Countess-3a

THE BRIDGE OF DREAMS--THE COUNTESS

ACT III--THE PHAEDO

[Jack with Henry and Shoko in Jack's New York apartment.]

JACK
The countess was delighted. She liked Jordan, immediately.

HENRY
[Nods.] Everybody liked Jordan, but he never liked California. New York was the center of the world for him. That became the choice for Betty--after rejecting Kansas and Nebraska--you and the movies and California, or Jordan and the stage and New York. She liked to think there was action for her both places, that she might spend half of her time in California, making movies. But Jordan didn't want to settle for half.

JACK
And came after her--which was exactly what Betty had always wanted. She was beaming. The countess said, "Well, we can discuss this over dinner." Over pre-dinner wine in the library, Jordan was telling us how he'd rented a car at the airport, gotten directions to "this fantastic place," and come to get Betty--pacing up and down with Higgins like authority, looking from Betty to me to the countess, as if he were the husband coming to claim the wife some cad had run off with. He must have sensed it would be the countess he'd finally have to deal with, for he ended by addressing her, as she sat in her favorite chair, sipping wine. She laughed, enjoying the performance, and said,

COUNTESS
Well, you can't just ride in here and carry off our fair princess that easily, young man. Sit down! And identify yourself!

JORDAN
[Smiles and sits down.] Jordan Simms. Actor. From New York . . . of course. [To Betty.] This is something new--Shakespeare in the park. Still off-Broadway, yes--but in New York! And they're doing Antony and Cleopatra! But we've got to be there Monday to audition. Henry has arranged it. How would you like to be Cleopatra? To my Antony! If you need to pack . . . arrange things here . . . I could come back for you in the morning, Betty.

COUNTESS
You said you came directly from the airport, Mr. Simms, so must have your baggage along. Give us this evening, then . . . to talk about things. You might then sleep in with Jack . . . so you two could talk. [Jack smiles at Jordan--then at Betty.] But I see no reason for Betty not to go. She should come back even more attractive to Randall, after another New York "triumph." I just talked to Randall on the telephone, and he was pleased by the idea. If Betty does do the film, she might be able to arrange for a part in it for you, Mr. Simms, [Smiling.] perhaps as one of the handsome gigolos in my busy young life. [Catching him on the rise.] Or leading man in the romance Jack may turn that humdrum life into. Pardon an old woman's perverse sense of humor. But what do you say, Jack? Betty is your wife.

JACK
Yes . . . well . . . I encourage her to go. Then I'll have my work cut out for me--to bring her back . . . with another offer she can't resist . . . but on this coast. [To Henry and Shoko.] So it seemed it was settled--as if I'd had the last word. They left the next morning. Back to the airport in that rented car, then back to New York hurry, hurry, hurry--before the world could stop. Shakespeare's play had been there for four hundred years, but

their chance would only be there that next Monday. The countess talked to Jordan for a long time, alone, in the library, after dinner, then to Betty. As he came up to go to bed, he said,

JORDAN
Quite a woman, Jack. Sure knows how to pull me up short--should've been a director. She gave me this book by a Japanese author, Five Modern Noh Plays. Said I'd like them. But Betty had told me you were lucky to have . . . Laura? . . . when she left you in Nebraska. Now she says that she's left you, too--with Tom Hazen, of all people. [Laughs.] Some girls you do have to watch with football players. Sorry to hear it. I see you still have the little girl, Christine. She sure has Betty's eyes. The countess speaks of her as if she were her own grandchild. And you're writing a film script based on the countess's life?

JACK
Hope to have a script by fall. When Betty comes back out . . .

JORDAN
I wouldn't count on that, Jack. Movies are all right, but Betty's an actress . . . not a starlet. She should be on Broadway . . . with me. Live theatre is the real thing. Films are . . . are made in pieces--no audience, no feedback, no feel for the dynamic of the action. And most of the material is fluff--not Shakespeare.

JACK
But film has the advantage of reaching a much larger audience than can be packed into any single theatre.

