DON: Universal unconscious. I like that. Isn’t that Jung?
MIRIAM: Better for an artist.
DON: I think my work comes out of the universal unconscious and that’s why it’s so whatever the universal unconscious is, such as—what would you say it is? The universal unconscious? —Unconscious? And universal?
MIRIAM: Mind of God?
DON: I don’t think my work comes out of the mind of God unless God is over-sexed, too.
MIRIAM: Be serious. And stop brushing sand off my legs, it—it tickles.
DON: Nicely?
MIRIAM: You know what I think you’re thinking? I think you’re thinking why don’t I exploit this rich girl’s interest in me: marry her. Be supported by her rich family: cultivate, or pretend to, a taste for the kosher cuisine, for lox and bagels, while I pursue my career without economic pressure and while I also indulge my lech for the silly Dicks of the world.
DON: —I’m not like that. I’m not like that at all. I may be a self-pitying masochistic shit or whatever you think of me, mistakenly, Mimi, but I’m not an exploiter, which is a thief. And a liar. When mother and me came north from Mississippi, Dad was already in St. Louis, he’d been so good a Mississippi drummer they’d made him sales manager of their St. Louie branch. Well, he met us at Union Station in Saint Louis. And just around the corner from the station was an outdoor fruit-stand. I picked a grape as we passed it. Dad slapped my hand so hard it burned for a good while, and he said, ‘Don’t ever let me catch you stealing again!’ One goddamn grape was all! —And he taught me never to lie because he never lied. —Not lying, not stealing. . . .
MIRIAM: Gentlemanly virtues, of the old South.
DON: Old, but mountaineer: not elegant plantation.
MIRIAM: I’m afraid my race had to practice wiles and guiles to survive.
DON: What’s necessary is necessary, no apologies for it.
MIRIAM [coolly]: No. —None.
DON: Sit back down.
[She sits.]
DON: —Closer—I’m cold. —That smooth skin of yours emanates—sun-warmth. —I’ve written a lot of verse this summer. I sent a batch of it off to my lady agent. She sent it back. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we don’t handle verse.” [Pause.]
Purity and passion are
Things that differ but in name
And as one metal will emerge
When molten in a single flame.
MIRIAM: —I wish that your poetry was a little bit better, Don.
DON [grinning]: So do I.
MIRIAM [leaning her head on his shoulder]: I don’t mean I don’t like it, I just wish it was a little bit better. I don’t expect it to be as good as Keats or Rilke or Crane, but I do wish it—
DON: Was a little better. Don’t you think that I wish it were, too? Miriam?
MIRIAM: I love you. I’m so sorry for you.
DON: That’s patronizing as me calling you “honey”.
MIRIAM: Okay, call me “honey”.
DON: No. You’ve hurt my feelings again. Because it’s all right for me to wish that my poetry was better but it isn’t right for anyone else to and to say so. [He grins up at the sky, then down at her. Then he strokes her long, dark hair that hangs loose about her ivory smooth shoulders.] Let down the straps.
MIRIAM: What straps?
DON: Your bathing suit, I want to touch your breasts.
MIRIAM: I would if I thought you did want to, but I think you’re just pretending.
DON: May I?
[Miriam doesn’t answer but lowers her head so that her hair falls in a dark, soft cascade over her face.]
DON [lowering the straps of her suit]:
Let down your hair, dream-dark at night,
And I’ll forget that fear was bright . . .’
[He slips his hands over her breasts under the loosened jersey.]
MIRIAM: —Do you think it’s right to do what you’re doing when you know—when you know?
DON: What do I know? I don’t know . . .
MIRIAM: You know I’ll go home and marry some nice young Jewish boy that my family approves of and will set up in business, and I’ll bear children by him, and we’ll both get plump and then stout and discuss his business together the way you and I read Rilke together, our first week here together?
DON: Maybe he’ll like Rilke too.
MIRIAM: No, he’ll object to Rilke because Rilke’s German, you know that.
DON: Isn’t that what you’ll want later?
MIRIAM: Yes, but I won’t forget our first week together. Will you?
