Is He Dead Mark Twain PDF

Is He Dead? (2nd ed. - 12.01.
09) - ishedeadFjp
Copyright © 2008 David Ives
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Persons Represented
In order of appearance:
AGAMEMNON BUCKNER, (known as “Chicago”), a young artist
HANS VON BISMARCK, (“Dutchy”), a pupil of Millet
MARIE LEROUX, Millet’s sweetheart
CECILE LEROUX, sister of Marie
PAPA LEROUX
JEAN-FRANÇOIS MILLET
WIDOW DAISY TILLOU, played by the same actor that plays Millet
BASTIEN ANDRÉ, picture dealer and usurer
MADAME BATHILDE
MADAME CARON
PHELIM O’SHAUGHNESSY, a pupil of Millet
BASIL THORPE, a rich English merchant
CLAUDE RIVIÈRE, a reporter from “Le Figaro”
CHARLIE, a gorgeous flunkey
THE KING OF FRANCE
THE SULTAN OF TURKEY
THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA
Character Notes
The play can be performed, with doubling, using eleven actors. One
actor plays Thorpe, the Reporter, the King of France, and Charlie /
Monnet. Mesdames Bathilde and Caron play the (silent) Emperor of
Russia and Sultan of Turkey.
“Millet” is pronounced in the French way, Mee-yay, as is “Tillou”:
Tee-you.
4
Acknowledgments
Is He Dead? opened on Broadway at the Lyceum Theatre on Decem

ber 9, 2007 with the following cast and staff:
AGAMEMNON BUCKNER
(“Chicago”) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael McGrath
HANS VON BISMARCK
(“Dutchy”) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tom Alan Robbins
PAPA LEROUX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John McMartin
MARIE LEROUX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jenn Gambatese
CECILE LEROUX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bridget Regan
JEAN-FRANÇOIS MILLET. . . . . . . . . . . Norbert Leo Butz
BASTIEN ANDRÉ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Byron Jennings
MADAME BATHILDE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patricia Conolly
MADAME CARON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marylouise Burke
PHELIM O’SHAUGHNESSY . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeremy Bobb
BASIL THORPE / CLAUDE RIVIÈRE /
CHARLIE / THE KING OF FRANCE. . . . . . . David Pittu
Director. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Blakemore
Set Design. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Peter J. Davison
Costume Design. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Martin Pakledinaz
Lighting Design. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Peter Kaczorowski
Music & Sound Design. . . . . . . . . David Van Tieghem
Hair & Wig Design. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Paul Huntley
Dance Sequences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pamela Remler
All production groups performing this play must satisfy the fol
lowing requirements, notwithstanding anything to the contrary in
Playscripts’ performance licensing agreement:
1. No changes in the title or the text of Is He Dead? (the “Play”) as
set forth in this Acting Edition (including, without limitation, the
period in which the play is set) shall be made without prior written
approval from Playscripts.
5
2. Mark Twain and David Ives shall receive credit in the theater pro-
gram, all display and other material at the place of performance, and
in all billboards, posters and all other advertising and promotion of
the Play, without limitation as follows:
Is He Dead?
A new comedy
By
Mark Twain
as adapted by David Ives
Said credit for Mark Twain shall be in not less than 50% of the size
and prominence of the title. Further the credit for David Ives shall be
in 75% of the size and prominence afforded Mark Twain.
Credit for Mark Twain and David Ives shall each appear on a sepa-
rate line as set forth above.
3. Credit shall be given to the Broadway producers of the Play sub-

stantially as follows:
Original Broadway production produced by

Bob Boyett Roger Berlind Daryl Roth Jane Bergere
E. Morten/P. Robbins J. O’Boyle/R. Stevens Roy Miller
Sonia Friedman Productions/Ambassador Theatre Group Tim
Levy
in association with
Shelley Fisher Fishkin
Said credit shall appear on the title page of all theater programs and
in all advertising and publicity wherever and whenever the full pro-
duction credits are given. Said credit shall be in type size not less
than 25% of the type sized used for the non-logo title of the Play.
4. A Playscripts-approved bio of Mark Twain, The Mark Twain

Foundation, Shelley Fisher Fishkin, and David Ives shall appear in
all programs. For all bios, see www.playscripts.com or the inside back
cover of this book.
6
Foreword:
Bringing Mark Twain’s Is He Dead? to Life
Mark Twain wrote Is He Dead? in 1898 as he emerged from one of the

darkest periods of his life. A crippling bankruptcy had forced Twain
to give up his home in the U.S. and embark on a world-wide lecture
tour to pay back his creditors, and while he was abroad, in 1896, his
youngest daughter had died suddenly. It would not be surprising if
Twain had wondered whether he’d ever manage to laugh again. But
by 1898, Twain had come out of the gloom that had enveloped him
and found himself ready to transform death and debt into the raw
material for a hilarious, over-the-top comedy.
The London Times reported in 1898 that Is He Dead?, the high-spir-
ited romp of a play that Twain composed while living in Vienna,
would be produced simultaneously in London and New York. But a
combination of bad timing, bad luck, and, perhaps, the irreverence
of placing one of France’s greatest painters at the center of a zany,
cross-dressing farce conspired to foil Twain’s plans. The play was
never produced.
When I came across the manuscript in the Mark Twain Papers at UC
Berkeley’s Bancroft Library in 2002 and found myself laughing out
loud in the archives, I decided that this delightfully ebullient play—
from a period when Twain was known for much darker work—de-
served to be rescued from the obscurity in which it had languished
for over a century. University of California Press published the play
as Twain wrote it in 2003. The extended afterword I wrote to Is He
Dead? A Comedy in Three Acts by Mark Twain, provides background
useful to anyone performing the play today. It suggests why Twain
may have chosen to write a play about the painter Jean-François
Millet, perhaps the most famous 19th-century European painter in
America in Twain’s day, and an artist who showed a respect for or-
dinary people in his art that resonated with Twain’s own work. It
also looks at what the play has in common with other writing by
Twain, sets the play in the context of popular theatre of the day, and
examines Twain’s attitudes towards art and towards the French.
A mutual friend urged me to contact veteran producer Bob Boyett,
with whom I worked to bring the play to Broadway. Twain had enor-
mous fun writing Is He Dead? but he knew that staging it would be
a challenge. Over a hundred years later, Twain found the ideal col-
laborator in David Ives. In Ives’ brilliant adaptation, Twain’s words
are still there—as are his trademark satirical wit, his unforgettable
characters, and his ingenious plot. But Ives put Twain’s play on a
much-needed diet, compressing three acts to two and whittling a
7
play that would have required some 35 actors down to a play that
can be produced with as few as 11. He staged scenes that Twain had
left off-stage, and while eliminating several characters and plot ele-
ments, he also developed others. Ives did what Twain hoped some-
one would do: he tightened the play and adapted it for today’s stage,
while keeping it in the spirit of what Twain wrote. Twain’s Is He
Dead?, adapted by David Ives and directed by Michael Blakemore,
had its world premiere at the Lyceum Theatre in New York on De-
cember 9, 2007 with a stunningly talented cast. Its Broadway debut
met with great critical acclaim.
Twain believed in his play—but, discouraged by his failure to get it
produced in London or New York, he filed it away with his papers
and for the most part forgot about it. Nearly a hundred years after
Twain’s death, Is He Dead? came to life—gloriously—on Broadway,
leading the world to conclude that reports of its death had been, in-
deed, greatly exaggerated.
—Shelley Fisher Fishkin
Stanford University
8
Is He Dead?
by Mark Twain
adapted by David Ives
ACT I
Scene 1
(An afternoon in spring, 1846, at Barbizon, near Paris. The studio

of Jean-François Millet. Lofty and spacious, but poor. A ragged
sofa covered with an old sheet. Some crippled chairs. Canvases
leaning against the walls and hanging everywhere. A large, cov-
ered painting on a tall easel facing away from us upstage near large
windows. A crate with wooden arms and legs used for modeling.
A door leading to the outside at left. A door to a bedroom at right.)
(At curtain, we hear CHICAGO singing gaily, off left.)
CHICAGO. (Offstage:)
“Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight,
Come out tonight, come out tonight…”
DUTCHY. (Offstage:)
“Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight…”
CHICAGO. (Offstage:)
“…and dance by the light of the moon!”
(CHICAGO enters from left, followed by DUTCHY. Their clothes
are neat, but cheap and rather the worse for wear.)
CHICAGO. Millet!
(Goes to door at right and knocks, then looks in.)
Are you there? François? Are you painting? Hello? —Not here. “Buf-
falo gals, won’t you come out tonight…and dance by the light of the
moon!”
(He plays the song on an imaginary banjo.)
DUTCHY. Mein Gott, Shecaggo, I don’t know how you can zing
right now.
CHICAGO. Oh, cheer up, Dutchy, cheer up. The worst is yet to come.
DUTCHY. Ja, ja. You play your banjo, und Jean-François Millet
could be ruint today!
11
12 Mark Twain / David Ives
CHICAGO. I’ve been ruined all my life, Dutchy. Never hurt me a

