FERRIS: Well, let me see, she is French and a singer. As a matter of fact, she sings in a nightclub.
MOTHER: Your father and I have never been narrow-minded about artists and the stage.
FERRIS: And she is a divorcée.
MOTHER: So are you, darling.
FERRIS: And she has a boy, six years old.
MOTHER: Tell me, son, what is your real misgiving?
(There is a pause. Then FERRIS speaks, his voice is passionate with anguish.)
FERRIS: Oh Mother! I’ve been in love with so many girls, so many times and another and another girl has altered my life. And I’m afraid.
MOTHER: What are you afraid of, son?
FERRIS: Maybe I was so hurt by the divorce, I am afraid of being hurt again. Elizabeth— (MOTHER embraces her son tenderly and holds his face in her hands, she speaks gravely.)
MOTHER: Don’t, son—don’t walk up to life and then walk away from it.
FERRIS: I looked up Elizabeth’s number in the New York telephone book in Grand Central while I was waiting for the train.
MOTHER: Why, son?
FERRIS: I thought I’d call and say hello.
MOTHER: Do you think that wise?
FERRIS: Wise? I suppose not. I looked up the number, wrote it down, but decided not to call. Her husband is William Bailey, a doctor, and they live on East Seventy-sixth Street.
(The telephone rings. FERRIS answers.)
FERRIS: Hello? That’s right. Oh, hello, Miss Williams. Did you get in touch with them? Only John Parker is in town? Well, what’s happened. Ted Anderson is out, huh, in a hospital—White Plains Hospital. Oh, that’s too bad. What about Bob McCoy? In Washington. What’s he doing there? (Pause.) Well, New York never stays still. So there is only a lunch date with Parker at the Algonquin. Well, thanks a million, Miss Williams. See you Saturday morning. (He hangs up receiver. MOTHER, as in former conversation, has not been listening.) That will leave me a long blank afternoon in the city. I do hate New York when I don’t have anything to do.
MOTHER: Tell me about that girl in Rome you wrote me about.
FERRIS: We broke up, I found out she was two-timing me.
MOTHER: She was what?
FERRIS: Nothing, Mother, it is just an expression.
MOTHER: It sounds like a dance step.
FERRIS: It is.
MOTHER: I would so much like to meet the French girl you are interested in. I wish you would bring her home. Her little boy too.
FERRIS: I’ve been thinking along those lines.
MOTHER: If you are in love, and she is worthy of you and loves you, I don’t see why the marriage might not be very happy. You need to settle down and have a wife.
(FERRIS picks up telephone book and walks around library.)
FERRIS: I honestly don’t think why I shouldn’t call Elizabeth.
MOTHER: I don’t think I would call if I were you.
FERRIS: I honestly don’t see why I shouldn’t call Elizabeth—I have practically a whole blank day in New York.
MOTHER: Son, just because you have a blank day in New York is no reason to call Elizabeth.
FERRIS: I’m just saying that there is no reason why I shouldn’t call. I sent them a silver bowl for a wedding present and Elizabeth added in her thank you note to drop in and see them when I came back to America. Besides, Saturday is my birthday. These years I dread my birthdays. (Looks at book again.) I’ve decided I’m going to call Elizabeth. It won’t hurt just to say hello. (He picks up telephone and calls Plaza number.) Plaza 6–1434. This is a person-to-person call to Mrs. William Bailey. (Pause.) The number is Centerville 56. (He waits for connection. MOTHER says while he waits:)
MOTHER: John, I don’t think it is prudent to do this.
FERRIS: Elizabeth, this is Johnny. Why, Johnny Ferris. I’m in Centerville, but I’m going to be in New York Saturday. (Pause.) Yes, I’d love to have drinks with you at your house— That’s 200 E. 76th St.— That will be fine. (In a changed voice, sadly) Yes, I’d like to meet the family. Goodbye—till Saturday.
MOTHER: I really don’t think this is prudent at all. But it is not up to me to interfere. (Pause.) It might be very awkward for Elizabeth.
FERRIS: Elizabeth has never been awkward.
MOTHER: But what about you? And the girl you may marry in Paris and her child?
FERRIS: It doesn’t have anything to do with them.
MOTHER: And Elizabeth’s husband?