DON: I won’t forget today, either.
MIRIAM: I’m so frightened for you, I really am, Don, you know that.
DON: Yes. I know that you are. It’s embarrassingly kind of you.
MIRIAM: Don, let people be kind to you.
DON: Will, they? Be kind to me?
MIRIAM: Some, a few, if you let them!
DON [absently, indifferently]: You’re a beautiful person, I love you.
MIRIAM: Thank you so much for that sincere—declaration . . .
DON: Don’t love; wait to be loved. You’re lovely. Wait to be loved. Don’t love till you’re loved: have a studio in the Village with a skylight and entertain many people till the one comes that wants you, takes you under the skylight on the floor under the skylight, holds you, almost hurts you, yes, hurts you, he holds you so fiercely—bites your lips, your ears, your nipples, thrusts his head between your beautiful young thighs and devours—rapaciously. —Then you will know you are loved. Then you can love, not till then.
MIRIAM: —Oh? Go on
DON: All right. I will. Have music. Read Crane, Keats and Rilke. Chop away now and then on your heroic piece of sculpture of Man and Woman meeting like two rivers, passionately and serenely converging their separate waters like two rivers’ waters. When he’s tired from his post-orgasmic reaction, be womanly tender with him. Don’t touch his sexual parts till they start to live again for you. Don’t appear to be waiting for it but when you get up to get the cigarettes or the drinks, glance down at his naked body to see if his desire is reviving again. And even then, when you come back to lie down naked beside him, don’t touch his “father of millions.” Put your lips to his nipples, or whatever part of his upper body you’ve discovered is the erotically sensitive part, inside his ears, his mouth, his—well, you’ll know, you’ll know. . . . —Caress him all over with oil on your fingertip: keep the music going, of course, and don’t let him get drunk. . . . All right, he’ll make you a baby again and again and again with his father of millions and—there is a way to win, a way to play it. . . . —for you, not for me. I’ll always bollix it up by being too quick and greedy . . . and scared!
MIRIAM: Don?
DON: Huh?
MIRIAM: Let’s go back of the dunes and—
DON: No. No. Save yourself for somebody under that Village skylight.
MIRIAM: —Have you been making fun of me?
DON: No. You know I haven’t. I’m not unkind to anybody that likes me and never could be, you know that. Don’t you know that? Miriam? And how I wish I could be the right one for under the skylight? I’m the wrong one for in the dunes, honey. . . .
MIRIAM: —Well . . .
DON: Hmmm.
MIRIAM: Yes. . . . [She sits back down beside him on the platform and leans her head on his shoulder.]
DON [absently stroking her long, loose, dark hair]: It really is like sitting inside a soap-bubble out here today. All the colors of the—what time is it?
MIRIAM: Fifteen after six.
DON: The light will start fading in a few minutes now. —I’m all packed. I can catch a ride better at night.
MIRIAM: You’re not going to hitchhike back. I’m going to lend you the money for the trip back on the Boston boat and on the—
<
br /> DON: No, no, honey, no thank you.
MIRIAM: —And on the midnight special to New York, Pullman fare. I’m a Jew, you know, I’m a Jewish girl, and Jewish girls’ folks have money and let their kids have it, you know. You can pay me back in New York. I’m going back in a week. I’m not sure I respect you much anymore but I still feel sorry for you, you’re such a—what are you? —huh, Don?
DON: —I’m Fairy Glum from over the ravine.
MIRIAM: Shut up, stop making me sick. The Boston boat doesn’t leave till half past eight so you’ve got plenty of time and even if you miss the Boston boat, I’ll drive you to Boston.
DON: I’m going to hitchhike to New York, starting after dark, when all they’ll see is what they think’s a young boy with a— Oh, God, here they come back.
MIRIAM: Who?
DON: Him and Wanda, they’ve got her portable with them.
MIRIAM: You won’t stay here?
DON: They’ve seen me. I can’t run away. She’s waving. Oh, God how I hate her. Do you think there’s a chance she’ll die? Won’t something kill her?