bit. We just have to use the old pumpkin is all.
(PAPA LEROUX enters from left with his daughters MARIE
and CECILE. Though not old, LEROUX walks with a cane, a
man enfeebled by care.)
LEROUX. Give me my shawl, please, Marie. I’m feeling chilly.
MARIE. It’s right here, Papa.
CHICAGO. Monsieur Leroux.
MARIE. François isn’t home, Mr. Buckner?
CHICAGO. He must be out trying to peddle some paintings. I hope
he makes it back before André.
LEROUX. Well, I wish Monsieur André would just get here and let
us know the worst. Cecile, my pills, please.
CECILE. Yes, Papa.
CHICAGO. When is André due?
MARIE. By the noon train from Paris.
CHICAGO. If it’s to collect money, he’ll be here before the train.
LEROUX. You know Bastien André?
CHICAGO. Well, I should think I do!
LEROUX. Don’t tell me you’re also in his grip?
CHICAGO. Like every other artist in Barbizon. Dutchy, too. But
Millet got in up to the chin. If he hadn’t, we pupils of his would’ve
starved this year. We worshippers of Millet that swim in his light
and warmth. We lesser planets that swing like satellites around his
golden sun.
DUTCHY. Blanets ton’t starve, dey ton’t eat noding.
CHICAGO. Don’t interrupt, Dutchy. Astronomical opinions based
on sauerkraut are no good.
DUTCHY. Shecaggo—he alvays like dot. He ton’t care for fact, only
boetry.
CECILE. With women, he doesn’t care for poetry either.
CHICAGO. (Slipping an arm around her waist:) Fair Cecile. Sweetest
of the sweet, dearest of the dear—
CECILE. (Pulling away:) Not in front of everyone, Agamemnon.
Is He Dead? 13
CHICAGO. You always act like that when I kiss you in public.
CECILE. I don’t! I mean you don’t!
CHICAGO. Don’t what?
CECILE. Kiss me in public.
CHICAGO. Well, is that any of my fault?
CECILE. I wasn’t saying it was anybody’s fault. It’s a crime, that’s
what it is!
CHICAGO. Dutchy, if I was a woman I bet I’d understand that.
CECILE. If you were a man, you wouldn’t have to.
LEROUX. (About to sit down on the couch:) My smelling salts, Marie.
CHICAGO. No, no, you don’t want to sit there, sir. The chimney
sweep fell asleep and left a calling card.
(Holds up the sheet, showing a detailed, life-size black imprint of a
chimney sweep--top hat, brush and all.)
You see that? A soot print.
DUTCHY. Dot’s sphlendid work for a fellow dot ain’t had no train-
ing in Art.
CHICAGO. The composition is excellent. And look at that modeling.
DUTCHY. Dot sveep certainly knows how to leave an impression.
CHICAGO. Of course. He’s an Impressionist.
CECILE. I’m glad to see you cheerful in spite of circumstances, as
usual.
CHICAGO. I absolutely promise to be somber. You know I studied
for the ministry.
CECILE. Yes, so you’ve claimed many times before.
LEROUX. Oh Lord, oh Lord, it’s a dismal day.
CHICAGO. And yet the sun is shining on us all. How much do you
owe this scoundrel, anyway?
LEROUX. Enough to beggar me if he forecloses. Fifteen thousand
francs.
(CHICAGO and DUTCHY both whistle at that.)
It was wrong, it was foolish, but I didn’t know where else to go. And
André was so soft-spoken and smooth. He promised he would never
press me. Now he as good as threatens to take all my property. Well,

maybe he’ll show some heart this time.
CHICAGO. He doesn’t have one. Carries a doughnut where it ought
to be. A petrified one.
MARIE. That’s the truth.
CHICAGO. Any picture dealer’s hard-hearted enough, but to add
usury! Might as well cross a grizzly bear with a shark. What’s André
being so sudden about, all at once?
LEROUX. Marie has refused him again.
MARIE. I don’t love him, you see.
CHICAGO. Oh, is that all? It’s probably why he particularly likes you.
DUTCHY. (Grabs a wooden arm from the box and uses it as a sabre:) I vill
jallenge André to a dual. I vill job a sword troo him!
CHICAGO. You pretzel. They don’t use swords in France. They
fight with hairpins at thirty yards.
LEROUX. Oh, Lord. Fifteen thousand francs!
CHICAGO. Cheer up, the worst is yet to come!
CECILE. Oh, do be quiet, Agamemnon. Goodness knows there’s
nothing to be cheerful about.
CHICAGO. Come, come, nobody’s going to starve.
MARIE. Cecile, do let Mr. Buckner be cheerful if he can. I’m sure it
does me good.
DUTCHY. (Glancing out the window:) Und here’s Jean-François Millet!
(MILLET enters from right, carrying some canvases.)
MILLET. I’m sorry, everyone.
MARIE. François, you’ve been so long.
MILLET. (Kisses her.) I’m glad it seemed long to you, sweetheart. I
was trying to raise some money with these.
Monsieur Leroux, how are you, sir.
LEROUX. My boy.
MILLET. Hello, Cecile. How are you, lads. Well, you needn’t tell me.
MARIE. You sold nothing?
MILLET. Nothing.
Is He Dead? 15
(Showing the canvases: “The Sower,” “Man With Hoe,” “Har-

vesters Resting.”)
Not this. Not this. Not this. One man said they were too melan
choly. Another said they were brutal and frightening. As if the lives
of these people weren’t brutal. I am only trying to say as best I can
about the common man what I myself have seen with my own eyes.
If my works aren’t cheerful, it is never the cheerful side of things that
appears to me. I don’t know where to look for it. I have never seen it.
MARIE. I think they’re glorious.
MILLET. Then here, you may have them. They’ll feed your stove as
well as mine. I would’ve tried to sell the new one but it’s not quite
finished. Wait a moment. Wait a moment…! I think I have it!
CHICAGO. Shh! Be quiet, everyone!
DUTCHY. Ze meister is at verk!
(MILLET rushes to the canvas upstage, elaborately whips up some
paints on a palette, considers deeply, and adds one small dab to the
canvas.)
MILLET. There. At last. It is finished.
DUTCHY. Halleluiah!
MILLET. It’s probably just one more folly. What do you think?
(He turns the easel around. The painting is his renowned “Ange
lus.”)
I call it “The Angelus.”
CHICAGO. Jumpin’ Jehovah! That’s what you ought to call it!
“Jumpin’ Jehovah!”
MARIE. Oh, François, it’s your greatest yet. It’s a masterpiece.
MILLET. I hope not. It’ll never sell.
(He kicks the couch in frustration.)
Drat this world of purblind buyers and beggared artists!
(Knock at door left.)
DUTCHY. Dot must be André.
CHICAGO. The wolf is at the door.
(Opens the door and ANDRÉ enters.)
CHICAGO & DUTCHY. (Howl like wolves.)
DUTCHY. Good morning!