FERRIS: I’ve never even met the (was going to say “husband,” but cannot bring himself to say it) Bailey—I have no notion what he’s like.
MOTHER: That’s what I say, it might be very uncomfortable, and John, my darling, you might be hurt.
SCENE V
Place—Studio Location III, the Baileys’ vestibule and living room. The room is tastefully arranged, comfortably furnished. There is a coffee table for drinks and a grand piano. ELIZABETH and BILL BAILEY are sitting on the sofa. Young BILLY is laying the tracks for his train in the corner of the vestibule.
BAILEY: You can think of the damnedest things, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: Why, it was the most natural thing in the world. Johnny Ferris called me and I invited him for drinks and to meet the family.
BAILEY: How am I supposed to act?
ELIZABETH: Why, just act natural, of course.
BAILEY: What does he like to drink?
ELIZABETH: Everything and anything. It’s an occupational disease of writing sort of people.
(A lock of ELIZABETH’s hair has fallen loose and BAILEY is arranging it.)
ELIZABETH: Is my hair messy?
BAILEY: Extremely.
ELIZABETH: I’ll go do it.
(The doorbell rings which BILLY answers.)
BILLY: Is this Mr. Ferris? I’m Billy.
(BAILEY goes to the vestibule to meet FERRIS.)
BAILEY: I’m Bill Bailey. Glad to see you.
ELIZABETH CALLING FROM BEDROOM: I’ll be there in a minute, Johnny. Bill, make Johnny at home. I’ll bring the drinks.
(FERRIS and BAILEY sit awkwardly. They are obviously straining to do the right thing and are very ill at ease.)
BAILEY: I understand from Elizabeth that you are a foreign newspaper correspondent.
FERRIS: And you are a doctor, I understand.
BAILEY: It must be interesting work, travelling and talking to foreign people.
FERRIS (jerks head toward vestibule where BILLY is still crouching over his trains): Fine boy you have there.
BAILEY: We think so. (Unable to stand strain he says:) What would you like to drink? Martini—Old Grand-Dad?
FERRIS: Old Grand-Dad would be fine.
BAILEY: I’ll just bring in the tray.
(FERRIS is left alone for a very few minutes. BILLY is fooling with the trains, he begins a song he heard somewhere. The first words are almost a whisper.)
BILLY: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. (Lustily:) Oh, show me a woman a man can trust.”
(BAILEY returns with tray of drinks and puts it on the coffee table.)
BAILEY (to BILLY): Billy, how do you pick up these awful songs?
(ELIZABETH enters with SUZETTE in her arms. She is a little girl of about two, beautifully dressed. She settles her on her father’s lap, then turns to FERRIS.)
ELIZABETH: I’m so very glad—it’s time you met the family.
BAILEY (to SUZETTE): How’s my old Candy?
FERRIS: You’ve hardly changed at all, Elizabeth, but it’s been a long time.
ELIZABETH: Eight years.
FERRIS: Everything seems changed in New York, everybody was away—I couldn’t find anybody, only John Parker, and he looks so old.
ELIZABETH: Are you going to stay abroad forever, John? You’re not going to be an expatriate, are you?
FERRIS: Expatriate—I don’t much like the word.
ELIZABETH: What’s a better word?
FERRIS: Sojourner might do.
ELIZABETH: What brings you back here, Johnny?
FE
RRIS: I haven’t had a chance to tell you, Elizabeth. I came unexpectedly. You see, Papa died last week.
ELIZABETH: Papa Ferris is dead!
FERRIS: Yes. He was pruning the rose bushes one afternoon and it suddenly happened. Thrombosis. He was sixty-four years old. The funeral was at home.
ELIZABETH: Oh, I’m so sorry, John. Papa Ferris was always one of my favorite people. I can’t think of him dead.
(BILLY, who has been listening to this conversation, moves to arm of ELIZABETH’s chair. He is looking at his mother’s face.)
BILLY: Who is dead?
ELIZABETH: Mr. Ferris’ father, Billy. A really grand person. Somebody you didn’t know.
BILLY: Why do you call him Papa Ferris?
(ELIZABETH and BAILEY exchange a trapped look while BILLY watches them.)
BAILEY (deliberately and gently): A long time ago your mother and Mr. Ferris were once married. Before you were born. A long time ago.
