e as you seem to think. JOANNE But you're a girl. BETSY Yes, I already know that. I'm also clever and rather attractive, and some men devour me with their eyes when I pass them in the street. Anything else? JOANNE Girls don't belong in the theatre. (a pause) Oh! I see now. Have you been seeing him? BETSY I.... JOANNE I thought I had positively forbidden you ever to see that man. (a pause) Well? Aren't you going to answer? BETSY I don't understand. A pause. JOANNE Betsy, please get a grip. I've been putting up with your whims for centuries. But even my angelic patience has its limits. I'm not exactly restricting your freedom or anything like that. I'm not old-fashioned. If it weren't for me, you'd be married to a certain man named Robert. The nephew of.... never mind. I persuaded your father to refuse him. I made him invent the most ridiculous excuse. I knew you wouldn't be happy with that man. But proprieties must be observed. Our family will not be talked about, you understand? BETSY The whole city knows about you and Lionel, Mom. Joanne slaps her across the face. JOANNE (through her teeth) They may know about him, but at least they're not laughing. What they know they keep to themselves. You'd do well to imitate them in that. (a pause) You're completely out of hand, Elizabeth. If I told your father what you just told me, - about this theatre thing, I mean - he'd lock you up until your wedding day. Betsy rubs her cheek, sits. BETSY I asked Chris once about.... JOANNE (thundering) I absolutely forbid you to mention that name in my house. I knew it. That's where all these ideas come from. That mocker! That blasphemer! Betsy makes an impatient gesture. BETSY (with malice) So, you're allowed, but I'm not, is that it? I know why you hate Chris. You're jealous. You know he's in love with me. You envy me. Your own little affair is a farce. JOANNE Is that how you're going to talk to your mother? (suddenly softening, going over to Betsy) Please. You've been going to the theatre a great deal, it seems. Love is a playwright's invention, a young wench's folly, a fool's delusion. Enter Chris. BETSY Chris! JOANNE Of all the impertinence in the world! CHRIS (clownishly) Peace upon this humble abode! Duchess, you here! Permit me to tell you that you are, in your own relentlessly unscrupulous way, even more entirely beautiful just now than you were yesterday, and the day before. I would most certainly compromise you sexually here and now were my heart not already engaged elsewhere. Joanne looks around, then throws her head back haughtily. JOANNE Please, sir, you must leave this place immediately. CHRIS But you can no longer call this den of thieves your own, Duchess. Betsy giggles. JOANNE What do you mean, sir? CHRIS These walls - this filthy floor, those ugly chairs - everything here belongs to posterity! My new and brilliant play shall bestow immortality upon this unworthy place; for words, my dear lady, are mightier than marble and sandstone and brick and mortar; for words live in memories, which are not prone to oxidation, but are immune to cannon balls and more reliable than.... than.... Betsy knows the rest. Betsy knows so many things, I sometimes find myself wondering whether she should be let loose the way you let her loose. She's a regular walking encyclopedia. A member of the Secret Service I'm sure would be delighted to have a few words with her someplace dark and cozy. JOANNE Mr. Chris, I ask you to leave this house. Now. She rises and leaves quickly stage-left. Betsy laughs. BETSY Stop making fun of her, you silly brute! You know it only annoys her more. CHRIS (laughing) I can't help it. BETSY She's my mother. CHRIS Yes, I know. Everything about you is special, even your mother. He embraces and kisses her on the lips. BETSY (disengaging) Chris, are you ever going to grow up? CHRIS (thinks about this) To know that that woman - ignorant, pompous, didactic, hypocritical, vain - is running a theatre company! decides what plays to put on! which to reject! I'm sorry, Betsy, your mother's a riot. Anyway, I have something to propose, so why don't you sit down and listen. BETSY Are you.... CHRIS What? A pause. Betsy sits down and lowers her head. Chris remains standing, his left hand on the hilt of his sword. BETSY Have you decided then? CHRIS Decided what? BETSY To marry me? Chris laughs. Why are you laughing? CHRIS A poor gentleman of obscure origin. A dash of Irish blood. A match for a duke's daughter? No way, Betsy. Marriage between us is quite impossible at the moment. Something better than that. We're going to France. Betsy, downcast, turns her back to him. Some time passes before the last word takes effect. BETSY France! CHRIS (swooping on her) Yes. Don't worry, it's not very far, it's just south of the Channel. The Earl of Warwick sets off tomorrow, and