY: Thank you, Miss Stein, I can only return the compliment. This is my wife, Hadley.

STEIN: How do you do?

HADLEY: How do you do, Miss Stein?

STEIN: Would either of you care for a drink? We have the most wonderful apricot and raspberry eau-de-vie. It's truly remarkable. A glass?

HEMINGWAY: By all means.

STEIN: And you, Mrs. Hemingway?

HADLEY: No, thank you, Miss Stein.

STEIN: Alice, go and fetch Mr. Hemingway a glass of apricot.

Alice disappears off right and returns with a cut glass carafe and two glasses. She pours Gertrude and Hemingway a drink, then sits down next to Hadley and commences on her needlepoint.

STEIN: Now, Mr. Hemingway, what is it that you've come for?

HEMINGWAY: Sherwood Anderson has told me to bring you a sample of my work for you to proof.

STEIN: How kind. However, Sherwood says so much that if one were to pay attention to every minute detail, one would find that he contradicts himself. He rambles on about this and that, and in passing mentions that you should bring me copies of your work, and that I know what I am talking about. He truly thinks that he knows what he is talking about, and I don't.

HEMINGWAY (somewhat muddled): The invitation is still open, I trust?

STEIN: You are here, and your glass is full, your throat wetted, so why not stay?

HEMINGWAY (relieved): Thank you.

STEIN: I love Anderson's warm, Italianesque eyes. They're really remarkable, you know. Next time you see him, make sure to take note of his eyes. His writing is lacking in all aspects, however, but he has the warm Italian eyes to do it with.

HEMINGWAY: I didn't know he was Italian.

STEIN: He's not.

They sit. He opens the bundle and gives it to her. Hemingway turns to the audience.

HEMINGWAY: She sat there for more than an hour, studying my work, hardily, sternly, never looking away to me, or to Hadley, or her friend, but only at the glass of apricot and raspberry wine which her friend filled whenever her hand went out to her side.

Gertrude holds the empty glass out, and Alice rises and refills it. Alice returns to her seat and continues with her needlepoint.

HEMINGWAY: I could not tell if she was either pleased by my work or otherwise, for she remained silent, except to inquire about the hour at discreet intervals.

STEIN: Time?

ALICE (looking up, almost methodically): Half-past four.

STEIN: Thank you.

HEMINGWAY: And during the entire time, her friend kept watch over my wife, indulging in conversation with her, but not deeply enough so that she could not hear the call of Miss Stein.

HADLEY: That's a lovely needlepoint you are working on.

ALICE (without looking up): Thank you, Madame. It has taken me more than a month to get this far.

HADLEY: Oh, my. So much time involved in such a beautiful thing. Do you work at it constantly?

ALICE: No...sometimes, but not recently.

HADLEY (beat): I must say it is certainly worth the effort.

Beat. Hadley waits for Alice to say something, but she doesn't. She looks at the floor and continues.

HADLEY: Yes, it is very pretty.

Beat. She places her hands on her lap nervously.

HADLEY: Does Miss Stein...?

ALICE: No, I am the only one who sews.

HADLEY: Oh. (pause) I shouldn't wonder, since your work is so exquisite, she must feel she needn't...yes, it is so pretty.

ALICE: Thank you, again.

HADLEY: I'm sorry, Miss Toklas, that my conversation is so bland...

Beat.

HEMINGWAY: And all that time, Hadley, being of the less bold nature, attempted to carry out a simple talk with Miss Stein's friend...

ALICE (to audience): ...who had no immediate or particular interest at that time in what Mrs. Hemingway had to say...

HADLEY: ...since it was her customary duty to preside over the wives of writers...

HEMINGWAY: ...and make them feel welcome and at home...

HADLEY: ...something Miss Stein's friend had completely neglected to do.

HEMINGWAY: Finally, after nearly two hours of waiting, Miss Stein spoke.

STEIN (looking out over the audience): They're very good.

HEMINGWAY: Thank you...

STEIN: Except this one.

She presents him with nearly half the bundle. Hemingway takes it from her and looks at it, astonished.

HEMINGWAY: This one? "Up With Michigan?"

STEIN: Yes, it's inacchrochable.

HEMINGWAY: I'm sorry?

STEIN: It's inaccrochable.

HEMINGWAY: With all due respect, I have never heard of the word "inaccrochable."

STEIN: Well, now you have. It's as if a painter paints a picture, and does not know how to hang it, and no one will buy it, for they do not know how to hang it either.

HEMINGWAY: But this is not a picture, it is a serious short story.

STEIN (rising, losing patience): Hemingway, if you ever want to succeed as a writer, or get somewhere in this world, you must study not only the good but the bad. And you must learn to never write anything that is inaccrochable.

HEMINGWAY: And how do you know whether or not your work is, as you say, inaccrochable?

STEIN: You will know when.

HEMINGWAY (pause): I see.

STEIN: Hemingway, are you serious about writing?

HEMINGWAY (pause, then definitely): Yes.

STEIN: Then that means you are willing to give up your job as correspondent to this Toronto newspaper?

HEMINGWAY (pause): I suppose so. I haven't given it much thought, really...

STEIN: The only way to know the world is to write. You must let this job go.

HEMINGWAY (challenging her): And how am I to earn any money, without this job?

