WILLIAM JAY SMITH  |  The Straw Market

Tom Lignon as Wilson Brush, The Straw Market, Hollins College, 1966

ACT I, Scene 1

(The Headlight Bar on the Via Tornabuoni in Florence, just off the Ponte Santa Trinita. The popular gathering place of the Anglo-American colony in Florence, visiting tourists, and an odd assortment of titled and conspicuously unemployed Florentines of varying ages and sexes, the Headlight Bar is not an unattractive spot, but resembles, somewhat incongruously, a Mexican tearoom. The walls are of orange plaster with here and there the suggestion of an arch. Posts of lucent greenery, ivy and mother-in-law’s tongue, are suspended from the ceiling. The light brackets are of cast iron and a huge black iron kettle, serving no apparent purpose, hangs below a series of reproductions of Benozzo Gozzoli. On another wall, a general of Simone Martini, in a gilded reproduction, rides eternally on across the delicate Sienese hills.

Over the central door at the rear, opening from the street, hangs a red bead curtain through which the bright April sunlight floods in whenever anyone enters. On either side of it are long ogival leaded windows hung with lace curtains, through which, at odd moments, peers the lined and terrifying face of a wrinkled beggar woman.

The bar, right, is all dark wood and knobs, like some unidentifiable pre-Columbian altar, enshrining a bright Espresso machine and a few votive bottles. Immediately adjacent to it, downstage, is the entrance to the kitchen, cloakroom, and lavatories. Its dark velvet draperies give it the air of an anteroom of the Borgias.

MARIO, the bartender, in a white jacket, stands impassive and expressionless, when not stirring a cocktail, with one hand resting on the Espresso machine. From time to time, he leans over, whispering and taking orders from MARINA, the waitress, but never once smiles or changes his expression. MARINA rushes about from table to table, never still. A plump speckled thing in a shapeless white smock, she is always leaning over to enjoy a joke or flinging a “Ciao, caro!” to a departing customer and displaying to the full her network of gold teeth. At the moment she is delivering a toasted cheese sandwich and an espresso to PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN, who is seated unobtrusively beneath the iron kettle. Next to him, guitar in hand, is seated the COWBOY, whose clothing, except for his boots, should be fanciful and in no way realistic.

Several octagonal wooden tables are scattered around the room, surrounded by red-cushioned chairs.

At one of them, left are seated GLADYS DAVOS and her mother, MRS. WEDGWOOD DAVOS, and between them, WILSON BRUSH. GLADYS DAVOS, tall and plump, has darting pistachio eyes and slashed blond hair falling over a high forehead; she has about her an almost constitutional ease, as if she ever being conveyed through Europe on cushions of foam rubber. She wears a polka-dot hat in the shape of a bishop’s mitre as decorated with a large clump of red cherries and carries a large straw bag. MRS. DAVOS, an older, grayer, and smaller version of her daughter, wears a broad-brimmed pirate hat, a red Capri blouse, and also carries a straw bag. The purchases surrounding them testify to the fact that they have spent the morning in the Straw Market.

WILSON BRUSH is a young man dressed with no particular distinction and no particular lack of it. He is bright-faced and pleasant enough, but with his shy manner he might easily be lost sight of in a crowd were it not for the rather hurt and haunted look in his eyes. He tries to appear more knowledgeable and more in command of the situation than in reality he could ever hope to be.

At another table are seated MRS. WADDLE, COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO, and LIVIA GADDES GELATINI, prominent members of the Anglo-American Florentine colony.

At a table downstage are seated WAVERLY THORNE, a recent graduate of Radcliffe, with short-cropped straw-colored hair and a loose-fitting green sack dress. She has a large straw bag stuffed with dog-eared bits of manuscript. Beside her sits her constant companion, HILDA DONEAPPLE, looking, in her studied, disheveled manner, like nothing at all.

Before the curtain rises on Act I, the COWBOY sings in a flat, leisurely, and somewhat incongruously Spanish, manner as if sentiment were all and time were no obstacle:

Florence in the spring
Is such a lovely thing
It makes you want to sing—
           Florence in the spring:

Flowers on the Via,
Piazza Signoria,
What a place to be—ah
           Florence in the spring:

If we were there, what we’d see:
No museum beats the
Wonderful Uffizzi:
           Florence in the spring:

Cellinni—what a fellow:
Leonardo, Donatello,
Michelangelo—che bello:
           Florence in the spring:

There was something really peachy
About those old Medici—
Andiamo, then, amici,
           To Florence in the Spring!

As the curtain rises, the COWBOY continues to strum his guitar and hum “Florence in the spring” while MARINA and MARIO in mimelike fashion execute a few wooden steps as they take orders at the table. MARINA maintains her fixed smile, and MARIO, with a Buster Keaton impassivity, seems unaware of anything except some far-off music that he hears within his head. The BEGGAR WOMAN, in rags with a baby strapped to her breasts, appears at the bead curtain of the doorway and follows them around, aping their steps and extending her cupped hand for alms. MARIO finally leads her out on to the street, and takes his place again behind the bar. As the music fades, MRS. DAVOS, staring straight ahead as if in a trance begins.)

MRS. DAVOS
R.S.V.P.

(WILSON BRUSH and GLADYS DAVOS stare straight ahead. MRS. DAVOS, seeing that she is getting no response, repeats emphatically, stressing each letter.)

R.S.V.P.

GLADYS DAVOS
R.S.V.P. what, Mother? What are you talking about.

(She extracts a compact from her bag and begins to give herself what she requires of a face. MRS. DAVOS stares ahead with pixie-like determination)

GLADYS DAVOS (more annoyed)
R. S. V. P. what, Mother?

MRS. DAVOS
That’s the way I remember the high points. I suppose everybody has his own system. Rome—Siena—Venice—Pisa—R.S.V.P.

GLADYS DAVOS
Really, mother:

(She drops her compact into her bag. To Wilson Brush):

Mother remembers the trains as D.A.R. too.

WILSON BRUSH
D.A.R.?

