Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklasâ country home in the French Alps. 22 June 1940. France will fall to Germany in less than twenty-four hours. A piano sits in one corner of the stage, paintings and easels in every other. Some canvases are complete, some are barely touched. A sofa and coffee table down left, an armchair not far away. There are candles burning in some places; a lamp glowing on a tabletop next to the armchair. A half-drunk glass of Scotch sits on the table, too. But more than anything, there are books. Fiction, poetry, plays, essays, biographies, notebooks, sketchbooks. More than you can imagine. At curtain, BERNADETTE, a maidservant of twenty-two, cleans nearby. After a moment, she speaks to us in a hushed and urgent whisper.
BERNADETTE. âIâll tell you when Iâm dead,â I said. She tilted her head. Stupefied. Thatâs what Gertie wouldâve called her. âIâll tell you when Iâm dead and buried.â âBut if itâs a story worth telling â â, she said, â â then tell it!â
GERTRUDE (off). There is a ghost in this book.
BERNADETTE. âYes,â I told the student. âBut for every story worth telling, thereâs a dozen secrets worth keeping.â
GERTRUDE (entering). I repeat: there is a ghost in this book.
ALICE (off). There is no ghost in the book.
GERTRUDE. I open it and I hear Him.
ALICE enters with a drink and stands in the stage-left doorway. She is a petite woman, plainly dressed, and diminutive in every way to GERTRUDE.
ALICE. Itâs a Him?
GERTRUDE. Oh, yes.
ALICE. If there were a ghost in your book, how would you know itâs a Him?
GERTRUDE. He has a very deep voice.
ALICE. Perhaps itâs Marlene Dietrich.
GERTRUDE. Donât be absurd. Itâs Yeats.
ALICE. Of William Butler?
GERTRUDE. Yes.
ALICE. Because that isnât absurd?
GERTRUDE. There is a ghost in this book, Alice, in this book, there is a ghost and when I open it, I can hear Him.
ALICE. Yeats?
GERTRUDE. Listen.
They listen for a moment. Silence. Beat.
ALICE. Agatha will be here any minute.
GERTRUDE. Who?
ALICE. Agatha! You invited her.
GERTRUDE. I?
ALICE. Yes. Youâd read her essay â
GERTRUDE. I, Gertrude?
ALICE. Of Stein, yes. And you wrote her.
GERTRUDE. I donât remember.
ALICE. You invited her, Gertrude. And sheâll be here any minute.
GERTRUDE. âAn intellectual hatred is the worst.â
ALICE. Do not quote Yeats, please.
GERTRUDE. He is speaking through me and I am speaking through Him.
ALICE. Youâre drunk on Scotch.
GERTRUDE. âWine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
Thatâs all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.â
ALICE. You must stop grieving, Gertrude.
GERTRUDE. One cannot grieve words.
ALICE. Then you must stop sulking.
GERTRUDE. I am not sulking, Iâm reading!
ALICE. Agatha will be here very soon. And she is bringing guests.
GERTRUDE. Guests?
ALICE. Yes, so, please put away the Yeats and the Scotch and the grief.
GERTRUDE. Grief and reflection are two very different things. What guests is Lady Conan Doyle bringing?
ALICE. Donât call her that.
GERTRUDE. How about Aggie?
ALICE. Just stick to Agatha.
GERTRUDE. I shall not âstickâ to anything. When have you known me to âstickâ, Alice?
ALICE. Not now, Gert.
GERTRUDE. I, Gertrude Stein, invited Agatha Christie to dinner, and by dinner I mean alcohol, and Agatha Christie has decided to return the favour by bringing guests?
ALICE. Two Americans.
GERTRUDE (with sudden interest). She is bringing Americans?
ALICE. Yes.
GERTRUDE. There are Americans in Europe besides us?
ALICE. I asked the same!
GERTRUDE. Who?
ALICE. Itâs a surprise.
GERTRUDE. Tell me who, Alice!
ALICE. Oh, Iâd better notâŠ
Beat.
GERTRUDE. Not Lily.
ALICE. Oh, dear.
GERTRUDE. Not Lily Ann Fucking Hellman.
ALICE. Itâs just for a few hours! Weâll have a few drinks and â
GERTRUDE. Lily Ann is a contemptible bore.
ALICE. She and Yeats have that in common.
GERTRUDE. Must you speak ill of the dead?
ALICE. Oh, really, Gertrude! You hated William when he was alive.
GERTRUDE. And now that heâs dead, I can appreciate him.
ALICE. Then just picture Lillian dead, too.
GERTRUDE. Iâve tried that. It doesnât work.
ALICE. Then try harder. Theyâll be here any minute.
GERTRUDE. Who is the third?
ALICE. Dorothy Parker.
GERTRUDE. Who?
ALICE. A writer.
GERTRUDE. Everyone is a writer.
ALICE. You will like her.
GERTRUDE. Or perhaps I will hate her and she will hate me or perhaps she will like me and I will like her and why are they coming?
ALICE. You invited them!
GERTRUDE. I most certainly did not invite Lily Ann Hellman.
ALICE. She hates it when you separate the syllables like that.
GERTRUDE (proudly). I know.
ALICE. Please donât pick a fight tonight, Gert â
GERTRUDE. Lily Ann is the fighter and I am the debater. There is a difference. This is a salon and in salons we debate about fighting instead of fighting about debating.
ALICE. But Lillian â
GERTRUDE. â is a bitch.
The doorbell rings.
ALICE. Thatâs them.
BERNADETTE enters from offstage and makes her way to the door.
GERTRUDE. Thank you, Bernadette.
BERNADETTE. Of course.
GERTRUDE. That is a lovely dress, Bernadette.
ALICE. Donât flirt.
GERTRUDE. Gertrude Stein does not flirt.
ALICE. She flirted with me.
GERTRUDE. I merely wrote a poem.
ALICE. Has Miss Stein written you any poems, Bernadette?
BERNADETTE. Not lately, Miss Toklas.
GERTRUDE. Do I detect jealousy?
ALICE. You detect boredom. Iâd like another poem.
GERTRUDE. Then another poem you shall have.
âI love my love with a v
Because it is like that
I love my love with a b
Because I am beside that
A king.â
ALICE. And I think Bernadette wants one tooâŠ
She presses her forehead against GERTRUDEâs as BERNADETTE opens the door.
BERNADETTE. Hello.
MARY. Hello, I â Iâm looking for a Miss Toklas.
GERTRUDE. Miss Toklas is preoccupied with poetry.
ALICE. Nonsense. Donât listen to her. She is a bored old woman.
MARY. Iâm very early, Iâm afraid â
GERTRUDE. I am not old for I am young.
ALICE. Let her in, Bernadette!
BERNADETTE lets the woman in. She is an American in her thirties. Beautiful and petite. The women stare at each other for a moment.
MARY. Mary? (Beat.) Iâm Mary â
Beat.
ALICE. Oh, dear, we werenât expecting you until tomorrow!
MARY. Th...