STEIN: By writing. You must write constantly, and you must write well. You must be prepared to suffer, as any artist will tell you, in particular one friend of mine, Picasso. And you must continue to write, but not inaccrochably.

HEMINGWAY (grunting): Unh-huh.

STEIN: Do you have any money, apart from this job?

HEMINGWAY: Yes, I think so. Hadley and I have established a trust since our marriage...

STEIN: Then in the meantime you must use this money to live on. You can buy either clothes or paintings, and given the choice between the two, you should choose paintings. You may save up the money, and you must publish something for something. This will give you a start, and should help you on your way.

HEMINGWAY: And what am I to do now?

STEIN: Oh, come now, Hemingway. Relax. Forget about writing for a moment. Tell me about yourself, and about your wife.

The attention now shifts to Alice and Hadley, who have remained silent up until this time. Alice seems to be consumed in her needlepoint, and Hadley looks about nervously, attempting to adjust to her new surroundings. She glances from time to time at the portraits. Alice looks up and smiles at her; Hadley smiles sheepishly back at her, and focuses on her lap again. Suddenly Alice breaks the silence.

ALICE: So...how long have you and Mr. Hemingway been acquainted?

HADLEY (very shy): Nearly two years.

ALICE: Oh? And where did you meet?

There is a pause, as Hadley looks down at her lap shyly. She is very timid and mousy, as usual, but as the story progresses she seems to blossom and almost be comfortable by relating her story. Hemingway is as always assured, but with a more tender attitude toward his side of the story.

HADLEY: It seems so long ago.

HEMINGWAY (to Gertrude): I had returned to America after my tour in Italy.

HADLEY (to Alice): First, my mother passed away, and I didn't know what to do with myself.

HEMINGWAY (to Gertrude): I was invited to come visit some old war chums of mine in Chicago; Don Wright, Bobby Rouse, and another close one called Y.K.

HADLEY (to Alice): I went to stay with a girl-friend of mine, Katy Smith, who was living with a boy named Kenley and his friend Doodles.

ALICE (to Haldey): Such strange names.

HEMINGWAY (to Gertrude): We all liked slang terms. It was our own special way of communication.

HADLEY: At first I couldn't understand him, with all his words like "seeds," or "eatage," or his names like "Ernie," "Hemingstein," and "Oinboines."

HEMINGWAY: I think she was extremely frightened of the way we were. Especially the talk. Always the talk. So I included by calling her something else.

HADLEY: I could never really feel at ease when I was in his company, at (smiling, slight intake of breath) He gave me a pet name...

BOTH: Hash...

HEMINGWAY: It reminded me of her beautiful auburn hair. In return, she called me...

HADLEY: So I nicknamed him...

BOTH: Tatie...

HADLEY: He was always so athletic, so loud and boisterous.

HEMINGWAY: She was timid and shy, notably when she was with me.

HADLEY: He was young and fresh and new, and I was eight years his senior.

HEMINGWAY: She kept dropping her eyes and staring at anything other than me.

HADLEY: He would always say silly or weird things that made me feel uncomfortable.

HEMINGWAY: She would smile, and nod, and say nothing more.

HADLEY: I had to leave to go to St. Louis. Part of me felt relieved to be gone from him, but another part longed to be near him again.

HEMINGWAY: And when she went away to St. Louis, I had Katy Smith give me her address so that I could write her letters.

HADLEY: And whenever I received something in the mail from him, I would always write back, as soon as possible.

HEMINGWAY: Then one fine day, the next time I saw her again, I proposed.

HADLEY: I felt so strange, and so wonderful.

HEMINGWAY: We were married a year later.

HADLEY: And now we are here.

ALICE (pausing, to make sure that she is done): Well, that seems a romantic and colorful story. Though one question remains.

Hadley looks up at Alice, the life suddenly fleeing from her. She becomes wide-eyed again, having returned to her normal state of timidity.

HADLEY: What is it?

ALICE: Your family didn't object to your marriage with someone eight years younger than yourself?

HADLEY (pausing, looking remorsefully at her lap): No. My mother had just died, and my father took his own life when I was a school girl.

ALICE (a beat): I'm so sorry.

HADLEY: No, don't be. It made me less...naive about things. The world. In general.

ALICE: And there was no one else in Mr. Hemingway's life?

This new inquiry stirs Hadley's memory, and she looks off into the distance, trying to remember, trying to dig through the years that have followed her. Both their moods become dream-like and absent, as if they were in a kind of trance controlled by their own emotions.

HADLEY (to Alice): There was one...a nurse...in Italy when he was in hospital for his wounds.

HEMINGWAY (to Gertrude): I had been in combat when a mortar shell blew near my leg. I was there for weeks, but there was only one truly lovely person to look forward to seeing.

HADLEY: Her name was...

BOTH: Agnes...

HEMINGWAY: ...and she was beyond belief.

HADLEY: When he was younger, and when he told me everything, he spoke of her.

ALICE (not prying, but sensitively): Was she beautiful?

HADLEY (tears in her eyes, barely audible): Yes...they say she was the most beautiful woman in Milan. All the men there fell in love with her...but she chose him.

HEMINGWAY: My chums competed with me, to see who would be the first to get well, and get a date with her.

HALDEY: After his leg healed, she went with him everywhere.

HEMINGWAY (looking off to the left audience): She said she loved me...and I thought she meant it.