MRS. DAVO
Diretto, accelerato, rapido—D.A.R.

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes, Mother, but you never know which is which.

WILSON BRUSH
No F in the high points, MRS. DAVOS?

MRS. DAVOS
F?

WILSON BRUSH
I take it that Florence is not one of your favorites.

MRS. DAVOS (Tapping her ice with the back of her spoon)
No, for me Florence fails. It’s all these great big stones, I think. They do just weigh everything down. And then those pills on that Medici coat-of-arms everywhere you look—they may have been doctors before they became bankers, but they make me sick:

GLADYS DAVOS
You keep it up, Mother, and I’m afraid you’ll make Mr. Brush sick:

(A pause.)

Ah, Florence,—Florence in the spring: Pots of azaleas as far as the eye can see: Nightingales in the Boboli Gardens. Ah, Florence: There is a magnetic force in the Tuscan soil that tugs at your heart, isn’t there? . . . What did you say you were over here on, Mr. Brush?

WILSON BRUSH
I have a Fulbright.

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes, of course, I do remember. To study art—to write art criticism. That’s how I happened to find you, isn’t it? I remember so well that wonderful article of yours on Morandi in Art World—Morandi’s still-lifes, wasn’t it?

WILSON BRUSH
It was on Braque.

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes. I do love still-lifes. They bring everything to a dead stop, don’t they? You’re just forced to look at them. Morandi is marvelous.

WILSON BRAQUE
Braque.

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes.

WILSON BRUSH
You remember, I pointed out that after the First World War, owing perhaps to the head wound he had received, Braque began to loosen his line . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes. When people say that nothing has been going on in Italian art, I do have to mention Morandi.

WILSON BRUSH
You remember, of course, Miss Davos, that I said that Braque had already toyed with trompe l’oeil effects, and dabbled in the mixing of sand with paint, but then his perception wavered . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Artfully careless or carelessly artful in his knowing Gallic way, Braque turned, as one might have predicted, to the rendering of guitars, playing cards, wine bottles, old newspapers, and junk . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes.

WILSON BRUSH
In Braque’s grained and matted still-lifes, so typical of the crepuscular bourgeois drawing room, there is a sincere fishy texture . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN (Intoning)
Vado, vai, va: va: Vado, vai, va:

MRS. DAVOS (breaking in and nodding in the direction of PROFESSOR DUNCAN
PIN)
Who is that?

GLADYS DAVOS
That’s Professor Duncan Pin. He’s over here on a Guggenheim Fellowship, studying the account books of the Medici. Right now he seems to be learning his Italian verbs.

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN: Vado, vai, va: Vado, vai, va:

GLADYS DAVOS (turning to WILSON BRUSH): Those bottles that Morandi is always painting may be empty, but they seem to me so full.

(WILSON BRUSH, MRS. DAVOS, PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN, GLADYS DAVOS all quickly and overlapping):

WILSON BRUSH
Braque.

MRS. DAVOS
Rome . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Vado . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Morandi . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Braque . . .

MRS. DAVOS
Siena . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Vai . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Morandi . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Braque . . .

MRS. DAVOS
Venice . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Va . . .

GLADYS DAVOS
Morandi

WILSON BRUSH
Braque . . .

MRS. DAVOS
Pisa . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Vado, vai, va:

(They are interrupted by HILDA DONEAPPLE, who exclaims ecstatically as WAVERLY THORNE bends over a manuscript.)

HILDA DONEAPPLE
Oh, say this one again, Waverly: What’s it called?

WAVERLY THORNE
It’s “The Charge”:

The Princess Never-Never spoke,
Her voice a golden noose,
Inspecting troops at Brokenspoke,
Side-saddle on a goose.

HILDA DONEAPPLE
Delightful: What a talent, dear: You never did anything like that at Radcliffe:

WAVERLY THORNE
I’ve been experimenting with short forms.

(She continues):

“Worry, worry, worry, worry, worry,
Worry, worry,—fret:
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry:”
The royal eyes were wet.

HILDA DONEAPPLE
Charming: You get so much in such a small space:

WAVERLY THORNE

The battlements were black with knights
In clanking armor clad;
The armies clashed like Chinese kites
And dour dukes went mad.

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Andiamo, andate, vanno:

WAVERLY THORNE

Such courage did that Dame evoke
That Care, the Mongrel, fled
To caverns under Brokenspoke,
And there he lay down dead:

GLADYS DAVOS
I’m so happy, Mr. Brush, that we did make contact. You are just the person to do the piece for us on Florence. You have such an artistic eye. I know you’ll do just the right thing for us. You know when I took over as Feature Editor of The Medium, the editor said to me, Gladys, fashion will change, and we’ve got to reflect that change, but whatever you do, keep The Medium “medium,” and that’s just what I’ve done.

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, I understand.

GLADYS DAVOS
You must do something really good for us—Florence in the spring—Florentine beauties posed against that incredible marble. Doney’s Tearoom, family jewels, you know the sort of thing.

WILSON BRUSH
Yes.

GLADYS DAVOS
Hex Hamilton, one of our regular photographers is in Rome, and I’ll get him to come up. He’s a honey, Hex, but he lacks imagination—you’ve got to show him. Get what you want if you have to swing the damned women from the belltower:

WILSON BRUSH
You will pay, of course?

GLADYS DAVOS
Yes, of course, we’ll pay you at our regular rates, and it won’t take you any time, once Hex is here and you meet the Florentine crowd. I’ve been told to put you in touch with Mrs. Alistair Carboy. Apparently Hortensia Carboy is not only Boston’s best, but she’s also the Flower of Florence . . . She should be along in a moment, but unfortunately Mother and I can’t wait, we’ve got to catch the Rapido for Venice.

MRS. DAVOS
R. S. V. P.

GLADYS DAVOS
I’ve got to do a piece on Peggy Guggenheim and her collection. I understand that she considers herself a disciple of Bernard Berenson, but the old boy refuses to acknowledge her . . . Well, that’s Florence.