we're joining him. (embraces her from behind, his chin on her shoulder) A wonderful fellow, this Warwick person. I visited him last night; we had a pleasant talk, just the two of us, over a jug of ale. I once rendered him a little service, so he's offering to repay me in the same coin. BETSY Why? Why do you want to go there? CHRIS Oh, I don't know. To have some fun. They say there's a lot of fun in France, what with the Huguenots and the Catholics slashing one another's throats and stuff. There are theatres too, and it's generally warmer down there. And no fog. BETSY Chris, I'm sorry, I think you're mad. What are you going to do in France? CHRIS I'll get a job as a coachman. Or maybe I'll become a pimp. Or sell silver spoons for newborns. What the hell is the difference? Besides, Lord Warwick promises to cover whatever expenses we might run up. BETSY What about your writing? CHRIS Oh, I'll go on writing of course. What's to prevent me? BETSY You don't know any French. CHRIS A lot of people in Paris speak passable English. Besides, what difference does it make where my stuff gets rejected - here or elsewhere? BETSY Chris, I'm not going. I don't know whether you're joking or not, but I'm not going. My place is here, not in France. Who knows what the French might think of me? They may not even find me attractive. I'm used to turning heads in the street - that's not much, I know, but what more do I have? CHRIS (dismissing, somewhat uneasily, her last argument) Are you going to talk about your silly whims again? Look, girls don't act in theatres. That's absurd. BETSY It's not a whim. It's a dream, Chris, a beautiful dream. You're a man, you'll never understand. A pause. CHRIS A beautiful dream indeed. Even if you could pass yourself off as a boy, you'd find yourself in the worst company imaginable. You know nothing about actors. BETSY I know enough. (solemnly) The actor is supposed to convey to the world that which what great authors have written. It's up to him to understand the author's intentions and to personify his ideas. See? I know. CHRIS An author's work has to do with neither intentions nor ideas. BETSY Are you saying that authors are too stupid and shallow to have any ideas? CHRIS I'm saying that good authors, when they're writing, are above such mere trifles as ideas. Their chief concern is harmony. BETSY A bit over my head, that. However, if you were right about authors being such elevated creatures, wouldn't it make the actor's responsibility even greater? CHRIS No. BETSY No? CHRIS No. (a pause) Look at what the Great Bitch thinks of actors. In some of the ordinances, they're lumped together with rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars. And for once I think she's quite right. BETSY Oh, you're insufferable, Chris! You're much too arrogant for your own good. You shouldn't disdain everyone, especially not actors. After all, you yourself write plays for them. CHRIS I write for audiences, not actors. An actor is a despicable creature, devoid of personality - the better the actor, the meaner and smaller the individual. For, in order to fill yourself with someone else, you have to squeeze your own self out, to the last drop, and the less there is to squeeze out, the easier the job. An actor will go a long way to achieve very little; he will cheat, plot, betray, and renounce in order to eat, drink, have shelter and not work. Actors are prone to vanity; they will give up the ideal of a lifetime for a minute of applause. They are conceited; they think it is they who are poetic, not their lines. They are dull; they have no taste; they cannot distinguish between a good work and a bad one and are more inclined to act in a vulgar hopeless farce than in a subtle comedy because they find hopelessness more congenial to them. They are nauseatingly conservative; they will refuse to accept the slightest innovation because it defies the formula they are accustomed to. They are not Christians; they venerate the dead author who cannot laugh at them and defile the living one to keep him in his misery lest he should expose their pettiness. They are cruel, heartless monsters; they repeatedly and with mad abandon betray their own kind. BETSY I do not believe you. I'm sorry. I think you're bitter because they keep rejecting your plays. A pause. CHRIS I'm sorry. Really, Betsy, I'm very sorry. Do what you like, I have no right to meddle in your affairs. BETSY Look, it's just for a little while. Let me just try it out, see how it feels. Afterwards, if you wish, we could still go to France. A woman's beauty is supposed to be universal. Who knows, they might like me there. Chris hangs his head and remains motionless for a while. Betsy, sensing at last that she has hurt his feelings, places her hand on his shoulder, looks him in the eye. He turns away. CHRIS