HALDEY (looking off to the right audience): And she broke his heart.

HEMINGWAY (unconvincingly): I've forgotten all of that now.

HALDEY (complementing his mood): But that was a long time ago, and he has surely gotten over her.

Beat, leaving silence. Immense silence.

HEMINGWAY: I don't know why I fell in love with Hadley after that.

HADLEY (quietly): I can't imagine why he chose me.

ALICE: Why do you ask yourself that?

HADLEY (smiling): Oh, Miss Toklas, please. You needn't be polite with me. I'm not beautiful. I never pretended I was. After her I can't understand why he fell in love with me. I couldn't compare with her.

ALICE: Nonsense.

HADLEY: No, it's true. I feel silly being the wife of Ernest Hemingway.

Beat, as the attention shifts to Gertrude and Hemingway.

STEIN: And why did you chose Hadley?

HEMINGWAY (collectedly): She was pretty, but not beautiful. After the girl in the hospital, I vowed that I would never be hurt by a beautiful woman again.

STEIN: And do you think that Hadley would hurt you?

HEMINGWAY (shaking his head): No. I know she wouldn't do anything to harm me. I don't think she is capable of any other emotion other than...

STEIN (beat): ...Love?

HEMINGWAY: Yes...perhaps that is all. Only love...and fear.

STEIN: Fear? Of what?

HEMINGWAY: Everything. She's so fragile...like a china cup. I'm almost afraid to look at her, because she might break. Even when we make love...it's the same.

A beat, where both Hemingway and Hadley are instantly awakened and refreshed by their surroundings.

HEMINGWAY: Well...it is getting late, and I'm afraid that Hadley and I must be on our way.

STEIN: Of course.

Hemingway crosses toward Hadley as she and Alice rise.

HADLEY (curtsying): We would like to thank you for your hospitality, Miss Stein. I only hope Ernest thought well of your critique.

STEIN: I don't know whether he thought well of it, just that he thought of it. And you and your husband are quite welcome here. Whenever you feel like coming, do. We shall always be here, and if we are not at home, then you may come anyway. Our home is open to you.

HADLEY (smiling politely): And you must come to our flat in the place du Tertre and have tea with us one afternoon, someday soon, perhaps.

STEIN: Alice and I would be delighted, and honored Mrs. Hemingway.

HEMINGWAY (taking the manuscripts from Gertrude): Thank you. Good day. (as he passes by Alice, nodding) Miss Tocraz.

Hemingway and Hadley exit off right.

ALICE (frozen): Tok-las.

Gertrude looks at her and laughs heartily.

STEIN: I take it, Alice, that you do not approve of our Mr. Hemingway?

ALICE: Not in the least. He's too assured a male, like a cock among hens. I rather like his wife. She's very polite.

STEIN (looking after them off right): Yes...it's the first time in my entire life that I have ever seen an elephant married to a mouse.

The lights dime down and the two go off. Hadley and Hemingway come on from the left. They stop and quickly mime unlocking and opening the door to their flat and "enter" it. A light comes up on them.

HADLEY: I don't like that place.

HEMINGWAY: I thought it was a very fine salon.

HADLEY: I think those paintings are dreadful. All those naked women with their bodies painted in those rude positions. And I don't think Miss Stein's criticism of your stories was very fair.

Hemingway thrusts the manuscripts down, sits, and begins to write again.

HADLEY: What are you doing?

HEMINGWAY: I'm rewriting the story.

HADLEY (crossing and placing her hands on his shoulders): But why, Tatie? I think they're all beautiful the way they are.

HEMINGWAY: Nevertheless, I'm rewriting them.

HADLEY: Are you rewriting them for yourself? Or are you rewriting them only for her?

Hemingway stops, looks out over the audience, and then up at his wife, who stares placidly down at him. Long pause.

HEMINGWAY (sighing): Both.

Hadley looks at him, and, smiling faintly, bows her head slightly and goes off upstage left. Hemingway watches her go and then turns and addresses the audience.

HEMINGWAY: It was then that I swore I would become a good writer, by the standards of Miss Stein anyway. Still, the problem remained as to whether or not the story was inaccrochable.

The lights come up fully and Hemingway rises.

HEMINGWAY: On my next visit to the rue de Fleurus, nothing more was said about it, at the start. She brought out her mangled copy of The Making of Americans, which her companion had begun to retype, and gave it to me as my first lesson in literature written in the "modern" style.

Gertrude comes on, carrying a think ledger with assorted papers, a few of which fall out of the book and glide lightly onto the stage. She crosses to Hemingway and presents it to him proudly.

STEIN: It has taken me I-don't-know-how-long to create it. Alice sometimes says that it is no longer a history of my family, but that of every family.

She hands it to him and exits off right. Hemingway regards it wistfully, then turns back to the audience.

HEMINGWAY: Her book was interesting, to say the least, and horrid, to say the most. It began extremely well, and continued for a time quite angelically, until somewhere near the middle, where it became a slop of incongruities and redundancies. Her views on inaccrochability seemed to end at my writing, but never transcended to her own. If she perhaps understood my stories, like "Up With Michigan," and more carefully examined her own mess, she would possibly and probably find the meaning of her strange and silly term for poor writing.

He sits and begins to flip through it, licking a pencil and crossing things out, circling them, and making notes in the margins. Gertrude comes on, followed by Alice.