MRS. DAVOS
And that’s Venice!

GLADYS DAVOS
Now, you must do for The Medium what you did for Morandi. Goodbye, and good luck. We’ll see you when you return in May. Goodbye, Mr. Braque.

WILSON BRUSH
Brush.

GLADYS DAVOS
Goodbye, we’ll be in touch. Ciao!

MRS. DAVOS
Arrivederci!

(They gather up their parcels and leave. At a neighboring table are heard some rising voices):

MRS. WADDLE
I’ve spent the whole day going round and round in circles, but then I suppose you have to if you’re furnishing a tower.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
You do look rather frayed, Mrs. Waddle. Why did you try it in this weather? I must send Giovanni from the shop to help you move all that massive furniture . . . but I’m so happy that you have that School of Botticelli madonna—what a little jewel! She will shine like ivory in your tower.

MRS. WADDLE
You were so right to insist on our getting it. There would have been a hole in the wall without it. And then you were so good to send that darling Arturo to help with the drapes. You know it’s so funny when they were putting those drapes up that day and they fell—right on me—and Arturo said then and there that that material was just perfect for my dress for the opening of the Bazaar—and it could be cut right out of the same bolt of cloth—and he was so right. I said to myself, “Thelma, that Commendatore Facciotutto can just do anything.”

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
My dear Mrs. Waddle, I do what I can. For me, it is not business but pleasure. Your business—my pleasure. My pleasure—your business. Let us drink to your tower. Dear Livia, let us raise our glasses to the Waddle tower.

(COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO and LIVIA GADDES GELATINI lift their glasses.)

To the Torre Waddle, the new landmark on the Costa San Giorgio.

MRS. WADDLE
Why, thank you!

(A pause.)

LIVIA GADDES GELATINI
Ah, we could all be so gay if it were not for this drought. When will it rain?

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
Yes, my dear Livia, we ought really to have a change of air.

LIVIA GADDES GELATINI
Oh, how I’d love to leave. But the trouble about going to the country is that we’d see the same people we always see but there’d just be more space around them.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
I agree, darling. If the people we’ve been seeing need anything, it’s background.

MRS. WADDLE
How right you are, Commendatore, that’s what my dear husband Sturbridge always says—and he says it to his congregation at the American Church—if there’s anything we need, it’s the European background.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
I understand that one poor woman threw herself in front of a streetcar in protest against the drought.

LIVIA GADDES GELATINI
What a bore, Franco!

MRS. WADDLE
How terrible, Commendatore!

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
It would have been more to the point if she’d thrown herself into the Arno.

(A pause.)

MRS. WADDLE
You know, when I think (she hesitates) when I think of all the terrible things in the world—the people who’ve been bombed out, the people who haven’t even got a roof over their heads, who haven’t got enough to eat, who have to wander around—practically naked—in the wind and the rain, in the snow even, who can’t go into the store and buy—a magazine—when, when I think of it, Commendatore, you can understand why I go down on my knees every morning of the world and thank God I’m an American!

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO (soothing her ever so gently)
There, there, Mrs. Waddle.

LIVIA GADDES GELATINI
Don’t choke up so, Mrs. Waddle . . .

(A pause.)

Oh, for a breath of air!

MRS. WADDLE
Oh, for a breath of American air!

(WILSON BRUSH concentrates for a moment on his drink, and then takes from his pocket a copy of THE ROME DAILY AMERICAN and begins to leaf through it.)

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Andiamo, andate, vanno!

(WAVERLY THORNE extracts another sheaf of manuscript from her straw bag while HILDA DONEAPPLE, her elbows on the table, sits enthralled.)

WAVERLY THORNE
This is one of my most recent poems. I’ve put my life into it. It’s called “Lament.”

(She recites):

My lank forefathers with their lean bowlegs—
Mother, where the cold clam comes to feed—
Were pocked with utter heresy, the dregs
Of dead dominions. There where Onan’s seed
Has pinked our hell-whipped shore, the whalers pass,
Tossing a bleeding gull into the bay,
And Winslow comes, blind Homer on his ass,
And Oaks, Elms, Cabots, Lowells have their day.
Sailor, braining haddock on whale-blob,
Foreswear the galley’s burning weathercock!
Voi ch’entrate, mammon and the Mob
Are grilled like soft-shelled crab on Plymouth Rock.

HILDA DONEAPPLE
Oh, that’s so lovely and so Lowell—ly, isn’t it? It has a lot of New England in it,—plus, as always, the Waverly Thorne signature.

WAVERLY THORNE
I think I should dedicate my next book to you—to Hilda Doneapple, best critic, best friend.

HILDA DONEAPPLE
Oh, Waverly! That would be too much.

(WAVERLY THORNE summons MARINA, the waitress, and they order another round of drinks. At this moment, the bead curtain is thrust aside, and MRS. ALISTAIR CARBOY enters. She is a curious combination of severity and chic. Her eyes are playful and bright beneath a black hat in the shape of a cabbage, and she wears a single strand of pearls. She extends her gloved hand to WILSON BRUSH, who rises to greet her.)

MRS. CARBOY
You’re Mr. Brush, I take it. I’m Hortensia Carboy. How do you do?

WILSON BRUSH
How do you do, Mrs. Carboy?

(He helps her into a chair.)

MRS. CARBOY
I understand that you’re doing a little piece on Florence for The Medium, Mr. Brush. You do have an exciting assignment ahead of you.

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, it is exciting, but I’m not sure I know exactly where to begin.

MRS. CARBOY (fingering her pearls)
Florence has two gates—one to the past and one to the present, and both are always open.

(A pause.)

. . . Open, of course, to those who can afford the price of admission.

WILSON BRUSH
And what is that?

MRS. CARBOY
It’s a difficult thing to define, Mr. Brush, but I think you’ll learn . . . You seem to me to have a perceptive frame of mind.

(She gives him a knowing look.)

