CURTISS: Anything else, sir? [BRECKENRIDGE
does not move
] Mr. Breckenridge . . . [
No answer
] Is anything the matter, sir?
BRECKENRIDGE: [
Absently
] Oh . . . no . . . no . . . I was just wondering . . . [
Points at the portrait
] Do you think that in the centuries to come people will say he was a great man? [
Turns to face
CURTISS] Is it a good likeness of me, Curtiss? [CURTISS
sees the gun and steps back with a little gasp
] What’s the matter?
CURTISS: Mr. Breckenridge!
BRECKENRIDGE: What’s the matter with you?
CURTISS: Don’t do it, sir! Whatever it is, don’t do it! BRECKENRIDGE: [
Looks at him in amazement, then notices the gun in his own hand and bursts out laughing
] Oh, that? . . . I’m sorry, Curtiss. I’d quite forgotten I held it.
CURTISS: But, sir . . .
BRECKENRIDGE: Oh, I just sent the car down to meet Mrs. Breckenridge at the station, and I didn’t want her to find this in the car, so I brought it in. We mustn’t tell her about . . . you know, about why I have to carry this. It would only worry her.
CURTISS: Yes, of course, sir. I’m so sorry. It just gave me a jolt.
BRECKENRIDGE: I don’t blame you. You know, I hate the damn thing myself. [
Walks to a cabinet and slips the gun into a drawer
] Funny, isn’t it? I’m actually afraid of it. And when I think of all the deadly stuff I’ve handled in the laboratory. Radioactive elements. Cosmic rays. Things that could wipe out the whole population of the state of Connecticut. Never been afraid of them. In fact, never felt anything at all. But this . . . [
Points to the drawer
] Do you suppose it’s my old age and I’m being sensitive about any . . . reminder?
CURTISS: [
Reproachfully
] Your old age, sir!
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, time passes, Curtiss, time passes. Why do they celebrate birthdays? It’s just one year closer to the grave. And there’s so much to be done. [
Looks at the portrait
] That’s what I was thinking when you came in. Have I done enough in my life? Have I done enough?
[SERGE SOOKIN
enters through the French doors.
SERGE
is about thirty-two, pale, blond, with the face and the manner of a fervent idealist. His clothes are neat, but very poor. His arms are loaded with an enormous bunch of freshly cut flowers
]
Ah, Serge . . . thank you. . . . So kind of you to help us.
SERGE: I hope this flowers Mrs. Breckenridge will like.
BRECKENRIDGE: She loves flowers. We must have lots of flowers. . . . Over here, Serge. . . . [
Indicating the vases as
SERGE
arranges the flowers
] We’ll put them here—and over there, on the cabinet—and on the fireplace, just one or two sprays on the fireplace.
SERGE: [
Wistfully
] By us in Moscow, we had the more beautiful flowers.
BRECKENRIDGE: Try not to think of all that, Serge. There are things it’s best to forget. [To CURTISS] Have you taken care of the cigarettes, Curtiss?
[CURTISS
busies himself filling cigarette boxes
]
SERGE: [
Grimly
] There are the things never one can forget. But I am so sorry. That we should not discuss about. Not today, no? This is a great day.
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes, Serge. This is a great day for me. [
Indicating an armchair
] I don’t think that chair is right, over there. Curtiss, would you move it please this way, to the table? [
As
CURTISS
obeys
] That’s better, thank you. We must have everything right, Curtiss. For our guests. They are very important guests.
CURTISS: Yes, sir.
[
From offstage, there comes the sound of Tchaikovsky’s “Autumn Song” expertly played on the piano.
BRECKENRIDGE
looks in the direction of the sound, a little annoyed, then shrugs and turns to
SERGE]
BRECKENRIDGE: You will meet some very interesting people today, Serge. I want you to meet them. Perhaps it will give you a better idea of me. You know, one can judge a man best by his friends.
SERGE: [
Looking up the stairs, a little grimly
] Not always, I hope.
BRECKENRIDGE: [
Looking up
] Oh, Steve? You mustn’t mind Steve. You mustn’t let him upset you.
SERGE: [
Coldly
] Mr. Ingalls he is not kind.
BRECKENRIDGE: No. Steve’s never been kind. But then, you know, strictly speaking, Steve is not a friend. He’s my business partner—just a junior partner, as we call it, but darn useful. One of the best physicists in the country.