JORDAN
Every audience member knows that a live actor is real, while a film is a shadow on the wall. Didn't I hear that you're reading

Plato here, with your countess? Well, movies are for people satisfied with being chained in a cave--with a box of popcorn! It's the actor's experience I'm interested in anyway--"this above all, to thine own self be true." It's an intense experience to work with Betty on stage, Jack. Better than in bed . . . I would think. [Pauses.] And then there's Henry back there, you know, waiting. He'll do anything for her, from acting as her agent to ironing her blouses, I guess. She just came out here for this movie test because I was in England and nothing much was happening there for her. I don't know why Henry didn't come with her. He usually goes wherever she goes . . . to do things for her . . . to negotiate. But, fortunately, he was working on things for both of us in New York. He has plans for us to form our own theatre company. Did she tell you?

JACK
Yes. She says he's taught himself the theatre business.

JORDAN
And he likes to talk about books, and tell stories, doesn't he? [Laughs.] That's what you liked about him, too, wasn't it, Jack? At first, I wouldn't have had so much time for Betty if I hadn't enjoyed his company. He called me in England to tell me about this audition. Then said they definitely expected Betty, too . . . after our Macbeth. You should have seen that. Pretty good Shakespeare! So I told him I'd come get her. I'm a little afraid of California's seductive qualities for an actor--don’t want to become some countess's gigolo in this movie community.

JACK
Some people think it's just as seductive for writers, tempting them to prostitute their talents, too. But I grew up out here, and still wonder how the people who haven't yet moved here

can stand to live in Chicago, or Pittsburgh . . . especially in the winter. [To Henry and Shoko.] I started to tell him about when I first came to California, as a boy, but then looked over and saw he had fallen asleep. "Well, it's been a long day," I thought, "and my life story won't even make a good movie." They left the next morning, with our best wishes. The following week Betty called the countess to tell her they would be Antony and Cleopatra in the park. By then, I was living back in North Hollywood. When you called me, Shoko, you said the countess was ailing, or spending more time in bed . . . but still reading.

SHOKO
Or being read to. She suddenly seemed much older.

HENRY
Jordan was right about what that play could do for their careers. After that they got a lot of offers, most frequently as a team.

JACK
Yet Betty did come back to do the film, too, to re-capture the countess's youth--if not in time for the countess to see it. I wasn't at Shangri-La when Betty called, because a couple of days earlier I'd gotten a call from Laura. Christine and I had driven in to visit Grace, and I'd told her about Betty and Jordan. She said she was sure Tom had left for New York, too, and Laura was probably feeling as lost as I was. Then, late in the morning the next day Thomas came looking for me to say there was a woman on the telephone asking to speak to me. I thought the line was dead for a minute, then heard,

LAURA
[Voice on the phone.] Jack . . . this is Laura. I heard your wife has left you again. And . . . well . . . I want you to come back.

Or, I guess, I want to come back. Tom has left me, too . . . is being traded back to New York, and I told him I wouldn't leave California. [Pauses.] I made a mistake, Jack. I'd have left Tom anyway. I've had enough of football and motorcycles. I'd like to see someone reading a book again. And, most of all, I miss Christine. You understand? I really do miss her. When I heard about Betty being there with you, I thought she might have come back to claim both of you . . . though I really knew better. But you . . . both of you . . . still have faithful Laura.

JACK
[To Henry and Shoko.] That line had become a joke with us, but seemed so appropriate I broke out laughing. That helped. I told her I'd bring Christine in to see her, and we could talk. I did, we did--then we stayed the night. When I told the countess I was going back to my old girl friend the next day, she said,

COUNTESS
They're all deserting us, Shoko, first for fame and fortune, now for other women . . . fickle, fickle, fickle. [Laughs at Jack’s reaction.] I'm just teasing, Jack. But do come back. And let Christine visit us. We've come to think of her as our own.

JACK
Then the countess got quite serious. We talked, through the afternoon, through dinner, late enough into the evening that I called Laura to tell her I'd be staying over. We were both exhausted by the time we went to bed. You had listened to much of this, off and on, but had gone to bed much earlier. Still, it was you I was thinking about as I turned out the light. I wouldn't have gone to your room--I never had--but felt it was a kind of magnetism, exercised by my spirit on yours, when you slipped quietly into mine, then stayed the rest of the night.