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, it is wonderful to be here in the glorious city of Dante . . . There’s so much to see. Just now, as I was crossing the makeshift bridge right here over the ruins of the Santa Trinita I saw a priest with flapping skirts hurrying forward, carrying a briefcase, a loaf of bread, and an empty birdcage . . . And right behind him was a huge black Cadillac edging along through the crowd like a monstrous beetle emerging from the water . . . In it was a lady in black with a pink veil like cotton candy, and her lap was a patchwork of long-haired dachshunds, which she stroked with her white gloved hand . . .

MRS. CARBOY
Yes . . . (stroking the table) . . .

WILSON BRUSH
. . . And the Ponte Vecchio floated over there, a wee treasure, a child’s accordion flung open to the light; and below it, the Arno, not a river, but a trickle, a thread, a wisp, while muffin-faced, half-nude children whirled about on the cracked clay of the shore . . . and the sky was as pale as a moulting bird . . . Ah, how one craved a cloud!

MRS. CARBOY
Yes, Mr. Brush.

WILSON BRUSH
You know I love to wander in the Piazza Signoria and to look at the Perseus of Cellini, with the coils of blood hanging from the Medusa’s head, and the vessels of the monster’s neck beneath the hero’s foot clotted like seaweed. It is lovely.

MRS. CARBOY
Yes, lovely.

WILSON BRUSH
I was out there this morning, and I saw in my mind’s eye that pyramid of vanities erected in the center of the piazza by Savonarola—masks, costumes, wigs, rouge-pots, dice-boxes, paintings of female beauty consigned to the flames. Yes, I could see there before me as the sunlight wove its pattern on the stone, the jeweled brocade worked with hawk and hound, the scented bridal chests, the mirrors cracking and melting, delivering up to oblivion the lovely images they had cherished. I could feel the serpent hiss of the fire on the dark wine of the velvet, and see Perseids of emerald shooting through the coals. Ah, Vanity, Vanity!

MRS. CARBOY
You do have a perceptive frame of mind, Mr. Brush, I can see that!

MRS. WADDLE (breaking in)
When I think of all the wonderful things that Americans are doing—so devotedly, so magnificently—Americans trudging across the sands of the desert, wading through the snows of the arctic, slashing their way through the jungles of the tropics—just to help all those poor underdeveloped people, when I think of all of them, I know I have no right whatever to complain about my exile here in Florence.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
I’ve never thought of you as being in exile, Mrs. Waddle. You would be perfectly at home anywhere.

MRS. WADDLE
Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Commendatore, I love it here. And everybody’s been so sweet to Sturbridge and I. And everybody speaks such good English. But I do get homesick. Why, sometimes I even have a gnawing and a craving for things like—like—peanut butter . . . I know just how Dante felt when those awful Guelps and Giballines or whatever they were drove him off his native soil.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
I’m sure you know exactly how Dante felt, Mrs. Waddle.

MRS. CARBOY
Florence has to be lived to be believed. I think you are well on the way . . .

(A pause.)

You know, Mr. Brush, when Pope Boniface VIII called in his ambassadors from every principality in Europe, it seems that, without exception, they were Florentine. And he remarked, “Florentines are the fifth element.” Yes, Mr. Brush, there was earth, water, air, fire—and then Florence:

(A pause.)

Have you ever thought what was behind all that massive stone?

(She orders from MARINA, and gestures toward the Via Tornabuoni.)

WILSON BRUSH
Surely, art . . .

MRS. CARBOY
Art, yes, but first of all, money. Have you thought that this was the Wall Street of its day? It’s strange, isn’t it? Florence was, in its time, the banking center of all Europe, and when America constructed her center, she came here to find the appropriate architecture . . . Of course, the Medici were responsible for the development of much fine art, but one must remember that it was their vast fortune that made it all possible . . . and it was their fortune which made them shut themselves away in these tomblike buildings . . . Oh, it wasn’t all pretty, Mr. Brush. There were the beggars at the gates—and at the gate beyond the gate beyond the gate. There were the foul-smelling streets, bodies rotting from the plague, and the wild, filthy flood waters of the Arno depositing their deadly debris at the feet of every gilded Christ. There was the stench of the privies that followed Dante all the way to Hell . . . But sometimes when I look out across the Arno I can see—in my mind’s eye—those hawk-nosed princes and those pale perfumed ladies huddled in their furs in those vast dark halls—running their chilled fingers over their jewels while every coal in the brazier beside them glowed like a congealing heart . . . When you live for years in Florence, it’s like living surrounded by banks whose invisible funds you can never touch.

(Her face becomes quite flushed at the thought of so much wealth.)

But one must make do, somehow.

(Enter a young American couple, the gentleman in a T-shirt and the lady in shorts, both wearing sunglasses and carrying cameras slung over their shoulders. Their arms are piled high with straw baskets, hats, sandals, leather goods, linen tablecloths, and lace. They make their way to one of the side tables.)

LADY AMERICAN TOURIST
What are we comin’ in here for, Milton?

MALE AMERICAN TOURIST
Because I gotta sit down, that’s why.

(He wipes his brow.)

We started out two hours ago for a museum, but we never got near one because you had to stop and buy up the whole goddamed Haymarket:

LADY AMERICAN TOURIST
Straw, Milton, straw from the Straw Market: How many times do I have to tell you that Eye-talian straw products are world famous.

MALE AMERICAN TOURIST
Aw, sit down, will ya?

MRS. CARBOY (looking in the direction of the American tourists and frowning)
Have you been to the Straw Market, Mr. Brush?

WILSON BRUSH (glancing in the direction of the American tourists)
I’ve been by it.

MRS. CARBOY
You know right on the edge of it is that wonderful pig . . . the bronze Taccca pig . . . There he sits just as lovely as when he was cast hundreds of years ago . . . with all the flora and fauna at his side, the blades of grass, insects, frogs, a whole minute world . . . with the water trickling through his snout. The children have worn him bare climbing over him for centuries. To me, he’s the symbol of Florence. In art, you know, one can even endure the ugly boar. You must have your photographer take some pictures of some of our beautiful Florentine girls with their hands on his snout . . . It’s supposed to be good luck, you know.