BILLY (unbelieving): Mr. Ferris?
(The child is staring at FERRIS, and FERRIS is reminded of VALENTIN. For a moment the camera shows VALENTIN, then focuses again on BILLY.)
BAILEY: It’s somebody’s supper time. Come on now.
BILLY: But Daddy! Mama and Mr. Ferris—
BAILEY: Quick march! (He carries SUZETTE to door.) Say goodnight, son.
BILLY (to FERRIS): Goodnight, Mr. Ferris. (To ELIZABETH:) I thought I was staying up for the cake.
(FERRIS and ELIZABETH are alone with the weight of the situation. He goes up to piano and looks at music rack.)
FERRIS: Do you still play as beautifully as you used to?
ELIZABETH: I still enjoy it.
FERRIS: Please play, Elizabeth.
(ELIZABETH goes to piano and begins a Schubert piece, simple and lyrical. As FERRIS listens to the familiar music his face is turned from the camera and we hear the narration of his thoughts:)
FERRIS’ VOICE: Why have I come here? (Pause.) What have I to do with these Baileys? I feel myself an interloper. (Pause.) The invisible wall that separates happy families from outsiders—the dangerous, the unhappy, the alone. In this family room my own life seems so solitary (pause)—a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.
BILLY’S VOICE FROM BEDROOM: Daddy, how could Mama and Mr. Ferris—
(The music is finished and ELIZABETH closes the music volume.)
FERRIS: I’m going to be married soon. A French girl—a singer. We met in Paris last fall. And she has a six-year-old son.
ELIZABETH: That makes me very glad to know. Congratulations, Johnny. Tell me about her. Is she pretty?
FERRIS: Very pretty.
ELIZABETH: I’m so glad you are settling down, Johnny. You were always so fickle.
FERRIS: Fickle?
(There is the sound of singing—“Happy Birthday.” BILLY enters with a cake and puts it on the table. BAILEY stands at doorway and they are all singing. FERRIS is amazed when he realizes the birthday singing is for him. He looks at cake with one candle.)
ELIZABETH: Happy birthday, Johnny.
FERRIS: Today is my birthday. In the confusion of this day I had forgotten until just now. I ought to remember. How in the world did you remember? I never knew such a woman.
ELIZABETH: The 20th of November. I suddenly remembered this afternoon.
FERRIS (confused, worried): How old, thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?
ELIZABETH: Forty, I think, Johnny.
(BILLY begins “Happy Birthday” again as . . .)
SCENE VI
Camera shows an aeroplane in sky and we hear sound of FERRIS’ voice.
FERRIS: Forty years old—one half of a lifetime or is it two-thirds or three-fourths? The years have been so scattered and how can I grasp the time that is left me. Will they always be years of moving, years of changing places, changing loves and what is it that makes this terror?
SCENE VII
JEANNINE’s apartment. VALENTIN is alone in the living room, squatting on the floor, drawing carefully.
FERRIS: Hello, Butch. You ought to be in bed.
VALENTIN: J’attends Mama. I’m sad.
FERRIS: What are you sad about?
VALENTIN: Because I ought to be in bed. How is your dead papa in America? Is he okay?
(FERRIS sits wearily in chair.)
FERRIS: What’s that you’re drawing?
VALENTIN: The Club de Paris. (Shows drawing.) That is the orchestra and this is Mama singing her numbers.
FERRIS: What’s that scratchy looking thing?
VALENTIN: The music and the smoke.
FERRIS: In New York I saw my former wife and went to her apartment. She has a little boy. He’s not as old as you are but he’s bigger.
VALENTIN: Is it better to be older or bigger?
FERRIS: My former wife is beautiful—almost as beautiful as your Mama. I met her husband and her children and I felt so strange. It was my birthday and they surprised me with a birthday cake, with one candle.
VALENTIN: Tell me about the little boy—does he have a cat? Why? (His hand reaches up to FERRIS’ temple which is throbbing visibly.) Why is your heart beating in your forehead where you don’t have much hair?
FERRIS: Too many birthdays, Butch, I reckon. (Pause.) I told Elizabeth that I was going to marry your mother. How would you like that? Then you would be my little boy.