HENRY
For a man constantly getting rejected by women, Jack, you seem to have been doing much better than I was--back then.

JACK
I just accepted what I was offered, Henry. Within three days, Laura, Christine and I had moved back into the house in North Hollywood. I was putting in long, hard days on the film script. Occasionally, I'd call the countess. She'd answer my questions, but, when she wasn't sure, would say, "Go ahead and make it up, Jack, the way any scriptwriter does. I make up half of what I tell you anyway." And she'd laugh. And Laura was more serene . . . all tension gone . . . said she'd found peace in poetry.

LAURA
[Lights to her.] You know, Jack, the best times I had with Tom were up at the lake. He had electricity brought in, on a pole, and graveled a ramp so we could back a trailer down and put his boat into the water--and that was all he got around to. He liked to ride his motorcycle on the roads up there, too, so I might drive the jeep and pull the boat. He had plans drawn to build a nice cabin--just like he talked about--but when he got traded back to New York lost all interest in the lake, even sold his fancy boat to a team member. But took his motorcycle back to New York. I still like Tom . . . but fell in love with the lake. Do you know Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem, Renascence?

JACK
Yes . . . a beautiful poem.

LAURA
Well, I had an experience like the one she describes in that poem. Whenever we went up there I'd stand all alone where

Tom planned to build the cabin. It reminded me of the opening lines of that poem, for there are those "three long mountains," and then the woods. I would scan the horizon across that marvelous lake, "the things that bounded me"--and that I did feel I could reach out and touch. The last time we were up there, when Tom took off on the motorcycle again, I decided to follow her lead as far as I could, and I took the boat out alone. I put our big double sleeping bag in the bottom of the boat, lay down flat, and looked up at the perfectly blue sky. The boat, rocking gently under me, put me into a kind of hypnotic trance. Then I had that experience. I knew the sky went on forever, but still thought I could see the top--could reach up and touch it. So I did it--reached up and touched the sky. I didn't scream, but it was like a scream of the spirit, as I really did feel that "infinity came down and settled over" the finite me. And the gentle rocking of the boat seemed "the ticking of eternity."

JACK
A sublime experience, reaching out from your finiteness to identify with infinity, like Henry talked about in contemplating the stars, or mountains, or the vast sea, when encouraging us to read Immanuel Kant back at Wellington.

LAURA
That was part of it . . . a sense of becoming one with all. But it was more than that--as it is in her poem. It was as if "I suffered death but could not die," as if nothing else mattered any more--then as if I were re-born . . . without any problems. I thought of all the hate, and greed, and misery in the world. But out there on the lake it didn't matter. I was wrapped in serenity.

JACK
What I remember best is the long rain falling on her grave.

LAURA
No, I didn't experience that. Nor did I feel I'd seen God. But I did have "the sense of glad awakening." I wanted to hug the rocks and trees, felt I belonged in that world, under that sky, as I never had in any other. When Tom and I were alone at the lake, fishing, sleeping in his army surplus tent, I felt good with him. But it wasn't the same when he brought his friends up there. Then he seemed to forget about the lake--and me. He did ask me to go to New York with him, but I never considered it. Go to do what? My work is here. I've had enough football to last a lifetime, and Tom never offered to marry me. Strange as it seems, I think he always thought of me as your woman. After that experience at the lake, I do, too.

JACK
[To Henry and Shoko.] But Laura also went back to work with new enthusiasm. When Christine and I came for our first overnight visit at Shangri-La, she didn't come--because she was working. But I didn't spend the night with you. I was prepared to explain the new moral relationship, but it seemed that you understood--perhaps better than I did. A month later, when the countess asked to have Christine for a week before she started in first grade, Laura did go along, though, as if to inspect things, see if it was safe to leave her child . . . and cat. Then, driving back to town, Laura again became philosophical.

LAURA
I think separations are good for us, Jack. Even leaving Christine this way helps us appreciate her more. But I think our separation has made me appreciate you more, too . . . willing to make allowances. I hope it has worked that way for you . . . that you're more tolerant toward me. And I have no hard feelings . . . none at all, Jack . . . about any of your other

women . . . including the countess. It's strange. I think I know where I stand with Shoko--though she's very Japanese. I'm sure she wishes us all well. The countess? I don't know. She sat there for an hour asking me questions, as if she were interviewing me for a job. Where I'd grown up. What plays I'd been in. What books I'd read. Why?