STEIN: How is it progressing?

HEMINGWAY: Slowly.

STEIN: Would you like anything t drink?

HEMINGWAY: No, thank you, though.

STEIN (watching as he writes on a page): Why do you keep scratching things out?

HEMINGWAY: Well, I've circled several passages in the latter part of the book that didn't quite seem to work.

STEIN: Not work? But that's absurd, it all works. It all works very well.

HEMINGWAY (handing her a few leafs): Here, I think you should take a look at these. Notice what I've written in the margin?

She reads them slowly, then looks back at him.

STEIN: So?

HEMINGWAY: So? (paging through) In the beginning, you contradicted yourself. It doesn't work. People will think that you've forgotten the important details. They'll think it's crap.

STEIN: Writing is taking the "crap," as you call it, and changing it until it works, and taking the good products that seem easy to pen and discarding them in the waste basket. And I don't believe that those pages are crap, so there will be no need to rewrite them.

HEMINGWAY: I thought so, too, until you did the same to my short stories.

STEIN: They're inaccrochable, and that's all I have to say about them.

Hemingway is worked up now, letting out all the air in his lungs and body forcefully, obviously hurt.

STEIN: I don't mean to be rude or haughty about it, Hemingway, but that's the truth. You must begin again with your writing, and this time you must think about what you are doing. As far as my own writing, I think the corrections will be unnecessary. Good day.

She exits the way she came in. Alice smiles at Hemingway, then follows her out. Hemingway turns to the audience.

HEMINGWAY: I had attacked her masterpiece, and this had upset her, no more so than when she attacked my own, which were not at all crap. I reworked the rest of her novel, and began to have it serialized in America, and upon the next visit to the rue de Fleurus, the argument was forgotten by both parties. Partly because I had other business on my mind.

The lights go out completely, except for a solitary glow on center stage. We hear a loud pounding on a door, followed by a pause, and then louder pounding. The lights come up a little, and Alice enters left, dressed in her Chinese dressing gown as if she were about to retire for the night. She is carrying a tiny lamp which glows faintly as she quickly crosses the stage. We hear the pounding grow louder.

ALICE (crying out, annoyed): All right, just a minute. You could at least be a bit more respectful and not call at this late hour.

She exits off right. We hear a door open, and Hemingway enters in a state of alarm. Alice quickly follows him in.

ALICE (shocked): Mr. Hemingway! What are you doing here so late?

HEMINGWAY (breathless, at a loss): Is Miss Stein awake?

ALICE: I...believe so.

She draws her robe about herself uncomfortably. As she does, we hear Gertrude from off left.

STEIN: Who is it, Alice?

ALICE (calling left): It's Mr. Hemingway. He's asking to see you.

A moment, and Gertrude enters, dressed in a large robe.

STEIN: What's the matter, Hemingway?

HEMINGWAY: I don't know where else to go...

STEIN: Why, has something happened? Something happened to Hadley?

HEMINGWAY (overlapping): I suppose I should be happy that it's happened, but I don't know how to feel...

STEIN: Hemingway, what is it?

Beat. Then the revelation.

HEMINGWAY: Hadley's pregnant.

STEIN (pause): Hemingway, that's wonderful...

HEMINGWAY (shaking his head): What am I going to do? (sinking into a chair) I have no money, and no prospects for any. She's going to have a baby in less than a year, and I don't have any money or any hope.

STEIN (pause, then resolutely to Alice): Alice, please fetch Mr. Hemingway a brandy.

ALICE: Now?

Gertrude looks at her compassionately, and Alice exits off right, returning shortly with a tiny glass which she hands to Hemingway.

HEMINGWAY: It's funny; this should be the happiest thing in my life, but I can't see what's going to become of us. I'll never be able to write anything to secure us any money, not now.

STEIN: Nonsense, everything will be fine. You're just nervous, that's all. You'll adjust to becoming a father quickly.

HEMINGWAY (sudden realization): We'll go back to America. We'll go back to Oak Parks and live with my parents until the baby is born, and then, if we have enough money, we'll come back to Paris.

STEIN: Really, Hemingway, you don't have to decide now...

HEMINGWAY (quickly rising and downing the brandy): I must go. Thank you for your help, Miss Stein. Miss Tocraz.

He hands Alice the glass and dashes offstage right. Alice and Gertrude are left alone looking after him.

ALICE: I do wish he would get my name right, for a change.

STEIN: I honestly don't think his situation is as extreme as he said.

ALICE: Are we going to begin receiving callers in the middle of the night, now?

Gertrude smiles, and takes off her robe. Alice takes it from her and carries it offstage left as the lights come back up.

STEIN: That fall Hadley gave birth to John Hadley Nicanor Hemingway, and that winter the Hemingways returned to Paris with their son. Alice and I were asked to become godmothers of little "Bumby," as his father nicknamed him, and Hem seemed extremely proud of his baby boy.

The servants come out and move the chairs upstage into two diagonal lines, running against the proscenium. Hemingway and Hadley enter and both move upstage and sit next to each other. Gertrude comes all the way downstage.

STEIN: The next spring brought two unexpected visitors.

Alice enters right as she speaks.

ALICE: F. Scott Fitzgerald, the American author, and his wife are here.

STEIN (turning): Show them up.

Alice exits the way she came.