VALENTIN: Will I be bigger then?
FERRIS: Elizabeth mentioned I was fickle. You know I’m not fickle. You know I love you.
VALENTIN: Sometimes I know it.
FERRIS: We’ll go to America and I’ll get work in New York.
VALENTIN (touching FERRIS’ temple then returns to floor): Why is your heart beating in your forehead?
FERRIS (speaking in manner that is the same as in the opening narration): We’ll have a family and there will be around us the invisible walls that separate families from all others—the dangerous, the unhappy, the alone. (We will no longer be like fragile columns supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of years.)
(VALENTIN, who has returned to his drawing, looks up at him questioningly as he is talking almost to himself. FERRIS notices his curiosity and beckons him to his lap. VALENTIN cuddles against him contentedly.)
FERRIS: I know this is grown folks’ talk but it has to be said to somebody. For it occurs to me that love and the family is the only thing that can dominate the pulse of time. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the Puppet Show.
(The music which has risen to crescendo diminishes.)
VALENTIN: M. Ferris, it’s too late, the Grand Guignol is now closed. It comes again in spring.
THE SQUARE ROOT OF WONDERFUL
The Square Root of Wonderful was first presented by Saint-Subber and Figaro, Inc., at the National Theater, New York City, on October 30, 1957.
CAST (in order of appearance)
PARIS LOVEJOY Kevin Coughlin
MOLLIE LOVEJOY Anne Baxter
JOHN TUCKER Philip Abbott
LOREENA LOVEJOY Martine Bartlett
MOTHER LOVEJOY Jean Dixon
PHILLIP LOVEJOY William Smithers
JOEY BARNES Kippy Campbell
Directed by GEORGE KEATHLEY
Scenery and lighting by JO MIELZINER
Costumes by NOEL TAYLOR
A Personal Preface
MANY PEOPLE have asked me why I like writing for the theatre. I wrote The Member of the Wedding first as a book and it took me five years. Once the novel was finished I had that happy, depleted feeling a writer has after finishing a long stretch of work. I had no notion at the time that I would dramatize it. Then Tennessee Williams wrote me about the book and asked me if I would come and spend the summer with him on Nantucket and I accepted the invitation.
During that sea-summer lit with the glow of a new friendship (we had not met before and had known each other only through our work) he suggested I do The Member of the Wedding as a play.
I was hesitant at first, knowing nothing about the theatre. I had seen only about te
n plays in my life, including high school Hamlets and Vagabond Kings, but the visual and dramatic aspects of the novel I had written compelled me. Tennessee borrowed a typewriter for me and we settled down to the same dining table. He was working on Summer and Smoke while I began the play version of The Member of the Wedding. We would work from ten to two and then go to the beach on sunny days or read poetry aloud when it rained. Tennessee and I have spent many ocean-summers since and our friendship is a continuing joy and inspiration to me.
Despite forecasts of disaster the vitality and truth of the play, magnificently produced and performed was immediately appreciated. My own financial problems were solved and, most important, I fell in love with the theatre. The play was a new and radiant creative experience to me.
When people ask why I write for the theatre I can only counter with another question. Why does anyone write at all? I suppose a writer writes out of some inward compulsion to transform his own experience (much of it is unconscious) into the universal and symbolical. The themes the artist chooses are always deeply personal. I suppose my central theme is the theme of spiritual isolation. Certainly I have always felt alone. In addition to being lonely, a writer is also amorphous. A writer soon discovers he has no single identity but lives the lives of all the people he creates and his weathers are independent of the actual day around him. I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.
In The Square Root of Wonderful I recognize many of the compulsions that made me write this play. My husband wanted to be a writer and his failure in that was one of the disappointments that led to his death. When I started The Square Root of Wonderful my mother was very ill and after a few months she died. I wanted to re-create my mother—to remember her tranquil beauty and sense of joy in life. So, unconsciously, the life-death theme of The Square Root of Wonderful emerged.
Present-day audiences have been accustomed to plays that have a single emotional direction. If it’s a modern tragedy the overtones of tragedy are undisturbed by the comedy of the every day. In the modern comedy such themes as death and failure are so subordinated that they are almost inexistent. Yet audiences do respond to tragi-comedy when the absurd and painful truths of life are combined in a single line.