The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays Page 4

  LINDA: I don’t know. Really I don’t. We just get along somehow. Oh, you needn’t feel so terribly sorry for me. I’ve changed. I’m not the girl that I used to be. Something has happened to me since I’ve been with Jim. Something terribly funny.

  MITCH: I can see that!

  LINDA: There’s something mysterious about this little place of ours—we call it our magic tower—when we’re in it together we’re perfectly happy. We haven’t a care in the world. You’d think that we were millionaires!

  MITCH: Poor Duchess! She’s gone off her nut!

  LINDA: You think I’m crazy?

  MITCH: Crazy? I’ll say so! Bergmann’s little pet she was! He pays her fifty a week and like that [Snaps his fingers.] she walks out on the show! Marries a poor punk in a red beret. . . .

  LINDA [rising indignantly]: He doesn’t wear a red beret!

  MITCH: Marries a poor punk that stands up naked for thirty cents an hour. . . .

  LINDA: He doesn’t stand up naked!

  MITCH: Well, anyway, you married him, didn’t you?

  LINDA: Yes, I married him! I was crazy about him!

  BABE: Hear that, Mitch? She WAS crazy about him, but she ain’t any more!

  LINDA [smiling and walking over to window]: Was, am, and always will be! [She looks out.] Still raining—my heavens! Jim will be drowned!

  BABE [winking at Mitch while Linda’s back is turned]: Honey, if you’re so crazy about this artist guy, why don’t you give him an even break?

  LINDA: What do you mean, an even break? I do everything that I can do to help Jim out! I wash his clothes, pose for him, mix his paints. . . .

  BABE: I don’t mean that. You know what I mean—he’ll never get nowhere tied to your apron strings!

  LINDA [her face darkening]: Tied to my apron strings?

  BABE: These artists never get married, honey, until they’ve made a success. They can’t afford to. It ruins their ca-reer!

  MITCH: Funny she ain’t thought of that herself! The Babe is right, Duchess! You gotta look at it that way—you don’t want to be a rock around this guy’s neck!

  LINDA: A rock around Jim’s neck? [There is a minute of silence. Babe and Mitch eagerly studying the gathering darkness on Linda’s face.]

  LINDA [as if to herself]: A rock—No, I couldn’t be that! [She walks distractedly about the room.]

  BABE [harshly]: That’s what you’ll be! Mark my word!

  MITCH [following Linda]: Babe’s right about it, Duchess! That’s the way you got to look at it! If you really love this guy . . .

  BABE [eagerly]: You don’t want to spoil his chances!

  LINDA [clasping her ears]: Stop! I won’t listen to any more of it! You’re just trying to ruin everything!

  BABE: Think of the future, Duchess!

  MITCH: Yeah, the future!

  BABE: You’re making an awful mistake, Honey, if you don’t consider . . .

  MITCH: You’ve got too much sense—

  LINDA: Oh, stop! Please. . . .

  BABE: Just think! If he wasn’t tied up what he could do!

  LINDA: Tied up? No!

  BABE: If he wasn’t tied up like this he could go to Europe and study in one of them fancy schools over there! That’s where all the real artists go!

  MITCH: Sure! They ain’t got a chance if they don’t!

  BABE: How old is he, Duchess? I bet he’s just a kid!

  MITCH: Listen! A smart young feller who ain’t tied up with no dame—

  BABE: He can always make his own way!

  LINDA: No, no! I couldn’t go on without Jim!

  BABE: Yes, you could, and you will. The show’s pulling out tonight. You’re going with us!

  LINDA: Oh, please—you’re making me dizzy!

  MITCH: We open tomorrow in Chicago. Play there one week. Then South to St. Louis. New Orleans for Mardi Gras time. After that we go West. A coast-to-coast tour!

  BABE: We play the Palace in Los Angeles. That’s just a couple of hops from Hollywood, kid! Say, with your talent and brains—

  MITCH: And her good looks!

  BABE: Bergmann always said—

  MITCH: She’ll wow them!

  BABE: You bet she will. Good old Duchess. She always did. You should’ve seen Bergmann, honey, the night you pulled out of the show. There was tears in his eyes. Honest to God, tears in his eyes! Wasn’t there, Mitch?

  MITCH: He was all broken up!

  LINDA: Bergmann. . . . [Linda shivers and covers her face with her hands.]

  BABE [harshly]: Lookit her hands, Mitch! She’s got dishwater hands!

  MITCH: Imagine that! The Duchess with dishwater hands!