STEIN: I had heard much of the Fitzgeralds through Sherwood Anderson, who seemed very impressed by Scott's first novel, This Side of Paradise, and frankly so was I. The popularity of the book sky-rocketed the man into the public eye virtually overnight. In this case, however, I was more intimidated by the wife than the writer.

Alice enters again, followed by F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. She leads them downstage to opposite of Stein.

ALICE: Mr. and Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald, may I present Miss Gertrude Stein.

FITZGERALD (shaking her hand): Delighted.

STEIN (smiling, motioning to Hemingway): I believe you know Ernest.

FITZGERALD (crossing, shaking his hand): Yes, we met in a restaurant in New York some time ago.

HEMINGWAY (motioning to Hadley): You never met Hadley, did you?

FITZGERALD (kissing her hand): Enchanting, simply enchanting.

Hadley smiles and blushes. Zelda cocks her head jealously.

STEIN: Ernest has told me much about your success in America.

FITZGERALD: Has he? (turning) Well, I'll have to see if the reports are flattering or otherwise.

Hemingway looks up and registers a loud "Hmmph!" and goes back to writing.

FITZGERALD (crossing back down, with great pride): This is my wife, Zelda.

STEIN: It is a pleasure, madam.

She outstretches her hand to Zelda, who stares blankly back at her, not motioning. Beat. Gertrude clears her throat and withdraws her hand.

STEIN: Would you care for a drink?

FITZGERALD: Love one.

STEIN: Certainly. (to Zelda) And you, Mrs. Fitzgerald?

Zelda does not reply, continuing to stare at her as if in a trance. Scott is a little embarrassed, and clears his throat.

FITZGERALD: She'll have a glass of champagne.

Alice takes their coats and exits off right. She quickly returns with a tray and their drinks.

STEIN: And this is my companion, Miss Alice B. Toklas.

Fitzgerald shakes her hand.

FITZGERALD: Nice to meet you.

Alice smiles at his innate charm. Suddenly, Zelda breaks her silence, taking a step forward as they shake hands.

ZELDA: What does the "B" stand for?

Everyone seems a little surprised at the question. Alice looks at her, embarrassed.

ALICE: Babette, Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Zelda immediately returns to her trance. Beat.

STEIN: So, Ernest tells me you have recently become a father.

FITZGERALD (beaming): Well, not so recently.

STEIN: A daughter?

FITZGERALD: Yes, named Scottie.

Gertrude smiles, and Zelda "reawakens" from her trance once again.

ZELDA (somewhat defiantly): Her real name is Patricia. Patricia Scott Fitzgerald.

FITZGERALD: Well, I like like to call her Scottie.

ZELDA (changing tones): So do I. It's so much easier to remember one name for two people, wouldn't you agree?

Beat. Gertrude doesn't quite know what to say, and neither does anyone else in Zelda's presence. This must be a dominant theme in her character throughout the play. Whatever Zelda says is usually totally, patently nonsensal, and whomever she says it to is most likely astounded and quite often at a complete loss for words.

FITZGERALD: Yes, well, Scottie is a little more than four now, and we've decided to come over to France while we had the opportunity. Get away from this whole patriotic thing going on in the States. Damned increasingly annoying. Europe's the place to be. Times aren't hard enough though, mind you. The Twenties are still a "roaring" decade, but it's all gone a bit too far...

ZELDA: On the contrary, one can never go too far...

FITZGERALD: My guess is that we'll all either drink ourselves to death, or we'll all dry out.

ZELDA (almost proudly): And we'll undoubtedly achieve the former before the latter.

Slight pause, covered up by Gertrude.

STEIN: And you are doing very well?

FITZGERALD (unconvincingly): Yes, well, I've been wanting to continue work on my new novel, and ever since Œ23 I haven't had the chance, since I've been writing articles and short stories. Selling fairly well.

Beat, then Gertrude turns to the audience.

STEIN: I knew by his tone of voice that they had come to France to escape the financial toils of America. He had written a play and invested his entire life-savings in it, hoping that it would be a success. This would clear him of his outstanding debts, but the play was a complete flop. Five thousand dollars poorer, they had wandered into my salon for sanctuary, even though both of them were too proud to say so. Maybe Zelda would've said it, I have no doubt she was thinking it.

Gertrude turns back to Scott and Zelda.

ZELDA: We will be doing wonderfully. When Scott finishes the novel, it'll be an instant success. He'll be famous, just as he was when he published his first book, and when I first met and married him. He'll be so brilliant. Everyone says so. "The Brilliant F. Scott Fitzgerald, Patron of the Jazz Age, a contemporary genius." College students and flappers alike will look up to him as their idol, a man of the times, their hero, their deity. All for the written word. And we'll be so famous, and so wealthy, and so wonderful.

STEIN: I don't know what else to say but charming, simply charming.

ZELDA: Of course. All the newspapers say so. "The Charming Fitzgeralds." Everyone says so. H. L. Mencken in New York said, "A very amiable pair, innocent and charming." And Carl Van Vechten once called us charming, too. "Charming." It's the most splendid word in the universe, though Scott says "gorgeous" is the most splendid word in the universe. But then, what would Scott know about words?

She laughs gaily, despite herself.

STEIN: A great deal, from what I gather. Two books - one about your college days, another about life in the Roaring twenties. Collections, short stories, major works...

HEMINGWAY (proudly): And another, due out this month.