Yes, all right. (makes an effort, livens) By the way, there's a new production in town, I think we should see it. Would you like to come? The premiere is tomorrow. It's by one of those pompous asses who imitate the Greeks. Maybe I'll be able to talk Wobbly into coming along. BETSY You're going to introduce me to your friend? CHRIS Eh? Oh, yes. Certainly. He can be loads of fun when he's in the mood. BETSY Tomorrow, then? CHRIS Tomorrow at noon, meet me at the usual place. BETSY Could we meet earlier? CHRIS No. I have to visit good old Warwick and tell him he'll be travelling alone. In the meantime, would you like to take a walk along the Bankside? Betsy laughs happily. BETSY You're going to take me to the fair? CHRIS Of course. She throws herself on his neck. BETSY You're so good to me, Chris. They kiss. Blackout. Scene Three. William's rooms, shabby and cold. Stage-center, against the backdrop, a basin. Stage-right, a table with two chairs, notes on it, an ink well, a pen. Enter William, a blanket wrapped up over his clothes. He is shivering. WILLIAM Why does it have to be so cold? Where's my handkerchief? (sniffs) This is a disaster, really. (walks over to the basin, looks in it) Ah, there it is. Let's get it out. (puts his hand in the basin) It's frozen over, damn it. I think I have another handkerchief somewhere, but I have no idea where I put it. (sniffs) Let's try to get this one out somehow. I could stay home, of course. Problem is, I'm hungry, and there isn't a penny anywhere. I must go and borrow some money. He exits and returns immediately with an ice pick. He applies it to the ice in the basin. The effort produces no immediate results. A thought strikes him. He abandons the pick, goes to the table and looks over a sheet of paper on it. The grocer refuses to extend my credit. He's a very crude fellow. Well, grocers usually are. I tried explaining it to him. Told him that I'd pay him back as soon as they paid me my wages, on which they are in arrears for two months. No use. He told me all players were liars. He has a point there, of course. But that's still no reason to starve them. Misapplied.... by action.... dignified. Nonsense. The rhyme is rather ugly. Ugly, ugly. Now, let's see. Dignified.... prophesied, lied, bide, guide, side, wide, cried, intensified. Ride. Enter a figure wrapped up to its eyes in black. William turns around and jumps. Shit! Who the hell are you! CHRIS (unwrapping) Take it easy, Wobbly. It's only me. WILLIAM Scared the living daylights out of me! What's the big idea, anyway? ....Ride. I'm trying to come up with a good rhyme here. Why don't you ever knock? I don't mind much, but it's ridiculous, in a way, how people keep invading this place as though it were a player's hotel or something. Well, in fact, that's what it is. Still.... What's the big idea? Huh? Hide.... belied.... CHRIS To what word? Man, it's cold out there. No fire in this place, of course. (rubs his hands together) ....To what word? WILLIAM Huh? Oh. Misapplied. CHRIS (breathing on his hands) Misapplied? Let's see.... Bride, chide, eyed.... WILLIAM Eyed? CHRIS You know. Eyed. He goes up to William and eyes him exaggeratedly. Eyed. WILLIAM Oh. I see. Eyed. Like, a thousand-eyed dragon. CHRIS No, just the past tense of the verb. You know. To eye. As in eyeing someone. He eyes William again. William thinks hard about it. WILLIAM Oh. Chris turns away, shrugs, makes a wide gesture encompassing most of the known Universe. CHRIS Stride, pride, countryside, preside, tide. WILLIAM Snide, slide, allied, homicide, purified. CHRIS Cowhide, plied, belied. WILLIAM Maybe the critics are right, after all. Maybe there aren't enough rhymes in the English language. CHRIS I wouldn't listen to the critics if I were you. Critics can't rhyme in any language. And I'll bet they have fireplaces in their houses! WILLIAM Glide, applied. CHRIS Dignified. WILLIAM Dignified! Now, there's a thought! You really are a genius, Chris. (Chris throws back his head in mock acknowledgement) I would have never thought of that. Dignified. I don't think much of dignity these days, I guess. Now, let's see. Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied. And vice sometime's by action.... but, whaddya know. That's what I had here in the first place. Dignified. CHRIS Sounds ugly. WILLIAM Doesn't it? Well, no matter. I've had it with this piece. You know? I mean, one can go on editing the same piece forever; but what's going to happen with all the other pieces in the meantime? CHRIS I think I'll be moving to France soon. WILLIAM I mean, editing is fine only to a point. I usually overdo it in my sonnets.... France? Why France, of all places? Chris turns his back to him, stares at the audience. William is waiting patiently. Chris lowers his head and closes his eyes. CHRIS What did you and Betsy talk about the other day? WILLIAM Strange country, France. (frowns) Betsy? Who's Betsy? CHRIS The girl you were talking with on the Bankside a couple of days ago. WILLIAM I.... Oh, her name is Betsy, then? Not very attractive, a bit bashful?... She's rather intelligent, I think. CHRIS I suppose she is. Wobbly, in all honesty, you don't sleep with her? I need to know. WILLIAM She told me all about her last trip to Italy. Er.... What? Sleep with her? No. I.... What a minute. You? Chris shakes his head, composes himself, turns to William. CHRIS By the way, someone was looking for you today.... A pause. WILLIAM Really? CHRIS Yes. That fellow, the Blackfriars player. You know, tall, blond, with a crooked smile. Lionel. WILLIAM Lionel, Lionel.... Why? CHRIS Beats me. Why don't you change your lodgings? This place is horrible. WILLIAM What kind of place would you like to see me living in? CHRIS I don't know. A warmer one. WILLIAM Africa? CHRIS Within the city limits, I mean. WILLIAM Yes, and hire a chambermaid, a cook, and a few servants.... CHRIS I realize that you're short on funds, but man, surely this isn't the best your money can get you? WILLIAM No, it's more than I can afford, in fact. CHRIS Oh, stop. WILLIAM Get a grip, Chris. You're talking to one of Lord Chamberlain's Men. CHRIS Still.... WILLIAM Whenever there's a plague scare, we are the first to be shut down by the authorities. The conditions are disastrous, we have to charge less per seat than any other theatre in the city. We have no stage machinery. We don't provide true spectacles - we have to depend almost entirely on dialogue. Most of the actors are mediocre. We have no roof - on winter afternoons, we're lucky when we get half the house filled. CHRIS Did you try submitting your stuff to other theatres? WILLIAM Yes. This is the fifty-forth time someone's asked me this question over the past week. I've been counting. A pause. CHRIS I see. Well, at least you're not serving the Great Bitch. You'd have it all, a theatre of your own, servants, chambermaids. Unfortunately, there's always a price to pay. You wouldn't feel much like writing. He goes over to the window, looks out. WILLIAM Now, where was I when you interrupted me, as is your ghastly habit? CHRIS In fact, I came to invite you to see a show tomorrow. WILLIAM What show? CHRIS A new play at the Blackfriars, with a lot of wailing. Some fashionable imitator of the Roman style. My treat. WILLIAM Why do you bother going to those shows? CHRIS They're the easiest way to build one's confidence. When I'm down, when I'm feeling blue, when I begin to doubt myself, I pay the admission fee and see a piece of modern theatre. I come home almost cured, having satisfied myself that no matter how hopeless I might deem my poor self, there are people out there who are more hopeless still. And then there are women. WILLIAM Eh? CHRIS Oh, just a thought. There's a woman standing across the street who resembles your wife rather closely, and she seems to be looking for something or someone. Which reminds me - your wife was looking for you. WILLIAM She's here? Chris shrugs, walks away from the window. William stands transfixed. CHRIS Why do I always forget what her name is? Something abominably trivial. Mary Jane? Listen, that sonnet you wanted to show me.... WILLIAM My wife? He rushes to the window, looks out, jumps away, turns pale. CHRIS You look troubled. WILLIAM Please, Chris. You have to do something. I can't see her just now. CHRIS Well, you could slip out the back door and take a long walk. WILLIAM Brilliant! He rushes to the door. Suddenly, he stops. CHRIS What now? WILLIAM Ah, blithering idiot! The hanky! He dashes to the basin, picks up the ice pick and makes a feverish attempt to extricate the hanky. CHRIS May I.... WILLIAM I can't go out without my hanky. It's beastly cold out, and my nose will start running immediately. CHRIS You're so vain, Wobbly. WILLIAM Just don't even ask. Enter Anne. ANNE William! A painful pause. William sighs ruefully, shrugs, looks at her. WILLIAM Why don't you ever knock? ANNE What! CHRIS Listen, guys, I think I'll just drop by later. William, remember, we're going to see that play. WILLIAM Yes, all right. Chris smiles, bows to Anne. CHRIS Madam, your servant. Anne more or less ignores him. He wraps himself up and exits stage-left. ANNE Aren't you glad to see me? A pause. WILLIAM Yes, very glad. ANNE Give me a kiss? He walks over to her, hesitates, kisses her. She throws herself on his neck. ANNE Oh, William, I missed you so much. The kids miss you too. WILLIAM How's Suzanne? ANNE (disengaging, pouting) She's all right. (a pause) Why does it always have to be Suzanne? Always! Never Hamnet, never Judith, always Suzanne! She's the least amiable of the three. She's naughty. She's wayward. Whenever I try to