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Editor,
Oregon Literary Review

MFA, Playwriting, University of Oregon

Writing faculty, Portland State University (part-time)

Retired playwright and screenwriter.
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ARMANDE: Charles says that you wish to see me.

MOLIERE: I've heard a rumor that you're taking diction lessons.

ARMANDE: Yes, I am.

MOLIERE: I give the d-diction lessons in this company!

ARMANDE: But you've been so busy that—

MOLIERE: Who is he?

ARMANDE: His name is Pierre.

MOLIERE: What are his qualifications?

ARMANDE: He's a poet.

MOLIERE: A poet! Really?

ARMANDE: Yes.

MOLIERE: What makes you think you need diction lessons?

ARMANDE: He kindly offered them and I—

MOLIERE: Offered them!

ARMANDE: Yes.

MOLIERE: Then he admires you?

ARMANDE: He saw me in the "Princess" and "Tartuffe."

MOLIERE: And he flattered you?

ARMANDE: He said I need work on my diction and he kindly offered to give me lessons.

MOLIERE: And you have time on your hands, with "Tartuffe" and soon "Don Juan" in rehearsal?

ARMANDE: What's "Don Juan"?

MOLIERE: What I'm replacing "Tartuffe" with. I wrote you a major part.

ARMANDE: I see Pierre only once a week.

MOLIERE: But you'd prefer to see him more often...?

ARMANDE: I'd prefer that you say what's really on your mind. (A beat.) Jean, I have no interest in Pierre beyond diction lessons. (A beat.) Don't you believe me?

MOLIERE: I'm not sure.

ARMANDE: It's the truth.

MOLIERE: He sent you a poem. I had to bribe the boy who delivered it. (Offering the poem:) Here, I'd like you to read it.

ARMANDE (not accepting it): Jean, I've given him no encouragement.

MOLIERE: Read it! (A beat.) Very well. I'll read it myself:

"Armande, these lines are not meant to embarrass

But I'm quite mad about your mons veneris."

ARMANDE: Jean!—

MOLIERE: "And though I am not noted for my wit,

I am a man who appreciates good tits."

ARMANDE: Stop it! What are you accusing me of? Taking him for a lover?

MOLIERE: You said it, I didn't.

ARMANDE: There's no point in talking about something so ridiculous. I'll see you at rehearsal.

MOLIERE: Now that the cat's out of the bag, look who doesn't want to talk about it.

ARMANDE: I don't see what's wrong with taking diction lessons from Pierre — or I didn't, until he wrote that awful poem. I didn't know he was going to do that.

MOLIERE: And the others?

ARMANDE: There are no others.

MOLIERE: The courtiers have been following you around like cats in heat.

ARMANDE: That's not my fault! What's happened to you? You accuse me of causing little Louis's death, you—

MOLIERE: I said he needed his mother.

ARMANDE: When do I have time to be a mother? And I don't have a string of lovers, no matter what you think. I have no one. I have you. But when do we even see one another any more? You're always writing a play or directing rehearsals. I'm always learning lines or rehearsing. Our life together has turned into one long rehearsal.

MOLIERE: Plays don't write themselves.

ARMANDE: You don't even seem to enjoy what little time we do have alone together. I haven't been unfaithful...

MOLIERE: Please don't cry. (A beat.) You know I can't stand it when you cry! (A beat.) Listen — all right, maybe I have been working too hard.

ARMANDE: How can you think such things about me?

MOLIERE: I often play the cuckold on stage, don't I? So maybe I'm just practicing. That's what we live for, isn't it? Perfecting our parts? Fine-tuning our roles? I know I haven't given you much attention lately. I mean, you're right, our life is a rehearsal. My life is a dress rehearsal for a play. Even now, as I hear myself talking, I wonder where I'll be putting this, in what future scene in what future play I'll be standing before someone like you, perhaps before you yourself, the actress, and I'll be the actor, and we'll be talking — in some play, some day — much as we are talking here now. Because that's what my life seems to be, a dress rehearsal for a play. Which, strictly speaking, doesn't really make my life much of a life at all, does it?

WILLOW: You confuse me. On the one hand, there's something very cynical about you. But other times you seem to be having so much fun.

OLSON: I have a theory. Behold the stars!, twinkling happily away. More than we can see in L.A., as a matter of fact.

WILLOW: Aren't they lovely?

OLSON: They don't exist.

WILLOW: Well, I certainly see them up there.

OLSON: They are not shining. Poof!, the stars have vanished, to the twinkle. However: since, to toast dear Albert once again, since their little twinkles take so long to get to our own untwinkling hunk of hot rock, we don't know they're dead yet. So here we are, writing love songs and poetry and fascist ballot measures in a universe that no longer exists. Cheers.

WILLOW: I see what you mean — some cosmic explosion may already have happened, for all we know.

OLSON: Precisely! In fact, there are no more stars anywhere, in any firmament. All gone! And like you say, we won't find out that cosmic fact for thousands of years. Or until tomorrow.

WILLOW: That's very pessimistic.

OLSON: On the contrary, I toast stars that don't exist! I'd say there's a bit of good will there.

WILLOW: Your play is pessimistic.

OLSON: Neutral. Ironic but neutral.

WILLOW: Ironic how?

OLSON: We have the audacity to blow up a universe when we're the only pigeon-hole left who hasn't gotten word of the Grand Cosmic Finale. I told you, the stars are gone. Poof! Not a twinkle left in the sky — we're just very late getting the word. Ironic, yes? But a far greater irony would be to keep on living in the universe as if it still existed! That would give us the last laugh.

WILLOW: You're pulling my leg.

OLSON: Literally, that would be a pleasure.