JACK
That's her way with anyone who interests her . . . with me . . . with Betty . . . with Jordan. If she's taken an interest in you, that's good. [To Henry and Shoko.] And that was about when we learned Tom had made Laura a gift of the lake property.

HENRY
It was from Tom we first heard that you and Laura were back together. He called Betty shortly after they opened in Antony and Cleopatra to say he was back in New York, too, and wanted to talk to her. He said, "bring that agent of yours along, because I want some financial advice . . . about Laura." I'd met Tom before, but knew him better by then on television. He came with a girl he introduced as "the light of my life," then paid almost no attention to. He wanted advice on what to do for Laura, now it was over between them. If he left New York again it'd be to go back to Kansas, probably to coach. But it bothered him that he'd come between you two. He even encouraged Betty to divorce you, so you could marry Laura. She said, "I'll think about it." He said, "Jack can take care of himself, would be insulted if I tried to give him anything. But I owe Laura something. I don't think money . . . or a car." When he suggested the property at the lake, "free and clear," that sounded good to both of us. And once he'd made the suggestion he seemed sure, too. "She really loves that place," he said. I handled the paperwork for him shortly after that.

JACK
He sent Laura the papers, and a letter--really to us both--saying something like, "Even though you opposed Jack's buying half of this property, I know you like it up there. I'm not coming back, and think it'd be perfect for you two. But I'm giving it to you--not Jack--so sell it if you want to. This is for everything, Babe. Not because I owe you--though I do--but because I really do love you--after my fashion. You're one of the good ones--and I should know, shouldn't I? Think about building up there. I'll come visit you, when I can. Love to both of you. Tom."

HENRY
And I'm sure that expressed his genuine feelings, Jack.

JACK
We had no hard feelings toward Tom. Why blame him for being Tom? And Laura was delighted. Tom had intended to have a fancy cabin built, but we did everything ourselves. We picked up a cheap boat, built that dock, and, first, began fishing and swimming here--then, within six months, had built enough of a cabin to move in. It was perfect for us. I'd just go in to see Randall occasionally, and Laura became semi-retired. She was mostly wife and mother--and carpenter. At first I was writing as much as I was working on the cabin, but more and more on projects to make a living than on our film script, on which I'd sort of gotten stuck. The countess could tell, I knew, but didn't badger me about it. I thought Randall might want another writer--but he said the countess wouldn't hear of it. When Betty came out that second summer the countess called and invited me out to Encino. I promised to get back to work, but what troubled me most were comments by the countess suggesting she didn't ever expect to see the film herself, as if it had only been a dream. I left promising myself she would.

HENRY
After Antony and Cleopatra, other roles for Betty and Jordan were everywhere. I'd corresponded with Randall Best since before Betty went out there, and negotiated the contract that led to the filming of The Countess Rostovna. Betty had come back from that first trip a changed woman all right. Jordan said, "She's become just like that old woman . . . imperious!" She certainly became the definitive Cleopatra--was superb. She'd always been ambitious, but, from then on, she wanted to do both--to star in motion pictures, and have her own theatre company in New York, too--and that ambition never changed.

SHOKO
Was the cause of their final confrontation at the lake.

HENRY
And she constantly invoked the Countess Rostovna--asking herself what the countess would do, or think--had been mesmerized by the "Shangri-La mystique," as she herself called it. Then, after that imperial pose had been refined by being Cleopatra on stage, it was part of what she was forever after, only confirmed at the death of the countess, when she formally inherited her mantle. I only met the countess once, but was struck by that instinctive aristocratic bearing. [To Shoko.] That was the first time I met you, too. A very memorable meeting, though, at the time, I was most concerned to try to understand Betty's strange moods.

SHOKO
The countess hated to fly, but decided to--if I'd go with her. She said it might be worth facing death to see Betty's Cleopatra, then talked about it all the way home. I had never seen Betty on stage before, and I was impressed, too.

JACK
I should have gone with you--but we were busy at the lake, caught up in our own dream. It was into the next year before Betty began asking, "What's taking you so long, Jack?"