remonstrate with her, she always says, "Daddy would only approve," or "Daddy told you to stay out of these matters." She's intolerable. WILLIAM (smiles) She's lovely. A pause. ANNE Oh, all right. She's lovely. But she misses you too. It's all your fault. WILLIAM My fault! You're the one who took them away. ANNE You forced me. Do you imagine we could live in this dump? Look at this place. I'll bet you have rats here. It's cold, it's filthy. The children need fresh air and at least one square meal every day. WILLIAM Yes. I suppose they do. ANNE I just don't understand you. What is it that you find so wonderful about this city? WILLIAM There are no theatres in the countryside. ANNE Yes, there are. There are touring companies. WILLIAM They don't accept outsiders' manuscripts. ANNE Oh, and I suppose that here, in this city, people just snap up those manuscripts, just seize them even before you finish them, and pay you in gold for them. William, you must face it at last. You've been at it for years. No one needs your writing. It's good, it's amusing, but it just doesn't fit the requirements. WILLIAM I do get produced. ANNE Yes, by a company that doesn't make enough money even to pay its own actors. William, darling, you must leave this place and come back with me. Your father has agreed to give you a job at one of his shops. WILLIAM Oh, so you've been talking to Dad, haven't you? ANNE Who do you think has been supporting us all this time? Do you imagine that four people can subsist on the miserly sums you send us from time to time; that these sums can keep us fed and clothed and sheltered? William, if you still love me, even just a little bit, please come with me. WILLIAM You know, Anne, each time you bring up this lovely topic, it only makes our rift more obvious. ANNE You don't love me anymore? A pause. WILLIAM I was a boy of eighteen, and I met a woman, vital, open-minded, sweet, perfectly capable of thinking for herself. I fell in love instantly, irrevocably. Every morning we woke up smiling, both of us. We were children of light. Then, gradually, almost imperceptibly, this woman began to change. I was quite puzzled at first to discover that we had different value systems. Quite sure of her natural charms, she decided it was no longer necessary to listen when I had something to say, to look when I pointed something out to her in the street, to smile when I complimented her, to feel special when I planted an eager kiss on her gentle foot. To suffer when I suffered, to dream when I dreamt, to cover her face when I gnashed my teeth in frustration. She developed certain traits that would be natural in a merchant's wife but were completely alien to my spirit. Suddenly, our one world cracked down the middle, and the two halves started drifting away from each other. Everything we once shared vanished. I flatter myself that my own value system never really changed much. I loved that Anne - the sweet, beautiful Anne of rainy mornings and forest murmurs, crossing a field with a graceful gait; this Anne - no longer caring what I think of her appearance, no longer bothering to conceal her mundane purposes, this Anne who refuses to give me another chance while planning and restructuring my life for me behind my back, conferring with my father, this Anne I never loved. A pause. ANNE I don't quite see why you think I'm a different woman now because I hate this place you live in. WILLIAM Then by George go and see and eye doctor! This place is all I can afford at this point, and it's much better than most places in which today's authors and actors live. Here, when I get out in the street, I hear human speech instead of my father's advice; I see people's faces instead of cows and pigs; this is my world, and I'm sorry it has failed to become yours too. ANNE I've always been afraid of this, William. WILLIAM Oh? ANNE Did it ever occur to you that, in marriage, compromise was a necessary component? Perhaps the most important one? WILLIAM I thought it was trust. ANNE (not listening) Throughout our relationship, I've always been the one who sacrificed, yielded, and obeyed. You only think of yourself; you never asked me what I wanted in this life; what my dreams were. You were selfish enough to presume that my sole purpose was to assist you in attaining fame. For you sake, I abandoned my friends, left my education unfinished, learned to be a quick and good cook and housekeeper. I too used to have ambitions, but they weren't important to you; so, I abandoned them. WILLIAM I never asked you to do any of that. ANNE Oh, no? WILLIAM (firmly) No. A pause. ANNE We would have never survived otherwise. I always washed and sowed and took care of the children and cooked. You were always out drinking, or seeing plays, or conversing with suspicious characters. The only time you'd be home was