LEROUX. Monsieur André.
ANDRÉ. I desired a private interview.
CECILE. It’s not necessary. These are friends.
LEROUX. Please let them be no hindrance.
ANDRÉ. Mademoiselle Leroux, you dare to call this meeting at the
house of my rival?
MARIE. Yes, monsieur, I do dare.
ANDRÉ. I suppose you know what I’ve come for.
MILLET. Monsieur André, I hope you’ve come with more than
threats and unpleasantness.
ANDRÉ. Ah, Millet. My rival, did I say? My debtor is more exact.
You owe me 2500 francs, sir.
MILLET. In what way?
ANDRÉ. Haven’t you borrowed them of me?
MILLET. No, sir, I took them on account.
ANDRÉ. On what account?
MILLET. On account of the year’s pictures. And I hold you to our
contract. Our agreement says you may take any picture at the value
of one hundred francs. Here are scores of pictures. Choose any twen-
ty-five and call the account square.
ANDRÉ. (Produces the contract.) Our agreement leaves me free to
take such pictures as I like. I like none and I take none.
MILLET. The new one has some merit. “The Angelus” alone is
worth twenty-five hundred francs.
ANDRÉ. What, that incompetent hash? Pay me by six o’clock to
morrow or I will have you jailed.
MARIE. You wouldn’t dare.
ANDRÉ. Yes, mademoiselle, I do dare.
(Aside to audience:)
Months ago this fellow stepped between me and Marie, and I shall
make him sorry for it. I shall run him into an early grave. He’s paint-
ed some good pictures. The new one’s almost great. Well, tomorrow
Is He Dead? 17
I’ll drop on him. There’ll be an auction and I’ll buy every one of these
for a song—and burn them!
(To LEROUX:)
Leroux, your time is also up. Fifteen thousand francs, due tomorrow.
Will you pay, or must I take action?
LEROUX. Monsieur André, I know you’ll give me time, just as you
promised—
ANDRÉ. Please do not complicate the matter with imaginary prom-
ises.
LEROUX. Imaginary!
MARIE. Oh!
CECILE. Why, you…ashcat!
CHICAGO. Brava, Cecile!
ANDRÉ. You know that there’s another way, Leroux. The moment
Marie marries me, your debt is paid.
CECILE. But man, her heart is with Millet!
ANDRÉ. Come, sir, be reasonable. On the one hand a lover with
nothing; on the other a lover who is getting on in the world with
sure strides. I love your daughter as well as Millet. I can give her a
comfortable home. I can make her happy. Can he do that? A shiftless
painter without talent or future who can’t sell a picture to save his
life? Who can’t give one away?
DUTCHY. Why, dot is your fault.
ANDRÉ. Well, Leroux, what will it be? The money? Or Marie?
LEROUX. Answer him, child.
MARIE. No, father, no. You will spare me that.
LEROUX. There, dear. I know where your heart is.
MARIE. Oh, father, I can’t bear it. How can I make a beggar of you?
LEROUX. My child, answer me this one question. Do you love this
man?
MARIE. No.
LEROUX. One more, then. Do you love François Millet?
MARIE. Yes.
LEROUX. Well enough to endure poverty and hardship for his sake?
MARIE. Oh, hunger, thirst, cold, everything!

LEROUX. Then you have your answer, Monsieur André. Even
though it ruin me.
DUTCHY. (Pumping LEROUX’s hand:) Oh, dot’s shplennid! Dot’s
mighty shplennid! Shake.
ANDRÉ. You shall have my answer, you old fool.
MILLET. You’re forgetting yourself, monsieur. Take that back.
ANDRÉ. Yes, Millet, you have your sweetheart now and a dose of
courage. Next, you’ll have hunger and a raging good appetite. I’ll
ruin you, do you understand? Ruin you!
(To MARIE:)
Mademoiselle, I wish to make just one remark to you.
CECILE. Please let her alone. My father has answered you. Now go.
ANDRÉ. It doesn’t become you to ride the high horse with me. Nor
any of you. Paupers! Everything you’ve got is mine—bought with
my money. The very clothes you wear. If you took off what belongs
to me, there wouldn’t be enough left to—
CHICAGO. You’d better go now, you’re about to get excited.
(CHICAGO leads him to the door.)
DUTCHY. Ja, run along to mother.
CHICAGO. (Opening door:) Allow me.
ANDRÉ. Your time is up at six o’clock tomorrow. Get the money in
the meantime—if you can!
(ANDRÉ exits.)
CECILE. I’m so sorry, Papa, I’m so sorry.
LEROUX. There, there. Forget all about it.
CHICAGO. (Not as brightly as before:) Well, cheer up, cheer up, the
worst is…you know…
MILLET. I thought I might save you somehow. All of you dear peo-
ple. The dearest people in the world to me. Well, it’s no matter now.
(Kicks the couch.)
Drat the low-down thief!
MARIE. Don’t give up, François. Don’t give up.
Is He Dead? 19
MILLET. I have spoiled your life, dear. That’s the hardest.

MARIE. No, you have blessed it. Oh, François, I wish I could help
you. I would die for you.
MILLET. I believe it.
(Aside to audience:)
Maybe I should die for her. Maybe I should rid the world of Jean-
François Millet and let some fellow with the gift of success love her
and make her happy.
LEROUX. I am sorry for you, lad. If I could only help, but he’s ru
ined me, too.
MILLET. Bless you for a good heart, sir.
(Enter MADAME BATHILDE and MADAME CARON.)
MADAME BATHILDE. François…
MADAME CARON. François…
MADAME BATHILDE. We just met that skinflint.
MADAME CARON. He told us all.
MADAME BATHILDE. We came straight to carry you off.
MADAME CARON. And to comfort you.
MADAME BATHILDE. (Embracing her:) Dear Marie!
MADAME CARON. (Embracing her, too:) Dear Marie!
MADAME BATHILDE. You poor child!
MADAME CARON. You poor, poor child!
MARIE. It is a very hard day for us. I don’t see how anyone could
be so unfair.
MADAME BATHILDE. Dear me, child.
MADAME CARON. When you come to know the world better…
MADAME BATHILDE. …it’s the skinflints that run it.
MADAME CARON. They always have.
MILLET. Madame Bathilde, Madame Caron, you’re being awfully
kind. I owe you several months’ rent.
MADAME BATHILDE. Oh, tush!
MADAME CARON. Tush!
MADAME BATHILDE. Tush!

MILLET. (Handing them some small paintings:) Here. Here’s Febru
ary—March—April—this one’s not quite finished—half of May. I
know they’re worth nothing.
MADAME BATHILDE. We shall treasure them.
MADAME CARON. Along with all the others.
MADAME BATHILDE. Dear Monsieur Leroux, come along now.
MADAME CARON. We’ve a bite waiting.
MADAME BATHILDE. You’ll feel the better for it.
MADAME CARON. Come while it’s hot.
MADAME BATHILDE. Everybody!
MADAME CARON. Everybody!
DUTCHY. Don’t you be drubbled, Marie. We all got to haff dese
little ups und towns.
MARIE. It’s good of you to say so, Hans. You are always good. Are
you coming, François?
MILLET. I’ll be there shortly, darling. I need to brood a while.
MARIE. Don’t brood too long.
LEROUX. Marie, my hot water bottle, please.
(Exeunt all except MILLET, DUTCHY, and CHICAGO.)
MILLET. (Standing before “The Angelus”:) Tell me, lads. How can I
paint this, and still be starving?
CHICAGO. It’s the Koh-i-Noor diamond of the whole collection.
Look at the noble simplicity of it! No fuss, no feathers, no tricks of
color, no theatricals. Just that solemn half-light and those brooding
distances for the chimes to wander through, and those two humble
figures, so poor outside, so rich with the peace of God in their hearts.
DUTCHY. Dot picture make me feel—right here. I look at dot pic
ture and vay off yonder I hear de church bells so fine—so faint—so
sweet. Und dot is home, und it break mine heart.
CHICAGO. You’ve hit it, Dutchy. That picture makes everybody feel
like home.
MILLET. That’s the grand test, isn’t it. Great art—supreme art—has
no nationality.
Is He Dead? 21
DUTCHY. (Getting a little weepy:) Dot picture lif’ me righd up to

heaven!
CHICAGO. It’s going to make a strike today, too. You’ll see. I put
out the word to every foreigner on the Paris hotel registers and
they’ll be flocking down here presently. We’ll sell this whole exhi
bition in an hour.
DUTCHY. Dey’re shplendid good pictures, but you can’t sell ’em.
No more denn brickbats.
CHICAGO. Millet, I’ll bet you a hundred francs you’re a celebrated
man inside of a year.
MILLET. I can’t take your money.
CHICAGO. Dutchy?
DUTCHY. I don’t vant to bet against dot. I vant it to happen.
CHICAGO. That’s the way to make it happen.
DUTCHY. Shecaggo, you right. Alvays venn I pet against someding,
she vin, efrytime. Only I don’t got a hundred francs.
CHICAGO. I’ve only got ten centimes myself.
DUTCHY. The newspaper say even de Bank of England is down to
34 million pound.
CHICAGO. We’re as good as the Bank of England. I’ll bet you 34
million pounds.
DUTCHY. Dot’s vhat I call a vager. Shake!
CHICAGO. And here comes O’Shaughnessy, to help us peddle
some canvas.
(He plays a jig on an imaginary penny whistle as PHELIM
O’SHAUGHNESSY enters, a lad of Ireland.)
Well, begosh and begad if it ain’t Phelim O’Shaughnessy!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. ’Tis I indeed, and the top o’ the day to ye, lads.
Chicago, I passed out them flyers all over Paree. We’ll be havin’ a
couple thousand folks stampedin’ in here any minute, and every one
of ’em with coin in their trousers.
CHICAGO. Excellent. Now fasten onto them, boys. Don’t let any
body get away without buying a picture.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And if they’re not buyin’, I’ll tell ’em to go to hell.
CHICAGO. That’s the spirit. Hans von Bismarck?
DUTCHY. (Saluting:) Jawohl, mein Kapitayn!