HENRY
By then she was getting restless. Betty always got her own way with me, but Jordan did want to be the traditional actor-director of the new company, with her as his brilliant co-star--Vivian Leigh to his Lawrence Olivier--while Betty considered herself at least equal partner by then, Cleopatra to his Antony. Jordan didn't even want to hear the word "Hollywood," and I wasn't sure about Betty in the movies myself. Since this lake property did seem to have brought you and Laura back together, I didn't think you needed Betty back in your life just then, either.

JACK
It is funny how you can get totally lost in some building project, like spending a week putting on the roof--working, eating, sleeping, and only worrying about what tomorrow's weather will be like. Laura and I worked together perfectly, and Christine enjoyed both the work and play as much as we did. But that's not why I was neglecting the film script. I gradually lost my sense of direction . . . but not because I was too busy.

SHOKO
Weren't you still researching the countess's Hollywood years?

JACK
I was. But I already had too much material in some ways--plenty of bizarre incidents from the countess's early life, here and in Europe--but no strong sense of where the center was, or of Betty's presence there . . . or how it all should end.

HENRY
Betty's frustration definitely began to show.

JACK
She stopped even calling me, let the countess be her advocate. "When I played Cleopatra, Jack," the countess told me one day, "I thought I was the reincarnation of the spirit of the Nile. But I'll never think of Cleopatra again except as Betty. I wonder how the historical Cleopatra would've done as Shakespeare's queen--perhaps the greatest role in theatre for a woman. I don't think she'd have held a candle to Betty." I told her that, given the trouble I was having, she might want another writer. She brushed that aside, saying, "No, Jack, it's you or no one." But she felt it was time for the three of us to talk it out, and called Betty while I was there. Betty said she needed to come see Randall anyway, and could spend a few days at Shangri-La. The countess seemed delighted to have her "coming home."

SHOKO
Before your meeting, it was obvious the countess had made up her mind about something. She had some kind of secret with Thomas, if not Betty. But she never told me . . . and . . . Betty liked to dramatize everything. I wasn't troubled about her, for she had her life in New York, as she'd wanted. It was the countess I was concerned about. If I'd known what her doctor was telling her I'd have understood, but she was going to see him with Thomas, sometimes without even telling me.

HENRY
For Betty, Jordan still offered the best opportunity. They were magic on stage together, and starting their own company had allowed them to do things they both wanted to do. But she also wanted to come back to California to make the movie. Perhaps

she felt she owed it to the countess . . . and to you . . . and that it would be good for her career. But, mostly, she just wanted to do it. She was already insisting on more say in what we were doing in New York--but it was only after the film she became almost quixotically experimental. She felt that if she were to break free from Jordan's domination it had to be by establishing credentials he'd had nothing to do with winning for her. Then, when she was ready for that, you weren't ready for her.

SHOKO
But she was talking to the countess, too, and the countess was telling her, "You just come on out, my dear. I have a plan."

JACK
The countess asked us to let Christine come visit for the weekend before Betty was to arrive. When we arrived, late Monday afternoon, Christine came running to meet us, which pleased Laura. I noticed the countess was showing her age, but in good spirits. And Thomas had fixed his stuffed pork chops for dinner, which he knew I liked. We first saw Betty at dinner, as she came in as radiant as a visiting queen. We talked about their new theatre company, about the role Laura had in a television series the countess was evidently watching faithfully, about Christine's "lessons" with you, but things were still a little tense. I was struck by how much Betty was coming to remind me of the countess, in part by adopting her mannerisms, giving the impression she was serenely in charge of everything. Even there in the same room it was as if she were deferring to the countess as a kind of noblesse oblige. She had already inherited the spirit of the older woman, who sat watching her with such obvious pride. Then the countess said she'd like to talk to Betty and me in the library. I began to apologize again for my delay, but clearly the countess had her own agenda.

COUNTESS
That's fine, Jack. I know we can depend on you. But I no longer expect to see the film you'll make. [They react.] That's what I want to talk to you about. [She picks up the book on the coffee table.] We're all fond of Plato. The Symposium, the Republic, his Diotima and Socrates, have come to inform our own values. But how well do you know the Phaedo?