when you thought you had to write something. And your acting career is a joke. You know it's just a sinecure for you, yet another way to amuse yourself. You know you're a lousy actor, William. WILLIAM You remind me of street peddlers who force dubious services on you and then demand to be paid for them. ANNE You don't have to insult me! WILLIAM Our last four years, Anne. Remember them? Each time I came home, I would be subjected to an atmosphere of quiet hostility. Yes, you always liked my writing - but you imagined, as you still do, that it just materialized out of nothing, that no work, no considerable effort ever went into it. Each time I came home, you'd demand that I immediately start doing something - some chore, and then take offence because I wouldn't. You'd take offence because I didn't pay any attention to the children. You'd take offence because I threw my clothes all over the place. Because I didn't want to talk to you. Because I didn't want dinner. You'd pout and refuse to speak to me, and I would have to leave again, because writing is the kind of business in which it is impossible to accomplish anything when there is hostility around you, especially when it's directed at you personally. You asked me whether it ever occurred to me that compromise was important. Well, I ask you, did it ever occur to you that in the past ten years, each time I tried to work at home, I never wrote a passage without being interrupted by you, interrupted with a most innocent smile? that you have an amazing ability to come up with the stupidest questions or comments whenever I sit down to work? that each time, each fucking time, Anne, you would apologize for the interruption, and would go on apologizing until there was no question of my getting some of the concentration back? ANNE (savagely) Well, I'm sorry! WILLIAM You don't need to do it even now. ANNE A spare room for you to work in would have solved, can still solve, every problem in this family. The country air.... WILLIAM Men are so made, Anne, that, even if I could manage to keep you and your voice out of that room, and forbade you to ever knock on its door in order to call my attention to something or other, I would probably feel guilty each time I entered it. ANNE You will regret this. WILLIAM I know. ANNE Is there another woman in your life? A pause. Anne goes up to him and looks him in the eye. He is silent. There is, isn't there? Tell me. He grabs the ice pick and begins working it furiously. Presently, he injures his finger. He cries out and sucks on it. Anne turns sharply and goes off, almost bumping into Betsy as she exits. I beg your pardon. (to William) If you change your mind, you're always welcome at our house. By the way, do you have any money? WILLIAM Er.... why? ANNE I need some to get back. Well, never mind, I'll ask my sister. She's only a few blocks from here; she just married a grocer. BETSY I'm sorry. Anne exits. Betsy, dressed as a boy, scans the room, takes a deep breath. She looks at William and suddenly gasps and covers her mouth in horror. William looks at her, still sucking his finger. I'm.... I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something? (a pause) Are you one of Lord Chamberlain's men? WILLIAM Yes. BETSY I.... WILLIAM What do you want, boy? People just aren't tactful anymore. BETSY I'd like to join your company. WILLIAM Then you must speak to the manager. BETSY But there's no one else in the whole house. Everyone's gone out. WILLIAM Yeah.... Well.... He turns to her, squints, stops sucking his finger, goes to the table. BETSY It's just that I really want to be an actor. It's very important to me, you see. WILLIAM (not looking at her; absent-mindedly) Well, well. BETSY I'd like to try out for your company. Please, may I? WILLIAM (absently) Yeah, all right. BETSY So, what do I do? WILLIAM (turns to her) Well, normally they'd give you a page from a play, and you'd read it aloud, and they'd see whether you could act or not. (giggles) BETSY May I do that now? WILLIAM What? Oh. (suppresses a laugh) I'm sorry, I'm not really into it just now. Could you come back later? BETSY Please, sir. I may not have the courage later. I'm very nervous even now. WILLIAM Oh, well. He picks a page from the pile on the table at random, hands it to her, goes to the basin, takes the pick, puts it down again. BETSY (looking at the page) You want me to read this? WILLIAM Yeah. Go ahead. He turns away, goes over to the table. Presently, he picks up a manuscript and stares at it. BETSY (somewhat puzzled) Dear William. I'm afraid that we will have to disappoint you again by turning the script down and by saying that we don't feel your work is suited to our theatre. This play is so labyrinthine in terms of plot and narrative that it's impossible to get a hold of what is going on, a confusion