CHICAGO. You control the crowds. Phelim O’Shaughnessy?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Right here, sor!
CHICAGO. You beguile the ladies.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. It’s me trade.
CHICAGO. When this show is over we’re going to be flush and out
of trouble.
(A knock at door left.)
There’s our stampede. —Come right in!
(The door opens to admit a single man, BASIL THORPE, an Eng
lishman.)
THORPE. Hello. I do beg your pardon. Is this the studio of John
Franklin Millit?
MILLET. Jean-François Millet.
THORPE. John Franklin Millet, that’s right.
CHICAGO. Step right in, sir, step right in.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Aside to CHICAGO:) He ain’t exactly the larg-
est stampede I ever seen.
CHICAGO. He’s all the stampede we’ve got. Work him, lads.
(The lads attach themselves to THORPE as he tours the room.)
Everything’s for sale here. Take your time.
THORPE. Mmm… Dear me, that looks good.
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Murmuring variously,
ad lib:) Very good. —Excellent good. —Sehr gut, sehr gut…
THORPE. I wish I knew something about pictures. That one there
is interesting.
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. Very interesting. —
Excellent interesting. —Unglaublich interessant.
THORPE. And that one there…
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. Very interesting. —
Excellent interesting. —Unglaublich interressant.
CHICAGO. You like this one? It’s yours, my friend, for only…
(—looks to MILLET, who signals “two”—)
Is He Dead? 23
…three hundred francs.

THORPE. Three hundred francs.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Indade, yer ladyship, it’s worth the double of
it, on me honor.
THORPE. It seems so to me, but I am no judge.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Why, look at the grace of it! The charm of it!
The size of it! Ye’ll not get anything like it for the money this side o’
the grave.
THORPE. The thing is, I just don’t know…
O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Sudden ferocity:) Well, then, ye can go to hell!
(CHICAGO and DUTCHY nudge him to be quiet.)
THORPE. (Before “The Angelus”:) Oh, dear me, that looks good. That
looks quite good. That is very good.
CHICAGO. It’s only a masterpiece. It ought to be good.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. At the price I’m tinkin’ of buyin’ the dingus
meself.
THORPE. What is the price?
CHICAGO. Twenty-five hundred francs.
MILLET, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Gasp.)
THORPE. Yes. Hm. That sounds quite reasonable. I’ve a mind to
take it. It grows on me. It grows on me. And it is quite large, after all.
CHICAGO. Buy in bulk, I always say.
THORPE. You know I just might. Yes, I just might take a chance…
CHICAGO. (Aside to the other three:) Take a grip on yourself, lads.
Twenty-five hundred francs!
(The boys bow their heads in silent prayer – and look just like “The
Angelus.”)
THORPE. But tell me. This Mr. Millit…
MILLET AND FRIENDS. Millet.
THORPE. This Mr. Millet. Is he dead?
MILLET. I beg your pardon?
THORPE. Is he dead? You see, a painter has so much more talent
when he’s dead. Indeed the deader he is, the better he is. Just look at
this Rembrandt fellow. He must have been good in his day. Since he
died he’s incomparable! Worth millions!
MILLET. Excuse me, sir. I am Millet.
THORPE. Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’m sorry to meet you, in a
sense. The problem is, you see, I couldn’t possibly buy any work
from a painter who hadn’t passed on. A problem of value.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. The problem is that ye can go to hell! Ye can’t
deal with a man unless he’s dead? What are ye, an undertaker?
CHICAGO. O’Shaughnessy…
MILLET. I’m sorry to inform you that I’m very much alive, but at the
first sign of debility I’ll certainly let you know.
THORPE. My regrets, Mr. Millit. Good day, gentlemen.
DUTCHY. Let us know vhen you are dead! Und in ze meantime you
really can go to hell!
(THORPE exits right.)
MILLET. I seem to be worth more dead than alive.
CHICAGO. English ass.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I would’ve beguiled the ladies, but there was
no ladies to beguile.
CHICAGO. We’ve just got use the old pumpkin is all.
DUTCHY. Vhat a fool vorld it is. Ven it haff a great Master, it don’t
know it und let him shtarve. Und venn he is tead, zenn he is recog
nized! Zenn come ze riches! Und vhat can you do mit zese riches,
being dead?
MILLET. At least you’re relieved of the curse of being nobody. Of
disguising your secret sorrow. Of having nothing to eat and dying
by inches of hunger. I was so hopeful once. All these years I’ve done
what a man might do. I’ve worked hard and faithfully—to no avail.
I’m hardly a man anymore. (—lifting and dropping a wooden leg from
the box of modeling things—) I’m just the bits and pieces of one. Well,
lads, maybe it’s better if I just…leave you.
CHICAGO. You don’t mean…?
MILLET. (Takes up a dagger.) Yes. It’s Kismet. It is written. Say good-
bye to me one last time—and go. I know the road I have to take.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Well, Frank, ye’re not takin’ off alone for the
Great Beyond. If ye’re dyin’, then I’m dyin’, too.
Is He Dead? 25
DUTCHY. Und me, too!

O’SHAUGHNESSY. All for one and one for you know who.
MILLET. Good men.
(Pats his breast pockets.)
Who’s got a cigar? One last cigar and we’ll do it.
DUTCHY. Not me.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I’m all out.
CHICAGO. Listen, maestro, you can’t kill yourself. The minute you
do, you’ll be acclaimed a genius and make a million dollars and miss
all the fun. You’ll just… Wait a minute. That’s it!
(Blows a “trumpet.”)
We’re saved, boys, we’re saved!
(He marches about, a one-man band.)
DUTCHY. I alvays know Chicago is crazy. Now he iss crazy.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I tink he’s havin’ an idea.
CHICAGO. An idea? There never was anything so good. Only it’s
not my idea, it’s Dutchy’s. Dutchy said venn ze world has a master
it lets him shtarve, und venn he iss dead, zenn he iss recognized und
he makes all zese riches. All right, why not do it? Die and be recog-
nized—but fake the dying part and go straight to the riches.
MILLET. What do you mean, die?
CHICAGO. One of us must seem to die—must change his name and
disappear—to save the rest. He’s proclaimed a genius and we all col-
lect. And since he really is a genius, I nominate Jean-François Millet!
MILLET. No No No No…
DUTCHY. Shecaggo, dot is shplendid! Yoost shplendid! Shake!
MILLET. But Chicago…
CHICAGO. Do you want to pay off Papa Leroux’s debts and see
Marie happy?
MILLET. I can’t marry Marie if I’m dead.
CHICAGO. You can’t marry her if you’re alive either. You’ve been
feeding her pictures for the past year. If you get recognized, you’ve
made her one of the richest women in France.
MILLET. Can I tell her, at least?
CHICAGO. She’ll give away the whole blessed thing. But listen. Be-
fore you vanish you have to get sick—come down with something
really exotic. You have to languish for a couple of months and drive
up your prices. But what sort of a sickness should you contract? Let’s
see. It has to be something tragic. Something the papers’ll gobble up.
Something artistic.
DUTCHY. I haff ze perfect disease!
(He whispers in CHICAGO’s ear.)
CHICAGO. Deutschland, it’s brilliant! Listen to this.
(He now whispers in O’SHAUGHNESSY’s ear.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. It’s a masterstroke!
(He whispers in MILLET’s ear.)
MILLET. No!
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. Yes!
CHICAGO. I’ll ventilate your approaching demise to the newspa
pers, and by morning the buyers’ll be breaking down the door.
Meantime, you’ve got to squirrel yourself away in that bedroom and
start painting some more masterpieces. Congratulations, old man!
You’re about to kick off the mortal coil and strike it rich!
CHICAGO.
FOR HE WAS A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY.
HE WAS A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW—
MILLET. Wait, wait. You mean I have to spend the rest of my born
life in that room?
CHICAGO. Oh, we’ll give you an alter ego so you can come out and
breathe from time to time.
DUTCHY. Ve gif you ein sehr goot disguise.
CHICAGO. A disguise so thick that no one could ever penetrate it.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I know. A pastry cook!
CHICAGO. No, no. Pastry’s not thick enough.
DUTCHY. A chimney sveep.
CHICAGO. It’s thick, but it’ll blacken the pictures. I’ve got it! A
widow!
MILLET. A what?
Is He Dead? 27
CHICAGO. What’s thicker than a widow? You can be your very