MIRIAM: You don’t mean that. You’re an artist. You know she’s a right to her life and her love as much as you have to yours. Don’t fight against windmills, Don. You’ve got other uses for your force.
DON: Let me be brilliant, let me find words to say. Quick! Where’s the bottle!
MIRIAM: No!
DON: Give me another drink, please, everything’s going out, I feel dead inside.
MIRIAM: Look. There’s the Boston boat, over there. It’s coming around the Cape, Don.
DON: Let it come. She’s all in white. Do you think she’s beautiful?
MIRIAM: Very beautiful, yes.
DON: And it’s hopeless?
MIRIAM: Yes. Go away. Don’t stay here.
DON: I’m going to do something.
MIRIAM: What?
DON: I don’t know but I’m going to do something.
MIRIAM: You’ll make a fool of yourself?
DON: Go away, go on, go away!
MIRIAM: Okay. I’ll see you off at the dock at 8:15.
[Miriam walks away. The voices of Wanda and Dick are heard.]
DICK: The choreography’s very simple. Hi, Don. We worked it all out this morning.
WANDA: Hello, Don. What are you doing?
DON: Nothing.
DICK: It starts like this. See?
WANDA: Wonderful.
DICK: Then you do a pliée, a series of pliées. A changement!
WANDA: Ahhh!
DICK: Put the record on an’ we’ll run straight through it. Don’t try to follow yet.
WANDA: No. I’ll just watch you. Isn’t he wonderful, Don? Don!
DON: Huh?
WANDA: Why aren’t you looking at him?
DON: Sorry. I was distracted, Wanda.
WANDA: By what?
DON: As the summer approaches the end of the summer—have you noticed? —The sunsets from the dunes become more spectacular than ever. —Endings, approaches to endings, I guess they have a sort of special, theatrical interest for me which makes me suspect that I may write a good many bad or not so good plays but will probably always manage to come up with a pretty good ending for them. . . . um—hmmm . . . that’s not enough but something . . . Well, it is unusually spectacular, this sunset. You ought to watch it, Wanda.
WANDA: I’m watching Dick.
DON: Is watching Dick better than watching the sun going down in such a spectacular fashion? Isn’t there some difference in scale?
WANDA: I prefer watching Dick.
DON: You prefer watching a totally self-absorbed—definition of narcissism, do you? Oh, yes, he’s beautiful this evening, young gold flesh, well-designed, but he’s already at the zenith, the apex of his beauty. Wonderful? Now, yeah, not ordinary, just sort of oom-pah-pah . . .
DICK [oblivious to them]: Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah.
WANDA: Don, I’m worried about you.
DON: Why, thanks, what a compliment, Wanda.
WANDA: What worries me about you is your change of character lately. You’ve started acting bitchy. Not like you were when I met you.
DON: What was I like then?
WANDA: Quiet. But agreeable, Don. You seemed to be nice. What’s changed you?
DON: The bitterness of frustration.
WANDA: When did that begin?
DON: Almost as soon as I met him. —An erotic image which must have been lurking secretly in some closet of my mind.
DICK: Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. Wind up the Victrola, it’s running down!
[Wanda hastily obeys.]
DON: A user of everyone he discovers to be possibly useful. No conscience about it, no sense of debt to—you, me, all others enchanted by the gob dazzle of him, here, now, at the height that he’ll decline from.
WANDA: He’s seven years younger than you.
DON: Time-wise. But in his heart?
WANDA: Watch out! The helicopter!
[Wanda and Dick scramble off the platform as the sound of the helicopter zooms in. Don only moves to look up. A sack of mail drops on the platform. Don leaps onto the platform, fishes out some letters and tears them open, fiercely.]
WANDA: Don! What are you doing?
DON: Opening letters not addressed to me: other people’s mail.
WANDA: A criminal offense!
DON [reading aloud]: “Dearest—Marty?”—no, “Martha—how is everything there? Everything here is okay, as usual. Don’t hurry back, we miss you but want you to have”—
DICK [very quietly but ecstatically]: Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah.