  BABE [softening]: Never mind, honey, a little cold cream rubbed in every night. . . .

  LINDA: Don’t!

  MITCH [glancing at wristwatch]: Come on, Linda. Pack up. The train pulls out at seven. [Linda turns to window.]

  BABE [nudging him]: Give her time, give her time! Let her think it all over. Maybe she’d rather have him throw it up to her some day how she spoiled all his chances!

  LINDA [gasping]: Spoiled his chances! No, no, I’ll never do that! I’ll do anything but that!

  BABE [again winking at Mitch]: Just give her time. She has to think things over. It’s the future she has to look out for, Mitch. Five or ten years from now. . . .

  LINDA: Five or ten years! Oh. . . .

  BABE: Yeah, if things keep on like they’re going now, you won’t be so young no more in five or ten years. He’ll get tired of you maybe. He’ll look at you while you’re bending over the washtub with your face all red and sweaty and your hair in your eyes and he’ll say to himself, “There she is! My ball and chain! If I wasn’t tied to her apron strings . . .”

  LINDA [desperately]: Stop it! Stop it, Babe! I can’t stand any more!

  MITCH: She’s right, Duchess, the Babe is absolutely right!

  [There is a long silence. Linda slowly gets up from the couch. Mitch hands her his handkerchief.]

  LINDA [brokenly]: Maybe she is—I don’t know.

  MITCH [eagerly]: There now! That’s more like it.

  BABE [throwing her arms around Linda]: See! I knew she would come to her senses! It’s just like Bergmann said, she’s too smart . . .

  MITCH: Won’t old Bergmann throw a fit when he sees her down at the station? The old boy’ll break down and cry. . . .

  LINDA [wringing the handkerchief]: Wait! Not all at once! I can’t decide right off like this!

  BABE: You’ve got to, Honey! It’s the only way!

  LINDA: What time is it, Mitch?

  MITCH: A quarter to six.

  LINDA: He ought to be back by now.

  MITCH: Don’t wait for him. He’ll talk you out of it!

  BABE: Just do what you know is best for him, Duchess.

  LINDA: What’s best for him.

  MITCH: Pack your things. Be ready in half an hour, Duchess.

  BABE: Swell!

  LINDA: How can I know—

  MITCH: What?

  LINDA: If Wescott gives Jim a break?

  BABE: You’d stick with him, kid. You’d be all right.

  MITCH: Say, it’s a cinch. We’ll phone the station and reserve your berth. Yeah, a compartment.

  BABE: We’ll have a real celebration tonight. We’ll have a time!

  MITCH: Back on the road with the Duchess!

  LINDA: You go too fast for me.

  MITCH: Yeah! Back on the road.

  BABE: Take it easy, Mitch.

  LINDA: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  MITCH: Those pictures are no good. They ain’t got anything!

  BABE: Say, kid, how’ll we know about this Wescott deal—if it goes through or not? Will you give us a ring?

  MITCH: No time for that. Give us the old Bronx semaphore.

  BABE: What’s that?

  MITCH: Honey, that’s what got me out of many a tight spot before you and me started going steady! Look! It’s like this. The dame goes to the window and if the coast i
s clear she hoists the shade like this—that means she’s going, or I’m coming, as the case may be—

  BABE: The Voice of Experience!

  MITCH: Get it, Duchess? But if it’s no go—if the old man’s on the spot—pull the shade all the way down, like this; that means the game is called on account of rain—or something. Get the idea?

  BABE: I getcha.

  MITCH: Let’s run through the routine. We don’t want any slip-ups on this.

  LINDA: Up if I’m going—down if I’m not—is that it?

  MITCH: Smart girl! We’ll be back in half an hour.

  BABE: Keep your chin up, Duchess. So long!

  [Mitch and Babe leave. The stage is darkened for a moment to indicate the passing of about fifteen minutes. Linda is still standing by the window. Footsteps are heard slowly climbing the stairs.]

  LINDA [turning from window, her eyes wide with emotion]: JIM!

  [The door is pushed open and Jim comes in. He stands in the doorway without speaking, a dazed look on his face, the canvases sagging from under his arm.]

  LINDA: Oh, JIM—your pictures—they’re all wet!

