JANE: “Like a dream”—last line of first act of Chekhov’s Seagull. —Played Nina once—“I’m a seagull”—no good translation—my performance was—praised—must have fever—still talking to myself.

TYE: I hear you, Babe. Maybe you should of stayed an actress, Babe, with your style and—voice . . .

JANE: I—thought possibly—fashion design—might be less of a Roman circus, “Babe.” And less corrupt, morally, than the stage. —No producer or agent ever laid me but—lots tried. —You probably won’t believe that I was once a moral girl with ideas and social interests, concerned with inequalities—injustice—you’ve only seen my decline into—degra—despe—ration.

TYE: Degra-desperation’s a new word, Babe.

JANE: It’s a—combo of tow, much worse than one.

[A strident tourist’s drawl penetrates the closed shutters.]

TOURIST [from below]: —I can’t keep up with you girls in these tight slippers. Besides I want to skip straight through to the Ole French Market for coffee, I’ve seen too many degenerates with long hair begging for change, the change they need is a scrubbing brush and a bath in a sheep-dip, honey!

JANE [opening the doors with a gasp]: Ladies, please! This is a private residence, people live here, let them rest! —On Sunday!

FIRST LADY TOURIST: Gracious!

SECOND LADY TOURIST: Screaming at us for admiring the courtyard which is a listed attraction!

THIRD LADY TOURIST: That we bought admission to seeee!

JANE: I’m not a listed attraction, I’m a private citizen, driven—mad by your fatuous—inanities—down there! [She slams the doors shut. The guide’s voice is heard placating the outraged ladies. Jane moves, gasping, on a zigzag course to the table. It is covered with green felt on which are printed dice and other gambling devices.] —At least two degrees of—fever, nothing looks natural to me, why, I—never behaved so crazy in my life! I think it’s got in my head! These sketches are evidence of it! [She starts tearing fashion sketches off the wall.] —Would you look at these? Deco! Waistline at the hips, what an atrocity. And look at me. Bangles, jangles, beads! All taste gone! [Tears off costume jewelry.]

TYE: Babe, you’re in no shape to meet a buyer.

JANE [slowly and bitterly]: He’s no buyer of anything but me! —I tried to peddle designs at The Vogue Moderne—too advanced for introduction this season but would I be interested in modeling on the Trade Mart Roof? —Christ, I knew after one promenade round the revolving room, I’d fall into a potted palm and never get up again! [She draws a long, loud breath. Pause. He is thinking of something.]