DON [leaning close to the letter]: —“Want you to have the—peace and quiet that you need and— [He leans closer to it.] —you mustn’t worry about us, all goes on pretty much the same as it was.” —Hmm, I bet. —Oh, here’s one for me, it’s from my New York agent, maybe it contains a check.
[He opens the letter slowly. Dick stops dancing.]
DICK: It’s gotten cold. Let’s go have some chowder.
[Dick doesn’t help Wanda pick up the portable Victrola. They disappear over the dunes. Don is reading the letter. He rises slowly as its import strikes him, and he reads it aloud.]
DON: “Dear Donald: I have just returned from a meeting with the Guild. They gave me the distressing news that every female star whom they had submitted your play to has rejected it with variations of the same criticism, that it is too negative, too sordid, although one or two have recognized its power. I am afraid this does not much surprise me as during war-years the public is drawn by light entertainment. I hope you will think about Burt’s suggestion that you try your talented hand at writing the libretto for a musical. Burt has several ideas in his head if you have none in yours. There is a last option check waiting for you in the office. You change addresses so often we thought it best to hold it here till your return to New York now that—”
[He crumples and drops the letter. He stares straight out. After a few moments the ancient postman appears and looks dully, hopelessly at the letters spilled about the platform.]
POSTMAN: Hey, boy.
DON: Hi.
POSTMAN: How did the sack break open?
DON: Oh. The helly-bird dropped it from too high so it exploded on impact.
[With difficulty, the old man stoops to gather the spilled mail, groaning and muttering.]
DON: Sit down on the platform, Pop. I’ll do that for you.
POSTMAN [sinking onto platform]: —Thanks. —My goddamn spine is going.
DON [collecting letters from the sand]: Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah.
POSTMAN: Sight going.
DON: Maybe it’s just the light going . . . [He sits down beside the Postman as—]
THE SCENE DIMS OUT
THE ONE EXCEPT
ION
The One Exception was first performed on October 2, 2003 by the Hartford Stage Company in Hartford, Connecticut. It was directed by Michael Wilson; the set design was by Jeff Cowie; the costume design was by David Woolard; the lighting design was by John Ambrosone; the original music and sound design were by Fitz Paton. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:
VIOLA: Annalee Jefferies
MAY: Jennifer Harmon
KYRA: Amanda Plummer
Scene: the front room of private home which looks as if it were not yet ready for occupancy. Women’s voices are heard offstage.
MAY [offstage]: You are Miss—?
VIOLA [offstage]: Viola Shield, yesss. I’m sorry to have had to put you off till today but when a painter is preparing for an exhibition, in process of hanging—
MAY [offstage]: Oh?
VIOLA [offstage]: Yesss. There’s very limited time for other matters.
MAY [offstage]: Your coat?
VIOLA [offstage]: No, thanks, the place is too chilly.
[Viola Shield enters. She is an energetic woman of forty, followed by a distraught-looking woman in her fifties, May Svenson.]
VIOLA: Why, it’s so barely furnished, you must be just moving in.
MAY [lowering her voice]: Not staying but a few days. She has to be removed to an institution upstate and my leave of absence from Southern Baptist is up.
VIOLA: Evangelist, are you?
MAY: No, no, it’s a Houston hospital. I work in the psychiatric ward.
VIOLA: Hmm.
[The wind whines.]
VIOLA: You’d better have your heating system adjusted. Hmmm. So she has to be put away?
MAY: Please. Quietly. The Lodge wants me to get as much of her past history, when old friends in the city knew her, I mean friends like you, as I can get for them.
VIOLA: Lodge?
MAY: Shhh—the private institution upstate. I see it as the only solution, at least till she’s made some recovery. If she can, if she does.
VIOLA: You’re whispering so I can barely hear you. Is everything top secret from the lady?
MAY: When speaking of the upstate institution. She’s deathly afraid of institutions.
VIOLA: Private or public a mental institution is still a mental institution and scarcely preferable to a prison. I mean confinement is—oh, too loud? Forgive me, but I’m not accustomed to conversing in whispers.
The Traveling Companion & Other Plays Page 18