  JIM [laughing bitterly]: All wet? Yes! All wet! [Tosses them roughly to floor.] That’s what Wescott said about them—all wet! [Tosses soaked hat into corner of the room.] Only he didn’t put it quite so bluntly. Oh, he was very genteel about it. Used a lot of high-sounding language. Talked about planes of consciousness and aesthetic values. All the usual tripe. Shook his head very sadly and said he feared the world wasn’t ready quite yet for my kind of art. Go back to school, he said, and master your technique. You’re still just a boy. You’ve got years and years, he said. Years and years of what? I asked him. Starvation? He laughed. He said I was taking it much too hard— Oh, Linda! [He throws himself down on the couch.] I’m so terribly disgusted with things!

  [As he cries her name Linda stretches her arms toward him and a look of tenderness comes over her face. She feels that he needs her now.]

  LINDA [lifting her hand slowly to the window shade]: Jim, when I pull this window shade down, do you know what I’m really doing? I’m shutting out the whole world. Mr. Wescott was right, Jim. We have got years and years.

  JIM [with choking bitterness]: Of what?

  LINDA [pulling the shade slowly down]: Of each other!

  JIM [tossing impatiently on the couch]: Each other! Each other! Do you think we can EAT each other!

  LINDA [astonished]: Jim!

  JIM: Come down to earth, woman! You can’t stay up in the clouds all your life. . . .

  LINDA: It’s not the clouds I’m up in, Jim—it’s our magic tower!

  JIM [brutally]: Magic tower, boloney! It’s Mrs. O’Fallon’s attic that we’re up in, Linda! Mrs. O’Fallon’s lousy, leaking attic! And we’re five weeks behind on the rent! Do you know what’s going to happen to us, Linda? We’re going to get kicked out on our ears, that’s what!

  LINDA: I thought you said—in this state of enchantment—in which we lived—nothing ever happened—nothing ever mattered except our having each other!

  JIM: Those were pretty words!

  LINDA: You didn’t mean them? [There is a long silence.] I see—just words! [She goes slowly back to the window, gives the cord a jerk, and the curtain flies up.]

  JIM: What was that?

  LINDA [dully]: Just the shade flying up. [She turns toward him again. There is a faint, inscrutable smile on her lips.] How old are you, Jim?

  JIM [sleepily]: Twenty-one. Why? [Crossly.] What’s that got to do with the situation?

  LINDA [softly]: Twenty-one—how marvelously young that is! I’m twenty-six, Jim. You didn’t know that?

  JIM: Gosh, Linda! You say such trivial things!

  LINDA: I know. I have a terribly trivial mind . . . poor Jim. You’re all tired out. And soaking wet. That long walk through the rain. All for nothing. Here. I’ll put the screen in front of the bed. You can undress and have a nap. I still have some ironing to do. After a while you can go down and get a bite to eat from Mrs. O’Fallon! I’m sure she’ll be glad to let you have something.

  JIM [sleepily]: She always used to be before I got . . .

  LINDA: Yes, I know. Before you got yourself tied up with a dame! Oh, well. . . . [She laughs softly.] There’s a price for everything! Nothing comes for nothing, Jim. You’ll learn that some day. [With the screen drawn in front of Jim’s couch, Linda hastily throws her things into the new traveling bag. She darts about the room with an almost frantic rapidity.]

  JIM: My God, what a racket you’re making! What are you doing?

  LINDA: Nothing much. Just straightening things up a little. I’m nearly through now.

  JIM: And that light’s in my eyes. I can’t sleep.

  LINDA: Just a moment, darling. I’ll turn it out. [Goes over to window with traveling bag in her hand. Looks out, shading her eyes with one hand.] It’s clearing up, Jim. The rain has stopped. It’s going to be a wonderful night. Oh, my! There’s a funny little slice of a moon coming out. Right over the Fixit Garage. It looks like a yellow dancing slipper— Jim, tomorrow’s going to be an awfully swell day! Almost like spring, I imagine. Those awful wet spots on the floor will dry up—when the sun comes out—it will be very nice in here then—I’m sure it must be much healthier to live in a dry, bright attic—than a magic tower with a leaking roof!

  JIM [furiously]: For God’s sake, Linda, I’m trying to sleep!

  LINDA: I’m sorry—poor Jim! [Pulls a ring from her finger and lays it on the bureau.] I’ll turn the light out now! Jim, are you asleep? [She looks toward the screen. There is no answer. She switches off the light and goes quietly out the door and closes it behind her.]