STEIN (as Fitzgerald blushes): Really? Title?

FITZGERALD (proudly): That was sort of a problem, in the beginning. But Zelda, as she so often does, came through with The Great Gatsby, and since I trust her so much, I wired Scribner with the new title. I'm sure it will suffice.

STEIN: So am I. And what of your prospects?

FITZGERALD: If all goes well, I hope seventy-five thousand copies in the first year.

STEIN: Goodness, that is quite a sizable printing for a first edition. (Scott nods) You have taken up residence in Paris, at least for a while?

FITZGERALD: Yes, 14, the rue de Tillsit. Not very large, but then, beggars can't be choosers.

STEIN: Surely you're having no difficulty, with seventy-five thousand.

FITZGERALD: If it doesn't go through, we'll probably pack up and move out to Hollywood to learn the movie business.

ZELDA: There is a great deal of wealth for charming people in Hollywood. We'll be the toast of the coast. Character and wealth go so well together. And after all, we have both.

Hemingway is visually discomforted by this sudden prophetic statement.

STEIN: Yes, well, character or otherwise, I shall leave the four of you alone to become more acquainted. Please, Mr. Fitzgerald, feel free to look around at the paintings, and if you need anything, just ring the bell, and we shall be at your service.

FITZGERALD: Thank you, Miss Stein.

STEIN: It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Zelda smiles faintly and falsely, regarding Hemingway with a strange stare, almost scorning him.

HEMINGWAY (without taking his eyes off Zelda): Scott, may I speak with you a moment?

FITZGERALD: Of course.

They cross downstage to the apron. Zelda looks after them, and then goes upstage to sit next to Hadley. She watches intently. Hadley turns and smiles at her. Zelda's head slowly pivots to look at Hadley, and Zelda moves a few inches back. Hadley looks out front, to Ernest, Scott, and then Zelda again, then back to her lap in timidity.

HEMINGWAY (quietly): Scott is it just me, or is your wife insane?

Beat.

FITZGERALD: Insane? Zelda? Come now , Ernest, surely you don't mean that.

HEMINGWAY: I do! I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. There is something there, something that I can't quite put my finger on.

FITZGERALD: She may be a bit flighty, or even a little cruel at times, but she's not crazy.

HEMINGWAY: Has she always acted like this?

FITZGERALD: Yes! I heard stories before I married her, but I never actually believed them. When she was a belle in Montgomery, they say she would pull the most mean and silly pranks imaginable. She's a kindred spirit. She adores to flirt.

HEMINGWAY: What I saw just now was not flirting. All that talk about money.

FITZGERALD: That's just her nature, Hem. She can be so child-like when it comes to money. She doesn't want anyone to think that we're having difficulty.

HEMINGWAY: Are you?

FITZGERALD (shaking his head): No. There's really nothing to it, honestly. I'll speak about it to Zelda.

HEMINGWAY: No, there's no need for that. All the same, there's just something generally wrong. I don't know how to say it.

They cross up left center and pour drinks. They sit and converse quietly. The action now shifts to Zelda and Hadley. Zelda remains in the same position, examining Hadley. Beat. It's very uncomfortable. Two people in the same room who don't enjoy each other's company.

HADLEY: Mrs. Fitzgerald, may I say what a joy it is to finally meet you.

Zelda doesn't respond; she simply stares at her.

HADLEY: Mrs. Fitzgerald? (nothing) Well, I'm sure that little Scottie would like to meet our Bumby. (beat) Our son.

Nothing again. Hadley's discomfort is growing.

HADLEY: I bet she'd like to have a little playmate. The fact that she's a little older than Bumby isn't relative, I mean...

Zelda remains still. Hadley is beginning to get nervous, losing her composure over Zelda's fixed stare. She begins stumbling over her words. Her frailty has been a problem she can not deal with all of her life, and Zelda, with her woman's intuition and her tremendous ability to size up a person, knows it.

HADLEY: Yes, well...

Beat. Zelda speaks for the first time, without removing her eyes from Hadley, who is wide-eyed, relieved, and terrified; relieved that Zelda has at last broken her silence, and terrified at what she might say.

ZELDA: Whenever Ernest asks you to do something, I bet you do it almost immediately.

HADLEY (embarrassed): I...beg your pardon?

ZELDA: I imagine you say, "Yes, dear," and carry out his every command.

HADLEY: Well, yes. Isn't that the role a wife should play in a marriage?

ZELDA: A clutching, dependent, frail little nothing? Hah! Haven't you ever wanted to be your own woman?

HADLEY: I...

ZELDA: Haven't you ever stood up to him, after a fight, when you know that he's wrong and that you're right?

HADLEY: Mrs. Fitzgerald!

Hadley rises and exits up left. Zelda secretly smiles after her. She looks out front and defiantly cocks her head. We hear a faint rustling sound, and the lights dim down to nothing, excepts for one solitary light behind Zelda. The rustling sound increases, beginning to sound more like wings flapping about energetically. Zelda puts a hand to her head, and leans down. She shudders and convulses for a second and stops. Suddenly the sound is abruptly cut off, and she looks up around her. Then from out of the darkness, we hear a thin voice, almost whisper-like call to her.

VOICE: Zelda...Zelda...

Zelda looks about her confusedly. The light color shifts. She lets out a shriek, and jerks around, looking for the source of the voice, but to no avail.