(A pause. She looks again in the direction of the American tourists.)

Yes, Mr. Brush, the Straw Market. That’s the real forum of today, isn’t it? The Straw Forum, if you like . . . and we all belong there . . . all bits of straw woven together for the briefest moment in infinity, and then flung away before the wind . . . or left to rot in the rain.

THE COWBOY (adjusting his guitar, sings)

I don’t feel blue for Burma,
I don’t miss Mandalay,
I got my terra firma—
           I love the U.S.A.

Now Greece is simply gorgeous,
And Kenya is O.K.;
And though I go for Mexico,
           I love the U.S.A.

The English will be English,
The French they are Français,
But give me a man who’s American—
           I love the U.S.A.

I love her tall skyscrapers,
And her fluorescent lamps;
I love her great Hearst papers,
           I love her trading stamps:

I love the Mississippi,
I love the old Wabash;
If Terre Haute could still be bought,
           I’d pay for it in cash.

You can take your filet mignon,
Your omelettes, and soufflé;
I got dibs on some good spareribs,
           I love the U.S.A.

MRS. CARBOY
I’m sure you’ll do a lovely piece for The Medium, Mr. Brush. Where are you staying, by the way?

WILSON BRUSH
Around the corner at the Americano.

MRS. CARBOY
Well, we must do something about that. My cousin, Luisa Lampone, has a charming apartment on the Lung’Arno that I’ve just had done over, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t have that. I think we could probably arrange it, don’t you?

(She pauses, and looks around her as if surveying the scene and making a mental note of every detail of it.)

Yes, we must arrange a great many things. I’ll ring you tomorrow, shall I? Luisa and I must bring you together with some of the people in Florence who really count . . . and I’m sure you’ll make them count.

WILSON BRUSH
I’ll do my best.

MRS. CARBOY
I know you will.

(She rises, draws on a glove, and surveying the scene again, extends her hand to WILSON BRUSH.)

Ah, if only it would rain: I really don’t think I can stand much more of this drought.

(She stands poised against the bead curtain of the doorway.)

You know it was right here at this corner—right here—where Dante beheld Beatrice and it was the beginning for him of a wholly new life. Well, Mr. Brush,—A domani:

WILSON BRUSH
A domani. And thank you so much.

(MRS. CARBOY leaves. WILSON BRUSH sits back down, and gazing intently at the bead curtain, says over, as if to himself):

It was right there that Dante beheld Beatrice and it was the beginning for him of a new life . . . a new life.

(The bead curtain parts, and CUCU MERLINI, like Venus on her shell, stands against the light. All gold she seems, her shining hair held by invisible pins of mother-of-pearl, her lovely body, wrapped in a translucent sheath, arched slightly forward in readiness to move, to leap, to dance. And now her lips are parted, ever so slightly—she is about to speak, and all the honey of centuries will be released. She leans slightly forward toward WILSON BRUSH’S table, while he follows her every movement as if hypnotized. She lifts one hand ever so slightly, as if to brush away some meddlesome dove.)

CUCU MERLINI
You are American, aren’t you?

WILSON BRUSH (taken aback)
Yes, how could you have known?

CUCU MERLINI
A little bird must have told me . . . Shall we sit down?

(She looks in the direction of MARINA.)

Ciao, cara!

(They sit down, WILSON BRUSH still visibly under her spell.)

WILSON BRUSH
And you are Florentine?

CUCU MERLINI
Yes.

WILSON BRUSH
But you speak such wonderful English.

CUCU MERLINI
I had an English grandmother. Everyone in Florence speaks English. I am Matilda Merlini—Cucu Merlini.

WILSON BRUSH
How wondeful! Cucu Merlini. I’m Wilson Brush. Willie Brush . . . I’m over here on a Fulbright.

CUCU MERLINI
Yes, I know.

(A pause. MARINA bends over CUCU MERLINI, who whispers to her.)

Just a sugo di pomodoro, cara.

(A pause. WILSON BRUSH continues to stare at her. COWBOY begins to strum “Florence in the spring.”)

WILSON BRUSH
But how could you have known?

CUCU MERLINI
Florence is so small really . . . we always hear about the interesting people who are passing through . . . Where in America are you from?

WILSON BRUSH
I’m from Columbus . . . Columbus, Ohio.

CUCU MERLINI
O
. . . hio!
. . . is that in the Far West? . . .

WILSON BRUSH
No . . . The Middle West . . . It was named for Columbus . . . I went to Oberlin College.

CUCU MERLINI
O
. . . berlin!

WILSON BRUSH
Yes . . . I majored in art history. I studied with Professor Hoop. He used to get so excited when he lectured on Venetian architecture that one day he fell right off the podium. . . Just like backing into the Grand Canal, I guess.

CUCU MERLINI
Yes . . . I’ve always wanted to go to America—it must be a wonderful country. Maybe some day I will.

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, I hope some day you will.

(A pause.)

I had a letter from Professor Hoop this morning.

(reading quickly and nervously)

“Dear Wilson:—
I am pleased to learn that you have received a grant to travel and study in Florence, Italy. Now that your Fulbright checks will be coming in regularly, your pen will free itself from the fumes of Manhattan . . .”

CUCU MERLINI
Manhattan!

WILSON BRUSH
Yes. I was there for a week before I sailed.

(continuing with the letter):

. . . “you have ahead of you a year of opportunity. Mrs. Hoop has just read your illuminating article on Segonzac . . .”

(breaking off)

Actually, it was on Braque . . .

CUCU MERLINI
Braque!

WILSON BRUSH (continuing to read)
. . . “and begs me to convey to you her sincere interest in your career.
“ Keep us informed of your accomplishments. Good luck! I envy you.
           Faithfully yours,
           O. Midlington Hoop”

CUCU MERLINI
O
. . .
O . . .

(A pause.)

WILSON BRUSH
But tell me about yourself. You live right here in Florence?