BETTY
Pretty well, as part of the trilogy on Socrates at the end of his life--the Apology, the Crito, the Phaedo--that has the integrity of Aeschylus' Oresteia . . . with a strong central character.

COUNTESS
Well, I'm giving you this book, my dear. [She hands the book to Betty.] Those dialogues are in it and I'm through with it . . . will never read them again. But I hope you will . . . soon . . . the Phaedo in particular. [Smiles.] I give it to you as a token--as I intend another gift to be. I've thought about Socrates a lot recently, and have decided I don't really need to see your film. Most of the people I've known who've been the subject of films, or authors who've had their books turned into films--even playwrights--have been disappointed. Eugene O'Neill' . . . [She pauses and looks off into space.] with whom I was once quite intimate--long, long ago--said he preferred not to see productions of his plays, since he'd staged them so much better in his own imagination. Now, since I saw you as Cleopatra, I've imagined you assuming that mysterious role, the younger me. That's quite an interesting experience--and . . . finally . . . it's all I need, personally, to be content.

BETTY
I've only begun to assume that identity--and need your help.

COUNTESS
I understand, dear, but feel I have nothing more to add. And, like Socrates, I'm ready to go. Remember his analysis at the end of the Apology? May I? [She takes the book from Betty and locates the passage.] Yes, here. Socrates says, "there is great reason to hope that death is a good," . . . either it is "a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness," like a long sleep--an eternal, peaceful, sleep, such as we all yearn for at the end of a hectic day--or "there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another." I once had major surgery and was given an anesthetic that rendered me unconscious for hours . . . oblivious. If death is like that, it's nothing to fear, is it?

JACK
That seems the most logical assumption of what we can expect.

COUNTESS
Or if, as Socrates believes, our spirits leave the body behind and go to another world, that's even better. He tells Crito he's had a dream in which a woman, dressed all in white, has come to him and said, "The third day hence, to Phthia shalt thou go." If we do go to join other spirits in eternity, to converse with people I talked to in this room before you were born, or spirits that lived long, long ago, how wonderful that would be. [Pauses.] The truth is that we don't know what to expect. It may be that, as Whitman puts it in Song of Myself, "to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier." [She takes a copy of Whitman from the bookshelf.] Yes, here, he says, "as to you Death . . . it is idle to try to alarm me . . . no doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before." So, like the Socrates of the Phaedo, I'm ready for death, ready to reject the body. . . now that it begins to fail me. I accept the martyrdom of Socrates, an old man drinking the hemlock in witness to his life

in philosophy, that whole life a preparation for death--that that's what philosophy is--expecting to enter a realm of eternal values from which this brief life has been but a truancy.

JACK
Do you suppose he knew Plato would immortalize him here?

COUNTESS
Now that's your job, Jack, to immortalize me, as more than I was. I trust you--and Betty--to do that. And, since I do want the film to be made, I've set up certain incentives. Beyond financial arrangements with Randall to assure the money to produce the film is there, I've decided to leave this property to you, my dear, for its provocative associations. [Betty seems shocked at the idea.] Like the book, as a token. But I've decided to leave you the property provided that you live here as the two of you then make that film together. I'd like you to take your time and make the best film you can make . . . in the spirit of Shangri-La. Promise me that . . . and I'm ready to die.

JACK
[To Henry and Shoko.] We both insisted she had a long time to live, and would certainly see our film. She smiled as Betty began to outline her current plans, and how she could schedule time that fall and the following summer. The countess began to talk about her own experiences in filming, and, as they exchanged ideas, if I closed my eyes, I wasn't quite sure which one was talking. It was clear the countess had made the case she'd wanted to make. She smiled again as she said to me, "I'm not leaving you anything, Jack . . . except your memories of me. Then I expect the greatest incentive I can offer you to finish the script you already have so well in mind will be my death." That came as a shocking idea to me, but I was soon to

know how correctly she'd calculated that, too. Then you looked in, Shoko, to tell us it was Christine's bedtime and she wanted to say good night. As you left, the countess remarked,

COUNTESS
I've made financial arrangements for Thomas and Shoko, as well. Shoko may decide to return to Japan, but I hope you'll try to keep both of them here. Let Shoko help raise Christine, teach her flower arranging and the tea ceremony. Wouldn't that be nice? An American woman with the grace and gentility of a Japanese? I thought of trying to entail this property, through you, to Christine, Betty, but property doesn't work that way in this country, to establish an aristocratic line. No, it will be your property to do with as you wish--once you've made the film.