VOICE (tauntingly): Zelda...Zelda...

ZELDA (inaudibly): What?

The lights change colors again, more rapidly now, as the voices increase in number, calling to her, teasingly, more and more, until finally the echoes reverberate back and forth in pandemonium. Meanwhile, Zelda clutches her head and crouches down as low as she can in escape. Then silence. The lights come back up to normal again. She looks up and around her, then resumes her position. Scott and Ernest cross downstage, talking confidentially.

FITZGERALD: I don't know what to make of it. She's very restless. She is never truly happy with anyone, even me. I guess that was reason enough for the affair.

HEMINGWAY (pause): Affair?

We hear a sudden loud flutter again. Only Zelda hears it, for it is only in Zelda's mind. She perks up, looking in the direction of Hemingway and Scott.

FITZGERALD: Well, it wasn't an affair by typical standards, but she did get extremely comfortable with a young French naval officer, a playboy type. I told her I knew about it one night after we left dinner...

The fluttering becomes sharper with each new line Scott has. We hear Scott and Zelda's voices echoing as Scott tells the story and Zelda imagines it in her head. The effect is confusing and overlapping works well.

FITZGERALD'S VOICE (angry): How could you?!

ZELDA'S VOICE: You never loved me!

We hear shattering glass which echoes and crescendos.

FITZGERALD: ....she locked me out of her room.

We hear the door creak and slam, then Scott pounding on it.

FITZGERALD'S VOICE: Zelda...? Zelda, let me in.

ZELDA'S VOICE: Get away from me! Leave me alone!

We hear shuffling and glass breaking as Fitzgerald continues to knock on the door. Then running water.

FITZGERALD: ...then she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, I could hear her ranting and jingling through the medicine cabinets

We hear the fluttering sounds cease and the magnified sound of pills falling to floor, as if they were huge marbles. This echoes out into silence until Fitzgerald speaks again.

FITZGERALD: ... and I ran and got the doctor just in time.

Beat.

HEMINGWAY: Scott, there is definitely something wrong with your wife's head. How many women so you know who chase after other men, drink like there's no tomorrow, and try to escape their singular problems by overdosing on sleeping pills?

FITZGERALD: You make it sound so glamorous, as if that was the correct thing to do for society women these days.

HEMINGWAY: Dammit, Scott, it's not right and you shouldn't think it is.

FITZGERALD: Well, what am I going to do?

HEMINGWAY: Isn't there some place...for her troubles...

FITZGERALD: Oh, lovely! First you say that she's insane, and then you expect me to believe it, and now you're saying she should be committed?

HEMINGWAY: Then talk to her...

FITZGERALD: I...can't, I've tried...she never listens.

HEMINGWAY: It's not normal!

FITZGERALD: I didn't say it was!

HEMINGWAY: Does she behave like that every time she meets someone?

FITZGERALD: Yes..no, I can't remember. I need a drink.

A servant comes on and refills Scott's glass, which he downs. He pours again, as they continue talking.

FITZGERALD (resolutely): It's just that...every time we meet someone, she seems to be jealous of that person. Eventually, we fall out of contact with each other, and the friendship is over. Sometimes she tells me the most dreadful stories about what she's heard people say about me. But she always seems to find a reason why I shouldn't see this person or know that person.

HEMINGWAY: Well, I can assure you, that won't happen to us, at any cost. (pause, then in a fake politeness) I'm sorry I said that she...

FITZGERALD: No, I...it's all right. She's been nervous and worried ever since we got to Paris. (beat) She wants to have another baby. We've tried and tried for months now, but I can't...

HEMINGWAY: I understand.

FITZGERALD: She laughs and makes jokes about it, but I really think it's beginning to takes it toil on her. She needs an anchor of some sort.

HEMINGWAY: Another baby would be an "anchor?" But you already have Scottie.

FITZGERALD: I don't understand what she wants. She says she wants to get pregnant again, but she almost ignores Scottie. The nurses take care of him more often than she does. She goes off shopping or out to parties and leaves her home without so much as a by or leave. I can't see why she wants another baby.

HEMINGWAY: It will happen, soon enough..."old" friend.

They shake hands roughly. As they do, Ernest's head turns upstage to Zelda, still seated in her chair. She is wide-eyed at this sudden bonding. They clasp hands over each other shoulders and laugh. As they do, another light comes up on Zelda, and we hear a dull, booming sound, followed by the intense fluttering. The voice comes in sharply.

VOICE: Zelda...he's taking Scott away from you...Zelda...he wants him...Zelda, try to save him...Zelda...try, Zelda...Zelda...

Zelda bolts out of her seat and runs off right. Scott turns and watches her go out, then rushes after her. We hear a door slam, and Scott goes off right. The lights go down very slowly and a single light comes up on Hemingway, who crosses downstage right.

HEMINGWAY: She was always very inquisitive and intimidating, even before Scott married her. He told me stories of her and beaus swimming nude in ponds at midnight. And once, when Isadore Duncan was giving a farewell party on the Riviera, and Scott excused himself to go to her table and say goodbye, Zelda vaulted down the stairs and nearly broke her legs in the fall, probably attempting a dance more exotic than Isadore's. She once remarked to me, "Ernest, don't you think Al Jolson is greater than Jesus?" I laughed and told her no, but she didn't care what I thought either way. (beat) I had attempted to tell him that there was something wrong with her, but he would never listen. He would blame it on their daughter, or work, too much to drink last night, anything but the truth. (beat) I think, deep down inside him, he knew it was the truth.