own sister come in from out of town. A widow from Provence.
MILLET. I’m not the kind of man who’s made to be a widow.
CHICAGO. Maybe being a widow will liven you up a bit.
MILLET. Couldn’t I be a male cousin? A dentist from Toulouse?
CHICAGO. What’s it matter who you are? What’s it to you? That’s
it! You’re the widow Tillou.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. The widow Tillou!
FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD WIDOW,
FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD WIDOW--
(MILLET kicks the couch. DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY
hum a funeral march during CHICAGO’s next speech.)
CHICAGO. Friends, here’s to the sacred memory of him who was
always our stay, our comfort, and our refuge in times of distress. The
best friend and teacher that ever man had in this world—the late
Jean-François Millet, who sleeps in peace, God rest his soul!
CHICAGO. And to the widow Tillou!
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. The widow Tillou!
MILLET. (Screams in frustration while they dance around him.)
FOR SHE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW,
FOR SHE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW,
FOR SHE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW
WHICH NOBODY CAN DENY!
(Curtain.)
Scene 2
(The studio, the next afternoon. Half the pictures bear “SOLD”
signs. “The Angelus” is gone and in its place is a good-sized picture
covered with a sheet. At curtain, DUTCHY and O’SHAUGH
NESSY are hanging “SOLD” signs on paintings while CHICA-
GO directs them. MILLET is not present.)
DUTCHY. Vell, Shecaggo, vhich ones else?
CHICAGO. Let’s sell that one—and that one.
DUTCHY. All righd.

(Puts “SOLD” signs on them.)
Sold. Und sold.
CHICAGO. Yes, that’s better. Seems to me we better sell that one
there, too.
DUTCHY. (Hanging a “SOLD” sign:) Sold!
CHICAGO. After we sell the others, we’ll sell these. There’s nothing
like a “Sold” sign to get a buyer’s blood going.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I was in Paree this mornin’. Payple are talkin’
already.
CHICAGO. That’s good. What do they say?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Merely that Jean-François Millet, one day sick,
is the greatest painter since Mickey Angelo. Several of ’em made out
that they had regarded Millet as the rising great master for years.
Asked if he was as ill as the papers said. And when I said he couldn’t
possibly live many weeks, they said his death is going to be an awful
blow to France.
DUTCHY. Shplendid!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And not one man would let on he was hearing
Millet’s name for the first time.
DUTCHY. Now dot’s vhat I call human nature.
CHICAGO. No, that’s what I call the power of the press.
(Shows newspaper.)
I got Millet worked into the Paris Correspondence of the London
Times.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. The London Times! It’ll wake up the whole
world!
CHICAGO. Maybe it’ll wake up the French, anyway. Headline.
“Immortal Gallic Genius Dying Slow and Miserable Death.”
DUTCHY. But if he iss immortal, how can he die any death?
CHICAGO. This is no time for German paradox, you sausage.
Quote. “Jean-François Millet, the French nation’s greatest gift to the
world, has been struck down by a disease so unspeakable it can only
be mentioned in whispers. He has left for the Barbary Coast.”
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Where is the Barbary Coast?
Is He Dead? 29
CHICAGO. Hanged if I know.

O’SHAUGHNESSY. So what did you put it in, for?
CHICAGO. Well, he had to go somewhere, hadn’t he? Muggins!
And there’ll be people down here to buy today. You’ll see.
(Notices a large, yellow patch on the backside of O’SHAUGH
NESSY’s pants.)
Wait a minute. You can’t face the public in trousers like that. You
look like a lightning bug. I’ve got an idea. Bend over.
(Takes a palette and quickly paints the patch black.)
I knew all those lessons would come in handy. We can’t have you
distracting attention from the rest of the exhibition.
DUTCHY. Maybe a little grey in here.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Don’t forget to sign it.
CHICAGO. There, that’s first-rate. We’ll call it “The Pantgelus.”
(Knocking at door right.)
MILLET. (Offstage:) Can I come out of here, please? Chicago, are you
there? Let me out!
DUTCHY. Ze vidow vants to come out.
CHICAGO. Well, he can’t. He’s got to stay in there and stay in char-
acter, and paint.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Has he been out o’ there a-tall?
CHICAGO. No, he’s pouting about his widow costume. But maybe
it inspired him. He did some good work for us last night. Feast your
eyes on this…
(Takes sheet off large painting and reveals “The Gleaners.” Col-
lective whistle.)
It’s called “The Gleaners.”
DUTCHY. I dink ve can sell dot.
CHICAGO. Yes, I dink so, too.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ah, the power of art. I get a backache just lookin’
at it.
DUTCHY. (Taking a paper-wrapped packet out of his pocket:) Does any
body vant some limperger cheese?
(CHICAGO and O’SHAUGHNESSY are blown back by the

stink of the cheese.)
CHICAGO. Phew! Take that filth away from me!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. How can ye stomach such corruption?
DUTCHY. I been eating limperger cheese efry day since I vas born,
und I eat limperger efry day till I die.
CHICAGO. Smells like it’s been dead for weeks.
DUTCHY. Vell, cheer up.
(He takes out a large German sausage.)
Ze vürst is yet to come!
(More pounding at right.)
MILLET. (Offstage:) Chicago, I’m coming out if I have to break down
this door myself!
CHICAGO. Quick! Jump for the door, boys! Don’t let anybody in!
(The WIDOW—young, handsome, cheaply but prettily dressed
in a simple pink gown—comes out of the bedroom. She is, to put it
mildly, well-developed.)
WIDOW. I can’t stand it in there a moment longer!
CHICAGO. Get back in there, Millet. It’s dangerous out here.
WIDOW. Hang it, Chicago, have some pity. I’ve just got to have
some air.
CHICAGO. I’m telling you, you’ll ruin everything.
WIDOW. (Throwing down a brush and palette:) That bedroom’s the
worst place to paint pictures in. It’s stuffy and there’s isn’t any light.
Everything I turn out is a blur.
CHICAGO. Turn out all the blurs you please. Turn out more blurs
like this one. We can sell them.
WIDOW. There’s no room to move around in there. Especially in
my inflated condition.
(To O’SHAUGHNESSY and DUTCHY, who are staring:)
Well, what are you two staring at?
DUTCHY. Py yiminy, it’s a vooman! A real vooman!
WIDOW. Now I know what the Mona Lisa feels like.
Is He Dead? 31
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Truth to tell, me lady, ye put me in mind of the