JACK
Then she asked me to leave her alone with Betty, and I rejoined those in the dining room, where you were working on a picture puzzle of the Grand Canyon. Christine was pleased when you let her put in the last piece. When Betty and the countess came in, Betty looked disturbed, but the countess was as serene as ever. Christine, proud of the puzzle, was showing it off. The countess praised her, then said, "Come, let's get you ready for bed. Then I'll read you a story." Off they went--leaving me with three other women, each with her claim on me. I’d have liked to ask Betty what the countess had told her, and noticed how quickly she began talking to you as Laura and I left the room. Then, alone in the bedroom, Laura couldn't resist asking,

LAURA
[Laughs.] Do you think it bothers the countess, us sharing a room in her house when we're not married? And when your wife, to whom she's so attached, is here in the same house?

JACK
I think it would amuse her to know that thought had even occurred to you. [To Henry and Shoko.] But Laura went to sleep before I did, and, as I lay there in the dark, pondering what the countess had said, I noticed the door to the bedroom slowly opening. As it continued to open, I thought, with a kind of shudder, that no one was there at all. Then I saw Midnight highlighted by the light from the hall. Her eyes, glowing in the dark, captured my attention. I thought she'd gotten closed out of Christine's room, and wanted someone to let her in. But then Christine appeared there, too, behind the cat, like a ghost in her white night gown. She wasn't crying, but silently beckoned me to follow her. I put on my robe, and did so.

HENRY
To follow her? Where?

JACK
In the direction of the countess's room. Christine took my hand, the cat going ahead of us, and when we turned into that hall I could see the door to the countess's room was open. I thought, "If she fell asleep while reading to Christine, that might have bewildered the child . . . and sent her looking for Laura or me. Midnight went as far as the open door, then, eyes burning in the dark, doubled back to circle around my legs. I decided I'd close the countess's door, take Christine and the cat back to her room and close her door, then go back to our room, and close our door. "Too many open doors," I thought. Midnight still led the way, on into the countess's room, with Christine following, pulling me by the hand. The countess was awake, sitting in her chair next to her reading lamp, which she'd turned off, so that the moon shining through the open window provided the only light in the room. She spoke very soberly.

COUNTESS
That's a nice domestic picture, Jack, you and Christine and Midnight. I sent Christine to get you, because I have something important to say to you. Christine, dear, I'd like you to go get Thomas for me, while I talk to your father. Can you do that? You have your slippers on? [Christine just nods and turns to go.] Then go on to bed, dear. Tell Thomas to tuck you in on the way back. Your father will look in on you later. [Christine leaves, with the cat.] Listen to me carefully, Jack, for we don't have long. I just now drank the hemlock--as I heard you coming. By the time Thomas gets here I may be dead. [She points to the glass and the small bottle on the table at her side.]

JACK
You drank . . . hemlock?

COUNTESS
Yes. I’ve chosen this way to die, Jack . . . in honor of Socrates. Not only are Socrates and Whitman right that death may be luckier than we imagine, but Socrates also says, at the end of the Apology, that it is life, not death, that under some conditions is intolerable. I found out about two months ago that I have an inoperable cancer of the colon, with perhaps six months to live, if I'm willing to dwindle away, looking less and less human--as it becomes more and more painful to live. I'd rather die with some dignity. The example of Socrates came home to me strongly. Better to take the hemlock. Thomas more or less knows that's what I've decided. He’s been to the doctor with me, and has cultivated and prepared the hemlock. But I haven't discussed my plans with him beyond that. I identify--as I die--with Socrates. I know you understand, Jack. So, as I asked Betty to do, I want you to read the Phaedo, too. At my funeral if they'll let you. [Laughs.]

JACK
If they will . . . I will.