CUCU MERLINI
Yes, I live with my mother, the Marchesa Merlini. On the Costa San Giorgio . . . just up the hill.

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, I know . . .

CUCU MERLINI
You must come and see us . . . I think I could learn to like you in no time at all.

WILSON BRUSH
How wonderful, Cucu . . . Cucu . . .

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Andiamo, andate, vanno!

LADY AMERICAN TOURIST
How was I to know that Santayana wasn’t a hill town. I thought we’d been there.

WAVERLY THORNE

My land forefathers with their lean bowlegs—
Mother, where the cold clam comes to feed—
Were pocked with utter heresy, the dregs
Of dead dominions . . .

(continuing through and overlapping with COWBOY)

COWBOY

I don’t feel blue for Burma,
I don’t miss Mandalay;
I got my terra firma,
           I love the U.S.A. . . .

(continuing through behind LIVIA GADDES GELATINI)

LIVIA GADDES GELATINI
Luisa Lampone tells me that The Medium is doing a picture story on Florence. Won’t that be fun? I always feel at home in front of the camera. It’s so reassuring—like being lost in a tremendous crowd. I feel I’m smiling out at thousands of people and they’re all smiling back.

MRS. WADDLE
I hope they won’t forget the American Church.

COMMENDATORE FACCIOTUTTO
How could they? . . . It’s the center of everything. They can probably cover your White Elephant Sale. Maybe the flashbulbs will bring on the rain. If it doesn’t, they may have to pave the Arno.

PROFESSOR DUNCAN PIN
Andiamo, andate, vanno!

WILSON BRUSH (overlapping with COWBOY)
Cucu . . . Cucu . . . Cucu . . .

COWBOY

I don’t feel blue for Burma,
I don’t miss Mandalay;
I got my terra firma—
           I love the U.S.A.

Now Greece is simply gorgeous,
And Kenya is O.K.;
And though I go for Mejico,
           I love the U.S.A.

I love her tall skyscrapers
And her fluorescent lamps;
I lover her great Hearst papers,
           I love her trading stamps!

The English will be English,
The French they are Français,
But give me a man who’s American—
           I love the U.S.A.

CURTAIN

ACT I, Scene 2

(The apartment of the MARCHESA MERLINI on the Costa San Giorgio. The room is like a ballroom, but is in almost total darkness. Through the half-light one can make out various groups of cupids tumbling from the ceiling. There are holes in the chipped plaster gaping out like decayed teeth—bullet holes, perhaps, one cannot be sure in the semi-darkness. The shutters are closed on the tall windows. It is four in the afternoon, and the townspeople are just rousing themselves from siesta. One can hear below the shouts of the urchins in the street, the bustling of the women at the fountain, the hammering of the artisans in their shops.

CUCU MERLINI seated on a shapeless sofa, center, beside a small lamp with a beaded shade, is doing her nails. In her off-the-shoulder white blouse, her “Heart-of-Africa” red skirt with matching Congo sandals, her hair loosely done up in a Florentine scarf of Judas-tree pattern, she contrasts agreeably with the darkness around her.

Before the Curtain rises on Scene 2, the COWBOY is heard singing:

Florence in the spring
Is such a lovely thing
It makes you want to sing—
           Florence in the spring!

Bridges on the Arno—
In all the world there are no
Other rivers like the Arno!
           Florence in the spring!

Has any other city
A palace like the Pitti?
None other—what a pity!
           Florence in the spring!

Houses old and stony
On the Via Tornabuoni—
Bistecca, macaroni!—
           Florence in the spring!

Spring of Botticelli,
Fra Angelico, tortelli,
Chianti, vermicelli—
           Florence in the spring!

To the continued strumming of the guitar below the window the Curtain rises. CUCU MERLINI stares straight ahead while below the window, above the sound of the guitar, are heard heated voices in argument, broken by the sputter of Vespas and the clanging of metal, then silence. A passionate voice exclaims: “Che bella ragazza! Mamma mia! Come dice il Dante:

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
la donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta,
ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
e li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare . . .

Mamma mia!”

The guitar fades out; the doorbell rings, sounding like a series of cowbells echoing through the valley growing fainter and fainter, and CUCU MERLINI rises slowly to answer it.)

WILSON BRUSH
Amore!

CUCU MERLINI
Darling!

WILSON BRUSH
I’ve missed you so, my sweet. It has seemed so long since yesterday.

CUCU MERLINI (taking his hand and leading him to the sofa)
Yes, it seems forever, doesn’t it?

(She turns on the small lamp with the beaded shade. WILSON BRUSH takes up her hand, lovely and soft as the wing of a frail bird in flight. With her other hand she points to the window.)

We have to keep the apartment shut—it’s so warm and dry.

(She leans her head back as if overcome with lassitude.)

Ah, if only it would rain! I can’t stand much more of this heat!

WILSON BRUSH
You poor darling!

(He kisses her on the cheek, and then sits back and gazes at her intently, as if seeing her again for the first time.)

CUCU MERLINI
Oh, you are sweet!

WILSON BRUSH
It’s too beautiful! How could it have happened? Did it really happen? Tell me it really happened. Tell me.

CUCU MERLINI
Yes!

WILSON BRUSH
Yes!

(A Pause.)

Since that first afternoon, I’ve been hearing violins—violins, everywhere violins!

(THE COWBOY is heard below the window faintly strumming his guitar.)

CUCU MERLINI
Violins?

WILSON BRUSH
Yes, everywhere violins—on the streets, at the museums, in the restaurants, at the turning of every stair, the magical instruments joyfully raised, the bows rising and falling like breezes on the water, touching the waves to make them reverberate with the mysteries of the depths. (He seems quite carried away. A pause.)

CUCU MERLINI
Oh?

WILSON BRUSH
My mind has become an Eighteenth Century Ballroom . . .

(He gazes up at the tumbling cupids on the ceiling)

. . . where everything is of gold, and elegant gentlemen and perfumed ladies come and go in an eternal minuet . . .