hills of Ireland.
WIDOW. Well, go pull some taffy or something. You make me ner-
vous.
(Stretches and paces, not walking terribly well in the high heels.)
Ah, this is better. This is much better.
CHICAGO. You’re going to need more practice in those duds.
You’re walking like a busted mare.
WIDOW. It’s no wonder. These awkward clothes have got me can
tilevered all out of creation. And drat these skirts.
(Kicks the couch.)
I can’t even kick. How long have I got to paint pictures in there?
CHICAGO. Three months ought to do the trick. Then we can an
nounce your death.
WIDOW. I’ll never live to see it.
CHICAGO. Yes, you will. We’re all going to live and be happy.
WIDOW. You assassin!
CHICAGO. Millet, this thing’s bigger than we ever dreamed.
WIDOW. I’m bigger than I ever dreamed. Do you know how much
equipment I’m wearing under here? Enough steel to make a cannon
and more whalebone than the beach at Nantucket. Did you ever try
painting in a thingamajig?
(Shifts his corset.)
It’s tighter than Sunday in this thing. I keep feeling like there’s two
of me inside here, and I’m not used to company inside my clothes.
And I’m a widow. Oughtn’t I to be in black?
CHICAGO. That’s the gloomiest thing I could rustle up on short
notice.
WIDOW. Pink? I am not made for pink.
DUTCHY. Dot’s true. You ain’t a pink personality.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I quite like the pink, me self.
WIDOW. You prance around in it.
(Seeing all the “SOLD” pictures:)
Oh, Christmas! I’ve sold out!
CHICAGO. Don’t get excited. The signs are only there to drive up
the prices. We’ll dribble the pictures out a few at a time. Then when
prices are peaking, we’ll kill you off and send the prices through the
roof.
WIDOW. Kill Millet off, you mean. And where does that leave me?
(Patting his breasts:)
Who’s got a cigar?
CHICAGO. None of that, my girl.
WIDOW. I can’t have a cigar?
CHICAGO. Who’re you going to fool if somebody sees you puffing
on a stogie?
(The WIDOW throws herself onto the couch.)
And don’t just throw yourself onto a couch like a sack of laundry.
DUTCHY. De ladies, dey all do it like this when dey sit down. You
see?
(He demonstrates.)
You gotta shroompf da ting underneath. You shroompf it.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. No, Dutchy, it’s more like this.
(Demonstrates.)
Ye got to put more curves in it. Ye see that curve there?
DUTCHY. Und you can’t fall, you gotta zink. You see how I zink?
You shroompf und zenn you zink.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. You got to sink, but with a curve.
WIDOW. Why don’t you two shroompf and sink on your own time.
Oh Lord, I feel so miserable. Who’s got a handkerchief?
(All three instantly produce handkerchiefs. WIDOW waves them
away.)
Never mind. Save them for my funeral.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. You mark my words, Missus. Three months
from now we’ll give you a funeral ye can really enjoy.
WIDOW. Irish consolation. Thank you.
DUTCHY. (Glancing out the window:) Jump! Somebody’s coming!
Is He Dead? 33
(The WIDOW leaps up from the sofa and falls on her face, tripping
on her hem.)
CHICAGO. Give me an arm.
WIDOW. (Slaps his face.) Take your hands off me, sir!
(WIDOW retreats with dignity into the bedroom, slamming the
door.)
ALL THREE. Women!
CHICAGO. Now look sad, boys. Remember—we’re in deep affliction.
(A knock at door left.)
On tray!
(FRENCH REPORTER enters.)
REPORTER. (French accent:) Excusez-moi, messieurs.
CHICAGO. No, no, excusez-moi.
REPORTER. No, monsieur, I beg your pardon, but excusez-MOI.
CHICAGO. I’ll see your moi and raise you toi.
REPORTER. I am Claude Rivière, journaliste from “Le Figaro.” And
you are?
CHICAGO. We are pupils of the great Jean-François Millet.
REPORTER. Could you give me a few details about this deplorable
affaire? This désastre, this tragédie, this catastrophe? Ah, how it makes
me smell my mortality!
DUTCHY. That’s probably limperger cheese.
REPORTER. (Writing in his notebook:) Limperger cheese…
CHICAGO. I suppose you’d heard of the artist before, Mr. Rivière?
REPORTER. What? Have I heard of Mileau?
CHICAGO, O’SHAUGHNESSY, DUTCHY. Millet.
REPORTER. Millet? My dear sir! A correspondent of “Le Figaro”
unfamiliar with the name Jean-Jacques Millet?
CHICAGO, O’SHAUGHNESSY, DUTCHY. Jean-François Millet.
REPORTER. Jean-François Millet? Why, I know him like the back
of my glove.
CHICAGO. (Takes out a piece of paper.) Would you like a list of his
works?
REPORTER. (Snatching the paper:) I should be infinitely grateful.

CHICAGO. (Another paper.) A portrait to run in your paper?
REPORTER. (Taking it:) You are too kind.
CHICAGO. (Another paper.) An obituary—I mean, a sketch of his life?
REPORTER. (Taking it:) I would be your slave, monsieur!
CHICAGO. It’s but a little thing. The tribute of a breaking heart.
DUTCHY. (Aside:) Oh, dot Shecaggo! He alvays loaded!
CHICAGO. You note the tearspots here and here.
REPORTER. Le Figaro will show them to the world!
(Quickly scanning the last paper:)
Born in 18-hmhm, grew up in hmhm… Millet has no survivors but
a twin sister?
CHICAGO. The Widow Tillou. She’ll occupy his quarters here and
attend to his affairs.
REPORTER. I suppose I could not see this widow?
CHICAGO. Yes, you could not. Poor thing. Utterly broken down.
You never saw anything like her.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I’ll vouch for that.
REPORTER. The two are identical identical twins?
CHICAGO. They’re like Cleveland and Cincinnati.
REPORTER. A tragédie indeed. And this fatal malady, monsieur, it
is what?
CHICAGO. It’s much more than what. It’s (Whispers in REPORTER’s
ear).
REPORTER. Non, non!
CHICAGO. Oui, oui!
REPORTER. Mon Dieu! I can feel my circulation rising!
(Embraces CHICAGO and kisses his cheeks.)
Thank you, monsieur!
CHICAGO. Thank you, Monsieur Riviére.
REPORTER. Thank you, monsieur.
CHICAGO. Monsieur.
Is He Dead? 35
REPORTER. Messieurs.
CHICAGO. Au rivière!
REPORTER. Do not fear for Jean-François Millet. Le Figaro will fi
garize him!
(REPORTER exits left.)
DUTCHY. FEEEEEE-GARO!
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. (They sing the lusty mo-
ment from Rossini:) Feegaro Feegaro Feegaro FEEEEEE-GARO—!
(WIDOW enters from right.)
WIDOW. What’s all this noise about?
CHICAGO. You’re on your way, Millet, that’s what. They’ll be
breaking down the doors any second.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ye know, Francis, I got inspired to do a new
painting of me own last night.
MILLET. Display it, O’Shaughnessy. Anything for some air.
(O’SHAUGHNESSY shows a very long painting of a very long
dachshund.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Well? What d’ye think? Is it gaynius?
CHICAGO. It must be modern genius. I can’t make anything out of it.
MILLET. Is it a dog?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. You bet your life it’s a dog!
CHICAGO. If it is, it’s no Christian dog.
DUTCHY. I haff never seen a dog like ziss. Dot dog is not right.
MILLET. He’s all out of drawing, O’Shaughnessy.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. What’s the matter? The dog is too long, d’ye
think?
DUTCHY. Vell, dot is a mighty long dog. It’s the longest dog I—vhy,
I never seen such a long dog.
MILLET. He’s more like a bench.
DUTCHY. Dot dog vant foreshortening.
MILLET. It’s enough dog for two dogs.
CHICAGO. What kind of a dog is it, anyway? Is it a real dog, or only
a design for a new kind of dog?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Why, it’s a dachshund.

DUTCHY. He could never vag all that tail. Und it get in ze vay venn
ze dog vants to turn around.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. All dachshunds are made that way, now.
CHICAGO. Maybe you could curve the tail around his body and tie
it around his neck.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. What is this, art criticism, or dog criticism?
THE OTHERS. Both.
(A knock at left.)
DUTCHY. (Glancing out the window:) It’s that English ass.
WIDOW. Good luck, boys.
(The WIDOW makes to exit. CHICAGO stops him.)
CHICAGO. Hold on, hold on. Come back. A little feminine charm
never hurt a sale. Arrange your parts here and grieve. Or do you
want to suffocate in there for the rest of your life?
DUTCHY. Ve sell him now, ain’d it, Chicago?
CHICAGO. Dutchy, we’ll take him to the gleaners. Put the prices
way high, but don’t close without getting my assent as the Widow’s
agent. And save “The Angelus.” We’ll keep that for the big money.
(Another knock. CHICAGO busies himself with an abacus. The
WIDOW, on the sofa, tries to look at ease.)
CHICAGO. Ten thousand…twenty thousand…
O’SHAUGHNESSY & DUTCHY. (Passing pictures back and forth:)
Sold. Sold. Sold…
CHICAGO. On tray!
(THORPE enters.)
THORPE. Hello.
(Lifting hat to WIDOW:)
Madame.
WIDOW. (Mouths the word “Hello” and waves prettily, batting his eyes.)
THORPE. Terribly sorry to barge in. I came back for my picture,
you see. I brought the money. I believe it was twenty-five hundred
francs.
Is He Dead? 37
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. Picture? Picture…?

O’SHAUGHNESSY. To what picture is it you’re referrin’ again, sor?
THORPE. The picture I bought yesterday, you remember. The girl.
The boy. A little basket…
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Oh, “The Angelus.” I remember, now. “The
Angelus” is sold.
THORPE. Sold?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I think so. The agent will know.
(Goes to CHICAGO.)
Excuse me, Mr., Uh, Agent. The Angelus is sold, ain’t it?
CHICAGO. You mean that affair this morning? The agent of the
Emperor of Bavaria?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Emperor of Bavaria. That’s the one.
CHICAGO. Merely an offer. Fifty thousand francs. Declined.
(DUTCHY does a dumb show expressive of “Dot Shecaggo!”)
THORPE. My word! Fifty thousand? Only yesterday these pictures
were going for a veritable song.
DUTCHY. Vell, today the song is in a higher key.
CHICAGO. Because today the greatest painter of modern times is
threatened with a grisly death.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. The prices go up by the grisliness.
THORPE. But my dear sir, that picture is in effect mine. I would
have taken it on the spot, only…
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Only you didn’t close, if ye remember. Our
painter wasn’t dead enough for ye.
CHICAGO. Now the artist’s sister is managing his affairs.
(Indicates the WIDOW, who affects weeping.)
Completely prostrate. And her orders are positive. I can sell three paint-
ings and no more. Including this little masterpiece. “The Gleaners.”
THORPE. Oh, I say, that’s very pretty. And what’s the price of that?
CHICAGO. Thirty thousand francs.
WIDOW, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Whistle.)
DUTCHY. (Aside:) Dot Shecaggo got more cheek than a angel.
THORPE. Thirty thousand francs…!