The lights come up on Scott and Zelda, facing the audience. Scott is tying his tie, getting ready to go out. Zelda is watching him intently.

ZELDA: You didn't say you were going out tonight.

FITZGERALD: Didn't I...I thought I mentioned it to you this afternoon.

ZELDA: No. You're not taking me with you?

FITZGERALD: If you like.

ZELDA: Where are we going?

FITZGERALD: Out for a drink with Hem and Hadley. Would you like to come?

ZELDA (suddenly changing tactics): No, I have a headache.

She puts her hand to her head and closes her eyes. She wants him to do or say something to her, but he does not, continuing to get ready. She waits for him, then opens her eyes and looks at him.

ZELDA: Could I get an aspirin?

FITZGERALD: Of course.

ZELDA: Could you get me one. They're right there next to you...

The doorbell rings. Zelda whirls around and shrieks, covering her mouth afterward. Scott bolts around and looks at her, surprised.

FITZGERALD: Zelda, it's only the door...

ZELDA: I'm sorry, I'm...I've been so nervous lately.

FITZGERALD: I'll get it.

He goes off, and we hear Hemingway and Hadley offstage greeting him. Zelda looks offstage with unease. We hear a tiny, almost unnoticeable flutter. Then Scott and Hemingway and Hadley come on stage left.

HADLEY: This is a wonderful flat, Scott, really.

HEMINGWAY: Good work space.

Scott goes and gets his jacket. Zelda is left looking at Hemingway and Hadley.

HEMINGWAY (finally): Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Beat. Zelda smiles at him timidly, and looks at Scott.

FITZGERALD: We should be on our way, then. Goodbye, dear.

He kisses her on the cheek.

HADLEY: It was good to see you again, Zelda.

Fitzgerald strides off left, followed by Hemingway and Hadley. Zelda watches as they go, and the lights dim down except for a single overhead on Zelda. We hear the fluttering sounds again, very faintly, then increasing suddenly before being cut off as the light dims out. A light comes up on Hemingway downstage right. During the following, servants move a table and two chairs on stage left, the entire transformation being very fluid and quick.

HEMINGWAY: I was working in my own apartment the next afternoon when Scott suddenly showed up frantically.

FITZGERALD : She's gone away!

HEMINGWAY: What?

FITZGERALD: Zelda! She's disappeared!

HEMINGWAY: When?

HADLEY: How can you be sure?

FITZGERALD: I left her at breakfast and came back this afternoon and she's gone.

HEMINGWAY (putting his hands on Scott's shoulders): What happened? Did you provoke her?

FITZGERALD: Provoke her?! She provoked me!

HADLEY: But everything seemed fine last night when Ernest and I came to your flat.

HEMINGWAY: Absolutely.

FITZGERALD: She was so edgy before you got there.

Scott crosses left and the lights come up on Zelda, seated at the table, preparing to eat breakfast.

FITZGERALD: I got up shortly after you and Hadley brought me home.

Fitzgerald now begins to reenact what has happened. A servant brings on tea things and breakfast. Zelda begins buttering her toast slowly, regarding Scott as he reads the paper. The servant begins pouring their coffee.

ZELDA: Late last night, weren't you?

FITZGERALD: No, not really.

Beat.

ZELDA: It was after three when I heard you come in.

FITZGERALD (looking up at her): Oh...I hadn't noticed.

Beat. Zelda begins to butter her toast more forcefully.

ZELDA: You had a good time.

FITZGERALD: How do you know?

ZELDA: Oh...I could tell.

FITZGERALD: How?

ZELDA (pause, listlessly): You talked in your sleep.

FITZGERALD (smiling): Really? What did I say?

ZELDA (playfully): Oh, it's really not important...

FITZGERALD: Tell me.

Zelda stops buttering her toast, places it on her plate, and grips the tablecloth roughly. She throws her head back and orgiastically begins to moan.

ZELDA: Oh! Oh! No more, no more! Please, stop! No, no more!

Fitzgerald stops reading the paper, and the servant looks up and stops pouring their coffee.

FITZGERALD (pause, shockedly): I'm sure I said no such thing.

ZELDA: Oh, yes, you did. And there's plenty more that I wouldn't dare repeat.

FITZGERALD (rising as the servant hurries out): I don't wish to discuss this.

ZELDA: Oh, well, when will we discuss this? Hmm?

FITZGERALD: I'm going.

ZELDA (overlapping): Where? To him?

FITZGERALD (overlapping): Who?

ZELDA (overlapping, finally): That husband-stealing bastard!

Beat. Scott mouths the word, "What?"

ZELDA: Hemingway!

FITZGERALD: How on earth could you...?

ZELDA: Is it true that you're in love with him?

FITZGERALD (pause): This is disgusting, and this conversation is at an end.

ZELDA: Why? Because you say so? You? You're not man enough to settle it, right here, right now!

Beat. Scott looks at her red-faced.

FITZGERALD: Just what are you saying?

ZELDA: Is it true you're his lover?

FITZGERALD: How can you even think of such a thing? To suggest that he and I...

ZELDA (overlapping): It isn't hard to think of such a thing when you'