(A pause.)

CUCU MERLINI
Oh? . . .

WILSON BRUSH
. . . while the orchestra, in Chinese costumes of the finest silk, dark jewels at their ears, summon up infinite beauty.

(A pause.)

CUCU MERLINI
Oh? . . .

(A pause.)

WILSON BRUSH
I’ve given up criticizing art! . . . Ah, sweet Cucu . . . For the first time in my life, I’m really living it.

CUCU MERLINI
Oh . . .

(He takes her in his arms and bends his face to hers. She withdraws ever so slightly.)

WILSON BRUSH
Cucu!

CUCU MERLINI (edging gently inch by inch toward the other end of the sofa)
Willie!

(WILSON BRUSH takes her in his arms more intently; she withdraws more forcefully, sits back away from him and chucks him gently under the chin.)

CUCU MERLINI
Now now!

WILSON BRUSH
Why . . . (A pause.) . . . not?

(CUCU MERLINI picks up a bunch of Fiesole violets and inhales their perfume deeply in the fashion of the silent films, then folds it primly in her lap.)

CUCU MERLINI
Mother . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Mother?

CUCU MERLINI
Mother will be in . . . in a moment . . .

(They sit primly side by side, staring blankly ahead, in the fashion of the silent films. THE COWBOY is heard below the window, singing in the manner of opera buffa:

I feel Vesuvius rumbling,
I see the lava tumbling,
I hear my stomach grumbling—
           I’m in love.

There is a shuffling in the inner room: a mahogany door is flung open, admitting the MARCHESA MERLINI. Had WILSON BRUSH not met her previously and been prepared for her appearance, he would have been shocked, if not terrified. THE MARCHESA MERLINI, of medium height and hunched, has a sharp pointed nose, skin like the underside of an autumn leaf, dyed red hair which dangles in corkscrew curls and bobs up and down as she walks. She has, moreover, only one eye, and it glitters like a miner’s torch.)

WILSON BRUSH (bowing, but slightly off balance)
Buona sera, Marchesa Doria Della Robbia Merlini.

MARCHESA MERLINI (inching her way forward and extending a lean, red-nailed hand)
And how is our young art cree-teek today?

WILSON BRUSH
Molto buono, grazie!

MARCHESA MERLINI
Do sit down! S’accomodi!

(A pause.)

How are you enjoying Florence, Signor Brush?

WILSON BRUSH
It’s heavenly!

MARCHESA MERLINI
Yes. What did you say you were over here on?

WILSON BRUSH (swallowing visibly)
A Fulbright.

MARCHESA MERLINI
Everyone has a Fulbright, yes? Is it a society you belong to—like Rotarian?

WILSON BRUSH
No, it’s for scholars . . . for study.

MARCHESA MERLINI
Florence is a wonderful place for study. There is so much to study.

(She takes up a fan showing Vesuvius in violent activity, and beats the air)

It would be much easier to study if it would only rain! This is the driest spring in many, many years. One virgin after another as been uncovered.

WILSON BRUSH
How was that?

MARCHESA MERLINI
The special ones for these occasions when we pray for rain. The last was at the Santissima Annuziata . . .

(She plies her fan vigorously.)

They all seem very unreliable this year.

(Turning to Cucu.)

Cuculaninina, will you fetch us some tea?

(A pause.)

And I will see what there is in the cards.

WILSON BRUSH
In the cards?

MARCHESA MERLINI
Yes, wouldn’t you like me to tell your fortune?

WILSON BRUSH
How interesting:

MARCHESA MERLINI
Let us hope it will be interesting.

(CUCU MERLINI goes off to fetch the tea, and the MARCHESA MERLINI draws up a chair with griffon arms. WILSON BRUSH shifts uneasily on the sofa. From an elongated pocket, the MARCHESA MERLINI draws a deck of cards, and shuffling them, fixes here eye on an oil painting on a side wall depicting a cluster of bats above an open tomb.)

WILSON BRUSH
(feeling his way back into the conversation), I didn’t realize that Italians were so fond of tea.

MARCHESA MERLINI: (dealing out a few cards)
Ah, but we are part English.

(She moves another card into position, her hands poised over the table like tongs, and says, almost under her breath):

Everyone in Florence is part English. English is such a wonderful language. English is the language of poetry, vero, Signor Brush? It is so moving; it makes you want to move . . .

(As if impelled by some hidden force, she rises from her chair and begins a trance-like dance, her steps resembling those of the BEGGAR WOMAN at the beginning of Scene 1, but to a more syncopated rhythm. WILSON BRUSH watches her aghast but fascinated, as the COWBOY sings below the window):

English is spoken here,
The language of Shake—a—speare.
           We have English grandmothers,
           American brothers,
English is spoken here:

English is spoken here,
I want to make that very clear.
           You want to change money,
           Come with me, honey,
English is spoken here:

English is spoken here,
You want to buy something dear?
           I call my cousin,
           My cousin come here,
           My cousin get something,
           Something dear,
English is spoken here.

English is spoken here,
The language of Paul Revere—
           Hang out one lantern.
           The lantern shine clear,
           Hang out two lantern,
           The English appear,
English is spoken here.

English is spoken here,
Throughout this hemisphere—
           Spanish English,
           Portugese English,
           Roman English,
           Parisian English,
           German English,
           Norwegian English,
           Turkish English,
           Egyptian English,
           Grecian English,
           Swedish English,
           Russian English,
           American English,
English is spoken here:

(THE MARCHESA sinks back down into the griffon-armed chair, and sighs.)

You know, Signor Brush, there is nothing more important than language. I understand you like pictures, vero, Signor Brush? But what would pictures be if you couldn’t talk about them? They would be nothing—nothing—just pictures—just something to look at.

(She rushes ahead passionately and urgently as if she were constructing mentally the complete décor of a Verdi opera.)

And why should you feel anything if you can’t say what you feel? Words are everything. As the great poet Shakespeare said, Words, words, words.