CHICAGO. So I glean.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Only thirty thousand, is it? Well, I raise you.
Thirty-two!
THORPE. Thirty-five!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Forty!
THORPE. Forty-five!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Fifty!
CHICAGO. Sold to this gentleman for fifty thousand francs!
THORPE. For the glory of England, I’ll give you fifty-five.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. For the chastity of Ireland, I’ll give you sixty.
THORPE. Sixty-five!
DUTCHY. Seventy!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Seventy-five! Eighty!
CHICAGO. Gentlemen, calm yourselves. Butting our brains out is
no way to do business.
THORPE. You know a better way?
CHICAGO. Yes. We’ll throw dice.
(Takes out some dice.)
The winner gets the picture for eighty thousand francs.
THORPE. Gaming, eh. Well, that’s very sporting, and it sounds fair.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. After you, sor.
MILLET. (Aside to CHICAGO:) Chicago, what do we do if O’Shau
ghnessy wins?
CHICAGO. We give him the picture and kill him.
THORPE. (Throws.) Aces! Oh, Hell-ifax!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Throws.) Aces! Amster-dam!
THORPE. (Throws.) Again, sir. Your toss.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Double fives. To you, sir.
THORPE. (Winning:) Double sixes! It’s mine!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Well, then, ye can go to hell!
Is He Dead? 39
CHICAGO. Sold to England for eighty thousand francs!

WIDOW. (Lets out a shriek of disbelief, then covers quickly with weeping.)
CHICAGO. Did you ever see anybody so stricken?
DUTCHY. Your picture, mein Herr.
THORPE. But wait a moment. What’s this, what’s this?
(He notices the dachshund picture.)
Don’t tell me. Is this a Millet—?
MILLET. No, that’s—
CHICAGO. —yes, that’s a dachshund. Is that a Millet, you say? It’s
only the picture the maestro was painting as the fatal illness befelled
him. You can see where he befell, right there.
DUTCHY. In the tail.
CHICAGO. And this dachshund is yours for only ten thousand francs.
THORPE. (Noting the signature on the painting:) It says “O’Shaugh
nessy” here.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. His middle name. Jean-François Michael
Thomas Mary Bridget O’Shaughnessy Millet.
THORPE. And you’ve been hiding this all the while?
CHICAGO. I like to leave the best wine for last.
THORPE. I’m on to you, sir. Sold by Jove! For five thousand francs!
CHICAGO. Ten thousand francs.
THORPE. Ten thousand francs. But wait a moment… What about this?
(THORPE holds up the sofa sheet with the chimney sweep picture.)
Now I know a Millet when I see one.
CHICAGO. Yeah. It’s a Millet all right.
DUTCHY. A charcoal drawing, from his realist period.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Will ye look at the detail on that?
DUTCHY. He called it “The Chimney Sweep.”
CHICAGO. Ten thousand francs—if you hurry.
THORPE. I’ll take it. Let me see. Eighty thousand plus ten plus ten…
Is that ninety?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Last I heard, it was still a hundred.
THORPE. (Writing a check:) There you are. One hundred thousand

francs.
CHICAGO. That looks right. Madame Tillou, does that look right?
Count the zeroes.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. It certainly looks all right to me.
DUTCHY. Same as dot last hundert tausend I seen.
THORPE. (Picks up dachshund picture and sheet.) These I’ll take. That
one you can send. My friends, I bid you good day!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And a fine one to you, sor!
DUTCHY. Auf wiedersehen!
CHICAGO. Visit again any time.
THORPE. And you thought you could hide the dachshund. Haw
haw haw!
ALL FOUR. Haw haw haw!
(THORPE exits. General jubilation. CHICAGO marches to an
imaginary drum, O’SHAUGHNESSY plays an imaginary flute,
DUTCHY a trumpet.)
MILLET. A hundred thousand francs!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Would that me blind Uncle Shamus could see
me now!
WIDOW. Have I gone mad? Now I do need a handkerchief.
(They all offer. WIDOW picks one.)
After all these hardships—these privations—these miseries—a hun
dred thousand francs!
(More jubilation.)
You thieves and liars, you ought to be taken out and drowned, every
last one of you. Come to my arms, O noble scoundrel!
(Embraces CHICAGO.)
You lamb. Bless your heart, I’d forgive you if you’d made it two hun-
dred thousand.
CHICAGO. I thought about it.
(Hands WIDOW a pen.)
Now you’re going to need to endorse this, so here. Knock off a few
sample-signatures.
Is He Dead? 41
WIDOW. It’s wonderful. Seems impossible. I’ve never had to do

with a bank in my whole life! Let me see. What is my name, my
given name?
CHICAGO. Suggest something, boys.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Alice.
WIDOW. No. Don’t like it.
CHICAGO. Lily.
WIDOW. It’s what they call housemaids.
DUTCHY. Antoine.
WIDOW. It’s a man’s name, you ass.
CHICAGO. Daisy.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Daisy! That’s the ticket.
WIDOW. I like it pretty well. Do I look a Daisy?
ALL. You bet!
WIDOW. Daisy it is.
(Starts writing.)
“D-a-y…” Do you spell it with a Z?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. No, nor with a Y neither. D-A-I-S-E-Y.
CHICAGO. Try leaving out the E.
WIDOW. (Writes a few, with more and more panache.) “Daisy Tillou…”
“Daisy Tillou…” “Daisy Tillou…!”
CHICAGO. Now the check.
WIDOW. (Signing the check; extravagantly:) “DAISY TILLOU!”
CHICAGO. That ought to do. Arise, O’Shaughnessy, and go unto
the bank and deposit this morsel.
WIDOW. And for goodness’ sake bring back a cigar. I’m dying for
a smoke.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. All right, just give me the money.
WIDOW. (Patting his breast:) Looks like I’m flat.
CHICAGO. Have you got a couple of sous, Dutchy?
DUTCHY. Not a zingle centime.
CHICAGO. Well, it’s a good thing we’re not starving. We’ve only
got a hundred thousand francs to pay with!
(More jubilation.)
Run along now, Ireland.
WIDOW. And find some cigars!
(O’SHAUGHNESSY starts out left, comes right back.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Look out. The old ladies are coming down the
road.
(O’SHAUGHNESSY exits.)
WIDOW. Stop them, Chicago. Put them off.
CHICAGO. I can’t. They’ll get suspicious.
WIDOW. I can’t be on exhibition to them. They’ll see right off that
I’m not a woman.
DUTCHY. Dot’s so, Shecaggo.
WIDOW. (Starting to exit:) Good luck, boys.
CHICAGO. No. No. No.
WIDOW. I’m femininely ignorant. I could make fatal mistakes in
talking.
CHICAGO. Good! That’s the idea! I’ll tell them you’re eccentric—
very eccentric—maybe a little crazed by sorrow. The wilder you talk
the better it’ll be.
WIDOW. Let me just fix my hair.
CHICAGO. Never mind your hair.
(He opens the door. WIDOW jumps behind it.)
Enter, ladies. Enter.
(MADAME BATHILDE and MADAME CARON enter.)
MADAME BATHILDE. Mr. Buckner…
MADAME CARON. Mr. Buckner…
MADAME BATHILDE. We do so want to meet the poor dear…
MADAME CARON. …and be of some help if we can.
MADAME BATHILDE. How is the widow bearing up?
CHICAGO. Physically, she’s robust. Mentally, it’s been a heavy
blow. Her mind seems to be a little touched.
Is He Dead? 43
MADAME BATHILDE. Not seriously.

MADAME CARON. Not seriously, I hope.
CHICAGO. No, no, sometimes her talk sounds a little, uh, extraor
dinary. A little unusual. And it makes her seem a little awkward in
handling herself.
DUTCHY. She iss a most zingular creature.
MADAME BATHILDE & CARON. (Spotting the WIDOW behind the
door:) Why, there she is!
WIDOW. (Deep voice:) Hello. (Upper register:) Hello!
(Crossing to them, her ankles give way once or twice along the way.)
CHICAGO. (Privately to ladies:) She’s weak in the knees, from shock.
—Madame Tillou, I have the pleasure to present some very dear
friends of your brother’s. Madame Bathilde.
WIDOW. (Curtseying and nearly falling over:) Madame Bathilde.
CHICAGO. (Aside to WIDOW:) Just a little more style. —And Ma
dame Caron.
WIDOW. (Curtseying quite gracefully:) Madame Caron.
CHICAGO. (Aside to WIDOW:) Nobly done.
WIDOW. Madame Bathilde, Madame Caron. I am so grateful to
you. I know that you were both so kind to dear François.
CHICAGO. Madame Tillou, we will leave you with these good
friends…
(WIDOW gives him a quiet elbow in the ribs.)
…but shall be back almost at once.
(CHICAGO and DUTCHY exit. The ladies seat themselves.)
MADAME BATHILDE. Ah, dear Madam.
MADAME CARON. Dear Madam, that François should be gone so
far from us.
MADAME BATHILDE. And gone away to die!
MADAME CARON. To die!
WIDOW. To die!
(Sitting:)
Shroompf und zink.
MADAME BATHILDE. We do love your poor dear brother so.