  CURTAIN

  ME, VASHYA

  Me, Vashya was first performed by the Performing Arts Department of Washington University in St. Louis on February 6, 2004. The production was directed by Henry I. Schvey; the set design was by Christopher Pickart; the costume design was by Bonnie Kruger; the lighting design was by David Vogel; and the sound design was by Matt Kitces and Tim Albert. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:

  VASHYA SHONTINE Dan Hirsh

  PHILLIP, a servant Tommy Honton

  DR. FRELICH Rob McLemore

  LADY SHONTINE Tara Neuhoff

  LADY HUNTINGTON Laura Harrison*

  * performing in the role written as LORD HUNTINGTON

  The scene is the study or library in the home of Sir Vashya Shontine, representative and leader of a huge munitions manufacturing corporation whose secret operations virtually control the affairs of all nations participating in the next world war.

  The room is one of consummate luxury and refinement, conceived along modern lines. Shontine’s desk faces the audience and is situated near the center of the stage. On one side of it is a large globe of the world, which, throughout most of the play, he unconsciously, but with obvious satisfaction, twirls or strokes with his fingers. In the back wall are velvet-draped windows, two of them, and between them a pedestal supporting a bust of Julius Caesar, Napoleon, or Mussolini. It is evening and the lighting of the room is indirect and not glaring.

  Sir Vashya Shontine is seated at his desk, meditatively twirling the globe as the play opens. A servant, Phillip, enters, moving in a rigid, militaristic manner, hardly glancing at Shontine.

  PHILLIP: The Doctor has come.

  SHONTINE: Show him in. [Pause.] Good evening, Doctor.

  DR. FRELICH: Good evening.

  SHONTINE: Phillip! [Phillip frisks the doctor.]

  DR. FRELICH [in surprise]: I beg your pardon?

  VASHYA: I beg yours! This is a little formality that all of our visitors have to submit themselves to. We’ve had some unpleasant incidents lately. Not that I’m nervous, but . . .

  DR. FRELICH: Oh, I see.

  VASHYA: What’s that in the left-hand pocket? No, the vest pocket!

  PHILLIP: A fountain pen.

  VASHYA [with an icy smile]: A fountain pen? I suppose you think that’s nothing to pay any att
ention to! I once saw one, Doctor, that—you pressed a little trigger on the side of it, and—Presto! It became a very efficient little miniature revolver! Quite capable of blasting even such an obdurate soul as mine into the upper or nether regions, as the case may be! [Laughs.] Excuse me. Your hand, Phillip. [The servant extends his hand. Vashya squirts ink on it, emptying pen.] Thank you. You may go. This one happens to be harmless.

  DR. FRELICH: Oh, yes! —Although they do say that the pen is sometimes mightier than the sword.

  VASHYA [with a laugh]: Good! I like to see wit in a man of learning. It isn’t a combination that occurs very often. . . . Have a seat, Doctor. I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.

  DR. FRELICH: Frelich.

  VASHYA: Jew?

  DR. FRELICH: Yes. Partly.

  VASHYA: What are your politics?

  DR. FRELICH: I have none.

  VASHYA: Good! You haven’t removed your gloves, Doctor. I don’t like the feel of kid gloves. My hands have gotten rather more sensitive in the last twenty years since I stopped pitching wheat in the Ukraine.

  DR. FRELICH: Pitching wheat?

  VASHYA: Yes!

  DR. FRELICH: Then it’s true that you were—?

  VASHYA: A peasant? Yes! Hmmmm. I’ve come a long way since then.

  DR. FRELICH: Obviously you have!

  VASHYA: I’m glad to know you. Sit down, sit down. [Pause.] I understand that you’re a very good man to consult about matters concerning the brain. Is that right?

  DR. FRELICH: The brain’s my specialty, Sir Vashya. Are you by any chance the patient?

  VASHYA: Do I look like there was anything wrong with my brain?

  DR. FRELICH [urbanely smiling]: No. No, I can’t say that you do.

  VASHYA [relaxing]: It’s my wife.

  DR. FRELICH: Ah. Your wife.

  VASHYA: Yes. The former Princess de Montvert. She comes of a very old family, you know.

  DR. FRELICH: Yes? I’ve met her several times at social functions. She’s a charming lady.

  VASHYA: Yes, a lady, every inch of her. Perhaps too much so. These aristocrats, you know, they have bad nerves. Me, I’ve got no nerves. Not a single nerve in my body. You want to know why that is? I’ll tell you—it’s because I’m a peasant! Yes, I come of the slave class, Doctor! Extraordinary, isn’t it? Me, Vashya, being the husband of an ultra-aristocratic little princess! —Hmmm. Sometimes I think I made a mistake in marrying such a finely-bred woman. One of our healthy peasant girls might have been more suitable. You see, this Lillian of mine—my wife—she’s a victim of nerves!