which was not helped by a lack of internal logic and a somewhat liberally interpreted pentameter. I'm sorry to disappoint you again. However, I would suggest that you try attending some workshops which might help to develop your work and to establish what works and what doesn't dramatically. Yours Sincerely.... er.... (stammers) Joanne Coleridge.... Duchess of Mulberry. William drops the manuscript on the table. He frowns, walks over to Betsy, snatches the letter from her. WILLIAM Give me that. (scans it) Oh. The lady's been quick this time. Poor Romeo. (as an afterthought, shrugging) Stupid bitch. Betsy puts her palm to her mouth. William laughs, crumples the letter, goes over to the table, picks out another sheet. Here. This may be better in terms of grammar, if anything. Betsy accepts the sheet, looks over it. He says without looking at her, With a voice like that, you'll be assigned women's parts most of the time. BETSY I understand that. I wouldn't mind. WILLIAM Have you acted before? BETSY Er.... no. WILLIAM How old are you? BETSY Seventeen. WILLIAM How's your memory? Can you memorize lines quickly? BETSY (looking up from the sheet) I.... Actually.... I haven't tried. WILLIAM Sit down. She does. He looks at her calmly. She smiles shyly. BETSY Why are you looking at me like that? WILLIAM Where were you born? BETSY (promptly, showing determination) In Wales. WILLIAM West Country, eh? I see. Do you know any Latin? BETSY (promptly) Some. WILLIAM Parents living? BETSY (promptly) Yes. WILLIAM Do you drink much? BETSY (promptly) No. WILLIAM When did you have your last period? BETSY (promptly) Two weeks ago. A pause. She realizes her blunder and is about to protest. He interrupts her quickly by placing his hand on hers. WILLIAM Please. He walks over to the window, looks out. BETSY I'm very sorry, sir. WILLIAM Why this particular company, pray? Aren't there better companies in this city? BETSY (on the verge of tears) I thought I'd have to start somewhere. WILLIAM At the bottom. Eh? BETSY I'm very sorry I've taken up so much of your time. She rises, goes to the door stage-right, carrying the sheet with her absent-mindedly. WILLIAM Stop. BETSY It's all right. WILLIAM Stop! He rushes after her, grabs her by the arm. He drags her back to the chair, forces her to sit down. Sometimes things are done best when they are done on a whim. What's theatre life but a network of quirks? Poor Anne, noble Anne, brave Anne. You're the girl I met at the Bridge. BETSY Yes, and I'm really sorry I interrupted you in the middle of something.... WILLIAM Yes, I was trying to figure out how much money I could get for my hat. BETSY (joyously) Really? WILLIAM Yes. BETSY (relieved) And I thought you were composing poetry, so I thought, oh my, I must have ruined a masterpiece just now! Oh, I'm so glad.... WILLIAM (suspiciously) How did you know I was a poet? BETSY Oh, I can usually tell these things. You see a person talking to himself without moving his lips. The absent look. The head is thrown back a little bit. People keep bumping into him, and he doesn't turn around to tell them off.... WILLIAM I usually do.... Oh, but that's Chris! That's exactly his habit. He always composes in the street. BETSY Chris? (suddenly cautious, blushing) You know Chris? WILLIAM Not exactly. Only Chris really knows Chris. But we are acquainted. You must be Betsy. He told me you were a bit eccentric. BETSY (suspiciously) What else did he tell you about me? WILLIAM Oh, lots of things. However, let us continue our little experiment. It's getting interesting. He paces, pondering. Suddenly, he runs to the table, looks through the pile of manuscripts, extracts a page. He speaks to her sternly and she cowers. Here, go through this quickly. Then you'll read it out loud to me. Is that clear? BETSY Why are you looking at me like that? You're frightening me. I'm scared. WILLIAM That's what auditions are all about. Go ahead. Betsy glances at the pages, reads the first lines. BETSY (monotonously) I am a princess, sir.... (looks up at William; quickly and expressively) I am a princess, sir. A heart of ice Beats in my chest. I cannot love as freely As common people do. The sacred duty Of.... monarchs..... is to be.... equally suave.... (she begins to sob convulsively) WILLIAM Hold it, hold it. Calm down, will you! She stops reading; she sobs desperately. He is looking at her critically. He squints, takes a deep breath, paces, suddenly swoops on her. Now, you see, you're a princess. You were brought up in a certain way, all right? Like, there should be some inherent like dignity here, some hauteur, some natural arrogance. At the same time, you're a woman, a woman in love, and suffering. Think about it. You're telling the man you love to beat it in order to preserve your mission in life. You're also telling him