WILSON BRUSH: (recoiling slightly but still visibly impressed)
I’ve never thought of it in just that way.

MARCHESA MERLINI
The whole world is words. The past is words. The present is words. The future is words . . . And now let us see what words we can find for your future.

(She moves the beaded lampshade to her side, and it tinkles as if brushed by invisible wings. THE MARCHESA MERLINI, crossing and recrossing her hands above the table, take up a card.)

Aha:

(WILSON BRUSH leans forward.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
A fair lady . . . will come into your life.

WILSON BRUSH
That’s fine:

MANCHESA MERLINI
Ah, how beautiful she is: Her hands are as delicate as the horns of a snail. Her neck is a reed. Her foot is the print left by a moth. Her eyes are forget-me-nots wavering in fields of mint . . . Ah, you will love her:

WILSON BRUSH
Is it Cucu?

MARCHESA MERLINI
Ha:

(rolling savagely her eye.)

Ha
But wait:

(She spreads out fanwise another group of cards, and moves her hand above them quickly as if waving from a high hill. She takes them up, dealing out two or three, moves her hand above them once more while making hobgoblin throaty noises. She turns over the cards and studies them intently.)

I see . . . you are with the fair lady. You are moving down the street . . . in a great city . . . there is a river . . . there is a cathedral . . . there is a capanile . . . and violins are playing . . . violins . . . everywhere violins.

WILSON BRUSH
I can hear them . . . deeper and deeper. I can hear the sea off there in the distance . . .

(He extends his hand.)

. . . black waves crashing on hish crags in the night.

MANCHESA MERLINI: (passing her hand across her forehead)
I see . . . You are walking with the fair lady, and it is spring.

WILSON BRUSH
Black waves crashing on high crags . . . and now everything is still.

(A pause.)

(THE MARCHESA MERLINI draws the cards together, tosses them into the deck, and smiles.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
What can it all mean?

(She shakes her head, setting her red curls in motion while the beaded lampshade continues to tinkle at her side.

A Pause.

THE MARCHESA MERLINI tosses Kings, Queens, and Jacks deftly from one hand to the other; the air is filled with them and they appear to tumble from her sleeves. She turns over another set.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
Ah, now you are at sea . . . on a big ship moving across the ocean . . . you are standing on deck . . . you are leaning on the rail . . . and there is a lady at your side.

WILSON BRUSH
The fair lady?

MARCHESA MERLINI: (patting her curls)
I cannot see . . . now everything is black . . . but wait . . . yes, it is the fair lady . . . you are both at the rail . . .

(A Pause.)

the ship is coming into harbor . . . it is a big harbor . . . whistles are blowing . . . flags are flying . . . the lady is waving her handkerchief . . . she is covered with jewels . . . ah, it is beautiful:

WILSON BRUSH
But what harbor? Is it Rio? Is it Naples? Are native boys diving for pennies? Is it Honolulu?

MARCHESA MERLINI
Be not so anxious, per piacere: You are spoiling my vision . . .

(A pause. She moves both her hands upward from her sides to clear the air.)

Now the ship is coming in . . . tall buildings are rising from the water . . . buildings as thin as knives . . . as high as the clouds . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Skyscrapers?

MARCHESA MERLINI
Do not interrupt me please:

(A pause.)

Now there is another lady . . . she is very tall . . . she is carrying a torch . . . she is standing in the water . . . and the ships are moving around her like ducks . . .

WILSON BRUSH
Liberty:

MARCHESA MERLINI
. . . And now everything is black again.

(She gathers up the cards, and closing her eye, places her elbows on the table, and rests her chin on her folded hands. She opens her eye. A pause.)

I think this must mean . . . that you are to meet someone somewhere and take her with you across the ocean.

(A pause.)

You must be careful of your health . . . You must take pains to avoid draughts.

(She picks up the painted Vesuvius fan, and beats the air as if routing a thousand hidden creatures.)

Ah, if only it would rain:

(CUCU MERLINI enters with tea, and places it on the t able.)

CUCU MERLINI
Well, how did it go?

(WILSON BRUSH’s face is a study in joy and bewilderment.)

WILSON BRUSH
Fine . . . but I was at sea part of the time.

(He laughs nervously. THE MARCHESA MERLINI holds out a plate and WILSON BRUSH takes up a macaroon.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
Signor Brush has a brilliant future.

CUCU MERLINI
But then he is a brilliant person.

(They all sip tea—in the fashion of the silent films. CUCU glances at her watch.)

We must be off.

MARCHESA MERLINI
Where are you going this time dear?

CUCU MERLINI
To Ben Benzina’s vernissage at the Strozzi.

MARCHESA MERLINI
What’s he showing?

CUCU MERLINI
Montages of fishnet, paperclips, and fashion samples and some line drawings for Casbah Cookery.

WILSON BRUSH
And then we’re going on to San Domenico. Dodo Freni is reading a chapter f rom her new novel. “The Becoming of Mrs. Henry.”

MARCHESA MERLINI
How exciting:

WILSON BRUSH
Shall we be off?

(As WILSON BRUSH and CUCU MERLINI start toward the door, THE MARCHESA MERLINI comes purposefully forward and extends her cupped hand to WILSON BRUSH.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
Per I bambini di Firenze.

WILSON BRUSH
What?

CUCU MERLINI
Mother means that she tells fortunes for charity. Her usual fee is 2,000 Lire a sitting—for the benefit of the Children of Florence.

(CUCU draws on a glove slowly as WILSON BRUSH deposits the money in the MARCHESA MERLINI’s hand, which shuts like a clam.)

MARCHESA MERLINI
Grazie tante. And do come often.

CUCU MERLINI
Ciao. Mamma. Do get some rest, darling, and don’t worry too much about the drought.

(WILSON BRUSH takes the hand of CUCU MERLINI as if for a minuet, and as they move off, the COWBOY is heard singing, “English is spoken here . . . ”)

CURTAIN

Act II

   Contributor’s notes   
   Preface
   Introduction by Henry Taylor
   Synopsis and Production Notes

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