COUNTESS
As I told you earlier, I'm leaving Shangri-La to Betty. I told her about my condition. Then I'm leaving half of the rest of what I've accumulated, in securities, to Thomas and Shoko, to assure their independence, and most of the rest, in trust, to Randall, to produce our film. [She takes his hand and looks deeply into his eyes.] I told you I was only leaving you your memory of me . . . and any of my books you want . . . tell Shoko. But I'm also leaving you the responsibility of seeing these people accommodate themselves to their legacy . . . as my moral executor . . . as my son. Do you understand what I'm saying? [Jack nods, uncertainly.] So I want you to be the one I die with--my witness--as a Japanese samurai might do. [She points to a note on the table.] I've written this note, but leave it to you, and Thomas, to explain to those who need to know. Try to spare Betty . . . and Shoko . . . that burden. Now, help me over to the bed, Jack. I begin to feel it in my extremities . . . as Socrates did. [Jack helps her to the bed, where she composes herself carefully, closing her eyes. Thomas comes into the room and reaches to turn on the light.] No, Thomas, leave it off. It's better this way . . . don't you agree? Did you put Christine to bed? [He indicates that he has.] Then, please, call Doctor Herman. As soon as you tell him I've taken "the potion," he'll know . . . he'll come. Then I trust you to help the new mistress of this house in any way you can. And to look after Shoko. [Pauses.] And to look after yourself, Thomas.

THOMAS
[Obviously shaken.] Yes, madam. [Begins to leave--then to Jack.] The little princess . . . we should check on her soon.

COUNTESS
[As Jack puts his hand on her soft, white hair, caught in a ray of moonlight, she opens her eyes.] We go our ways. I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows. [Falls silent.]

JACK
[To himself.] Socrates at the end of the Apology. [Midnight enters again--followed by Shoko, who draws in a deep breath, then stands there frozen. The cat, with a plaintive yowl, jumps up on the bed next to the countess, her black against the glimmering white of the covers in the reflected moonlight. Jack gets to Shoko just in time to catch her as she faints--then begins shouting for help.] At last I seem to have someone I can help. [He gathers her in his arms and is standing there holding her, again uncertain of what to do, when Laura comes in.]

LAURA
What has happened? To the countess! [She turns on the light.]

JACK
She's taken poison. I think she's . . .

LAURA
[Hurries to the bed and takes the countess's hand.] Oh, Jack! She knew all evening! [Then efficient.] We must call her doctor. Look . . . she's taken some kind of drug. See if you can tell what it was. [Looks at Jack still standing there holding Shoko.] Put Shoko on the couch, Jack. How shocking it must be for her. They've been as close as mother and daughter.

JACK
[To Henry and Shoko.] By that time Thomas was back, and, as if reporting to the one in charge, told Laura the doctor was

coming. Then he told her what he knew about the countess's situation, as they began consulting with one another in very practical terms about what to do. . You gave a remote sort of moan as I put you on the couch, as Laura had directed. When your eyes came to focus on the countess, the moan became more articulate. I said, "There's nothing you could have done. She'd made up her mind to die this way, planned it very carefully. There's nothing any of us can do now. Just lie still."

SHOKO
It seemed such a nightmare. I felt I must wake up from it soon.

JACK
Looking out the latticed door to the garden, I again caught sight of Midnight, directly in line with the moon, perched on the old adobe wall and pointing, it seemed, toward the fountain, like a tableau from a Halloween cartoon. When I saw a female figure come into the picture I thought perhaps the witch had arrived. But it was Betty. She'd seen the countess's light come on. By the time she got to the fountain the cat was gone, having leaped from the wall on the far side. I went out to meet Betty, trying to tell her what had happened as we came toward the room. I heard her cry out as she saw Laura and Thomas and you gathered around the bed, to which she then rushed, sitting down next to the countess to check her condition herself. I stepped back toward where the cat had been. When I got to the wall, I heard Midnight howl again, this time from inside the house . . . from the direction of Christine's room. I started to go back through the countess's room to the child's room, when I saw Christine standing there at the door, staring at the countess's body, the cat in her arms. The cat was staring at me, however, with that hypnotic quality--as if her wisdom were brooding over all this human insanity, trying to tell me something.