SERGE: You are so modest, Mr. Breckenridge. You are in the country the greatest physicist. That everybody knows.
BRECKENRIDGE: Perhaps everybody but me.
SERGE: You are to mankind the benefactor. But Mr. Ingalls he is not a friend to the world. In his heart for the world there is no place. Today the world needs friends. BRECKENRIDGE: That’s true. But—
[
Doorbell rings.
CURTISS
opens the door.
HARVEY FLEMING
stands on the threshold. He is a man in his late forties, tall, gaunt, disreputably unkempt. He looks like anything but an “important” guest: he needs a shave, his clothes need pressing; he is not drunk, but not quite sober. He carries a small, battered overnight bag. He stands for a moment, studying the room glumly
]
CURTISS: [
Bowing
] Good afternoon, sir. Come right in, sir.
FLEMING: [
Enters, without removing his hat. Snaps glumly
:] Billy arrived yet?
CURTISS: Yes, sir.
BRECKENRIDGE: [
Advancing toward
FLEMING
with a broad smile
] Well, Harvey! Greetings and welcome. Harvey, I want you to meet—
FLEMING: [
Nods curtly in the general direction of
BRECKENRIDGE
and
SERGE] Hello. [
To
CURTISS] Where’s Billy’s room?
CURTISS: This way, sir.
[FLEMING
exits with him through door Right, without a glance at the others
]
SERGE: [
A little indignant
] But what is the matter?
BRECKENRIDGE: You mustn’t mind him, Serge. He is a very unhappy man. [
Looks impatiently in the direction of the music
] I do wish Tony would stop playing.
SERGE: It is so sad, this piece. It is not appropriate today.
BRECKENRIDGE: Ask him to stop, will you?
[SERGE
exits Right while
BRECKENRIDGE
continues rearranging the room. The music stops.
SERGE
returns, followed by
TONY GODDARD
.
TONY
is young, tall, slender, modestly dressed, and a little high-strung, which he does his best to conceal.
BRECKENRIDGE
speaks gaily:
]
Did you notice that there’s a phonograph right by the piano, Tony? Why didn’t you put on a record by Egon Richter? He plays that piece ever so much better. TONY: It
was
the record.
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, well! That’s one on me.
TONY: I know you don’t like to hear me playing.
BRECKENRIDGE: I? Why shouldn’t I, Tony?
TONY: I’m sorry. . . . [
Indifferently, but not at all offensively
] Have I wished you a happy birthday, Mr. Breckenridge?
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes, of course you have. When you arrived. Why, Tony! How unflattering!
TONY: Guess I shouldn’t have asked. Makes it worse. I always do things like that.
BRECKENRIDGE: Anything wrong, Tony?
TONY: No. No. [
Listlessly
] Where are our host and hostess?
BRECKENRIDGE: [
With a broad smile
] They haven’t arrived.
TONY: Not yet?
BRECKENRIDGE: No.
TONY: Isn’t that rather peculiar?
BRECKENRIDGE: Why, no. Mrs. Dawson asked me to take care of everything—it was very kind of her, she wanted so much to please me.
SERGE: It is unusual, no?—your preparing the party for your own birthday in the house of somebody else?
BRECKENRIDGE: Oh, the Dawsons are old friends of mine—and they insisted that they wanted to give the party and give it here.
TONY: Well, the house isn’t old. It doesn’t look as if they’d ever lived in it.
BRECKENRIDGE: It was built very recently.
STEVE INGALLS: [
From the top of the stairway
] And in very bad taste.
[INGALLS
is a man of about forty, tall and lean, with a hard, inscrutable face. He looks like a man who should have great energy—and his appearance is a contrast to his manner and movements: slow, lazy, casual, indifferent. He wears simple sports clothes. He comes lazily down the stairs, while
BRECKENRIDGE
speaks sharply, looking up at him:
]
BRECKENRIDGE: Was that necessary, Steve?
INGALLS: Not at all. They could have chosen a better architect.
BRECKENRIDGE: That’s not what I meant.
INGALLS: Don’t be obvious, Walter. Was there ever a time when I didn’t know what you meant? [
To
TONY] Hello, Tony. You here, too? As was to be expected. Sacrificial offerings—needed at one’s birthday party.
SERGE: [
Stiffly
] It is
Mr. Breckenridge’s
birthday party.
