JOE:

And lastly, it looks to me like you’re pretty rash to judge which is fools and which isn’t fools, Mr. Vandergelder. People that’s et onions is bad judges of who’s et onions and who ain’t. Good morning, ladies; good morning, Mr. Vandergelder.

Exit JOE.

VANDERGELDER:

Well, what do you want?

ERMENGARDE:

Twenty-four; pretty, sentimental.

Uncle! You said you wanted to talk to us.

VANDERGELDER:

Oh yes. Gertrude, go and get my parade regalia—the uniform for my lodge parade.

GERTRUDE:

What? Oh yes. Lord have mercy!

Exit GERTRUDE, back center.

VANDERGELDER:

I had a talk with that artist of yours. He’s a fool.

ERMENGARDE starts to cry.

Weeping! Weeping! You can go down and weep for a while in New York where it won’t be noticed.

He sits on desk chair, puts tie round neck and calls her over to tie it for him.

Ermengarde! I told him that when you were old enough to marry you’d marry someone who could support you. I’ve done you a good turn. You’ll come and thank me when you’re fifty.

ERMENGARDE:

But Uncle, I love him!

VANDERGELDER:

I tell you you don’t.

ERMENGARDE:

But I do!

VANDERGELDER:

And I tell you you don’t. Leave those things to me.

ERMENGARDE:

If I don’t marry Ambrose I know I’ll die.

VANDERGELDER:

What of?

ERMENGARDE:

A broken heart.

VANDERGELDER:

Never heard of it. Mrs. Levi is coming in a moment to take you to New York. You are going to stay two or three weeks with Miss Van Huysen, an old friend of your mother’s.

GERTRUDE re-enters with coat, sash and sword. Enter from the street, right, MALACHI STACK.

You’re not to receive any letters except from me. I’m coming to New York myself today and I’ll call on you tomorrow.

To Malachi.

Who are you?

MALACHI:

Fifty. Sardonic. Apparently innocent smile; pretense of humility.

Malachi Stack, your honor. I heard you wanted an apprentice in the hay, feed, provision and hardware business.

VANDERGELDER:

An apprentice at your age?

MALACHI:

Yes, your honor; I bring a lot of experience to it.

VANDERGELDER:

Have you any letters of recommendation?

MALACHI:

Extending a sheaf of soiled papers.

Yes, indeed, your honor! First-class recommendation.

VANDERGELDER:

Ermengarde! Are you ready to start?

ERMENGARDE:

Yes.

VANDERGELDER:

Well, go and get ready some more. Ermengarde! Let me know the minute Mrs. Levi gets here.

ERMENGARDE:

Yes, Uncle Horace.

ERMENGARDE and GERTRUDE exit.

VANDERGELDER examines the letters, putting them down one by one.

VANDERGELDER:

I don’t want an able seaman. Nor a typesetter. And I don’t want a hospital cook.

MALACHI:

No, your honor, but it’s all experience. Excuse me!

Selects a letter.

This one is from your former partner, Joshua Van Tuyl, in Albany.

He puts letters from table back into pocket.

VANDERGELDER:

“. . . for the most part honest and reliable . . . occasionally willing and diligent.” There seems to be a certain amount of hesitation about these recommendations.

MALACHI:

Businessmen aren’t writers, your honor. There’s only one businessman in a thousand that can write a good letter of recommendation, your honor. Mr. Van Tuyl sends his best wishes and wants to know if you can use me in the provision and hardware business.