INGALLS: So it is.
SERGE: If you think you—
BRECKENRIDGE: Please, Serge. Really, Steve, do let’s drop the personal remarks just for today, shall we? Particularly about the house and particularly when the Dawsons arrive.
INGALLS: When or if?
BRECKENRIDGE: What do you mean?
INGALLS: And another thing, Walter, is that you always know what I mean.
BRECKENRIDGE: [
Does not answer. Then looks impatiently at door Right
] I wish they’d bring Billy out. What is he doing there with Harvey? [
Goes to ring bell
]
TONY: Who else is coming?
BRECKENRIDGE: We’re almost all here, except Adrienne. I’ve sent the car to meet Helen.
SERGE: Adrienne? It is not perhaps Miss Adrienne Knowland?
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes.
CURTISS: Yes, sir?
BRECKENRIDGE: Please tell Mr. Kozinsky to bring Billy out here.
CURTISS: Yes, sir. [
Exits Right
]
SERGE: It is not the great Adrienne Knowland?
INGALLS: There’s only one Adrienne Knowland, Serge. But the adjective is optional.
SERGE: Oh, I am so happy that I should meet her in the person! I have seen her in that so beautiful play—
Little Women.
I have wondered so often what she is like in the real life. I have thought she must be sweet and lovely—like Mademoiselle Shirley Temple in the cinema, when I was a little boy in Moscow. INGALLS: Yeah?
BRECKENRIDGE: Please, Steve. We know you don’t like Adrienne, but couldn’t you control it for just a few hours?
[HARVEY FLEMING
enters Right and holds the door open for
FLASH KOZINSKY
, who comes in pushing
BILLY BRECKENRIDGE
in a wheelchair.
BILLY
is a boy of fifteen, pale, thin, strangely quiet and a little too well-mannered.
FLASH
does not carry a college pennant, but “football hero” is written all over him as plainly as if he did. He is young, husky, pleasant-looking, and not too bright. As he wheels the chair in, he bumps it against the doorjamb
]
FLEMING: Careful, you clumsy fool!
BILLY: It’s all right . . . Mr. Fleming.
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, Billy! Feel rested after the trip?
BILLY: Yes, Father.
INGALLS: Hello, Bill.
BILLY: Hello, Steve.
FLASH: [
Turns to
FLEMING
. It has taken all this time to penetrate
] Say, you can’t talk to me like that!
FLEMING: Huh?
FLASH: Who are you to talk to me like that?
FLEMING: Skip it.
BRECKENRIDGE: [
Indicating
SERGE] Billy, you remember Mr. Sookin?
BILLY: How do you do, Mr. Sookin.
SERGE: Good afternoon, Billy. Feeling better, no? You look wonderful.
FLEMING: He looks like hell.
BILLY: I’m all right.
SERGE: You are not comfortable maybe? This pillow it is not right. [
Adjusts the pillow behind
BILLY
’s head
] So! It is better?
BILLY: Thank you.
SERGE: I think the footrest it should be higher. [
Adjusts the footrest
] So?
BILLY: Thank you.
SERGE: I think perhaps it is a little chilly. You want I should bring the warm shawl?
BILLY: [
Very quietly
] Leave me alone, will you please?
BRECKENRIDGE: There, there! Billy’s just a little nervous. The trip was too much for him—in his condition.
[FLEMING
walks brusquely to the sideboard and starts pouring himself a glass of whiskey
]
BILLY: [
His eyes following
FLEMING
anxiously, his voice low and almost pleading
] Don’t do that, Mr. Fleming.
FLEMING: [
Looks at him, then puts the bottle down. Quietly
:] Okay, kid.
SERGE: [
To
BRECKENRIDGE
, in what he intends to be a whisper
] Your poor son, how long he has this paralysis? BRECKENRIDGE: Sh-sh.
BILLY: Six years and four months, Mr. Sookin.
[
There is a moment of embarrassed silence.
FLASH
looks from one face to another, then bursts out suddenly and loudly:
]
FLASH: Well, I don’t know what the rest of you think, but I think Mr. Sookin shouldn’t’ve asked that.
FLEMING: Keep still.
FLASH: Well,
I
think—
[
There is a frightening screech of brakes offstage and the sound of a car being stopped violently. A car door is slammed with a bang and a lovely, husky feminine voice yells: “Goddamn it!”
]