WIDOW. How it goes to my heart to hear you say these sweet words.
MOTHER BATHILDE. You have your poor brother’s very voice!
WIDOW. I’ll be damned. I mean—do I?
MADAME BATHILDE. Yes, and his face, too!
MADAME CARON. Why, you’re almost the very image!
MADAME BATHILDE. Yours isn’t quite so broad.
MADAME CARON. But wonderfully like!
MADAME BATHILDE. The hands, too, are almost exactly the same.
MADAME CARON. His were a trifle smaller.
MADAME BATHILDE. And he had that pink scar.
MADAME CARON. That pink scar just above his wrist. It was right
here—
(WIDOW snaps her hand away and pulls up her sleeve to hide
the scar.)
WIDOW. A scar? That’s right, he did have a pink scar, didn’t he.
Doesn’t he. Some tea, ladies?
(WIDOW rises, almost trips, collects herself and goes to bring the
tea tray.)
MADAME BATHILDE & CARON. Thank you.
MADAME BATHILDE. Oh, you are so like your poor dear brother!
WIDOW. Well, we are twins, you know. Are twins? Were twins? We
will have been twins for many years…
MADAME BATHILDE. That accounts for it.
MADAME CARON. Though you look considerably younger than he.
WIDOW. (Flattered:) Do? I? Well, yes, I am the youngest.
MADAME BATHILDE. The youngest?
MADAME CARON. Of twins?
WIDOW. Oh, the difference is nothing to speak of. He was born on
a Monday morning and I think—yes—I was born the next Saturday
night.
MADAME BATHILDE & CARON. Goodness!
WIDOW. I don’t remember it myself. I used to, but I don’t now. Sugar?
Is He Dead? 45
MADAME CARON. Yes, thank you.

WIDOW. Years and years ago I got hit, you see—just about here.
(Top of the head.) It injured my memory. Sugar?
MADAME CARON. Yes, thank you.
WIDOW. Since then I can’t remember being born at all, I only re
member that I used to remember it.
MADAME BATHILDE. How very extraordinary.
MADAME CARON. Hit on the head…?
WIDOW. Yes, by an Irishman.
MADAME BATHILDE & CARON. The brute!
WIDOW. Oh, he didn’t meant it. I was passing along the sidewalk,
and he fell off the roof. Just feel that bump.
(The ladies feel the WIDOW’s head.)
He bounced off me like that. Two somersaults and a half gainer.
MADAME CARON. A providential escape.
MADAME BATHILDE. The very hand of Providence.
WIDOW. Plain. Plain. If I hadn’t been there that Irishman would
have been killed
MADAME CARON. Ah, the Irishman…
MADAME BATHILDE. …would have been killed…
WIDOW. He took the pledge and reformed after that.
MADAME BATHILDE. Stopped drinking?
WIDOW. Stopped falling. So I married him. He was my first hus
band—no, not the first. Another one. Pierre. Well, it was one of the
husbands. One of the early ones, anyway.
MADAME CARON. Dearie, how old are you?
WIDOW. (Lying:) Twenty-two.
MADAME BATHILDE. And you’ve had so much experience?
WIDOW. More than I ever wished for. Especially of late.
MADAME CARON. Have you had any children?
WIDOW. Oh—slathers.
MADAME BATHILDE & CARON. “Slathers”…?
MADAME BATHILDE. (Aside to CARON:) She talks just as a rabbit

might.
WIDOW. Seven in two years.
MADAME BATHILDE. Seven?
MADAME CARON. Seven?
WIDOW. Seven. Milk?
MADAME BATHILDE. Yes, thank you.
WIDOW. Some in the spring, some in the fall, others here and
there—according to the weather. Quite a litter.
MADAME CARON. By another Irishman?
WIDOW. By a whole colony of them.
MADAME BATHILDE. (Aside to CARON:) Poor thing, her mind is
touched.
MADAME CARON. (Aside to BATHILDE:) I think she’s been
touched all along.
MADAME BATHILDE. Did all your children live?
WIDOW. Alas, none of them. All my nine darlings.
MADAME BATHILDE. Nine, dear?
MADAME CARON. You said seven.
WIDOW. I speak of another vintage.
MADAME BATHILDE. What a singular name for it.
MADAME CARON. Were they…?
WIDOW. Boys and girls? Some of them—yes.
MADAME BATHILDE. Some of them? Weren’t they all?
WIDOW. Many thought so.
MADAME CARON. What did you think?
WIDOW. At this late date I couldn’t be certain. Still, I believe there
was considerable variety. I should ask my brother. Except he’s gone
away to die, hasn’t he…
MADAME BATHILDE. You and your brother…
MADAME CARON. …are you close?
WIDOW. Closer than a Congressman and a barrel of pork. But dear-
ly as we love each other there is a coolness between us. He never
Is He Dead? 47
got over it that I didn’t name all the children after him. I did name
eleven of them for him. Then I quit. I said it was no use. François has
an unappeasable appetite that way. O, he’s impossible! Impossible!
(Aside:)
I’ll drown that Chicago, yet.
MADAME BATHILDE. Her mind is wandering again.
MADAME CARON. Wandering? It’s practically abroad!
MADAME BATHILDE. It’s not safe for her to be alone.
MADAME CARON. Is it safe to be alone with her?
MADAME BATHILDE. Madame Tillou, would you like to sleep
with us tonight?
WIDOW. Ha ha ha ha ha!
(CHICAGO enters with DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY.)
CHICAGO. How is our tête-a-tête, ladies?
WIDOW. Why, just too divine! The ladies were just asking if I’d like
to sleep with them.
(Aside to CHICAGO:)
Get me out of this scrape and go hang yourself.
CHICAGO. The idea seems to disturb the widow. I wouldn’t push
it. As I told you, she’s full of the strangest whims.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Here’s them cigars you wanted, me lady.
WIDOW. O, thank you, Phelim.
(Seeing the two ladies’ shocked looks. To them:)
Cigar?
MADAME BATHILDE. No, thank you.
MADAME CARON. No, thank you.
(MONSIEUR LEROUX enters.)
LEROUX. Excuse me. Madame Tillou?
WIDOW. You must be poor, dear Louis Leroux. Why, listen to that.
We rhyme, don’t we. Tillou and Leroux. Leroux, Tillou. How do you
do, Monsieur Leroux.
LEROUX. Madam, my heart goes out to you for your brother.
WIDOW. Fear not, monsieur. He might still recover…
(CHICAGO nudges sharply.)

…but I doubt it.
(MARIE and CECILE enter.)
LEROUX. Marie, my hot water bottle, please.
WIDOW. Is this the child? Is this Marie? Come to me, my sister in
heartache.
(WIDOW embraces MARIE and the hot water bottle squeaks.)
Was that me or you? Ha ha. The hot water bottle.
MARIE. (Kneeling:) Oh, Madame Tillou. I’m so sorry about François.
WIDOW. To your feet, mademoiselle. Rise and be strong as we
women must. And not another word until you kiss me.
(Kiss.)
Lovely. And again.
(Kiss.)
Lovely. And again. Oh, I feel so much better already. And again. So
much, much better…
CECILE. (Aside to audience:) So this is François’s sister. A curious-
looking creature—though I can’t say how, exactly. A pushing sort.
Look how she appropriates my sister.
WIDOW. One more kiss, dear.
CECILE. Hmpf!
WIDOW. And are you dear Cecile? Come kiss me, too, Cecile.
CHICAGO. That’s enough, Daisy. Remember your health.
CECILE. (Aside to audience:) “Daisy,” he calls her! Agamemnon cer
tainly seems on familiar terms with this woman!
MARIE. Dear Madame Tillou, you must help us. You must.
WIDOW. Dry your tears, child, and spout it all.
MARIE. It’s our father, you see.
LEROUX. I was improvident, Madame. I owe fifteen thousand
francs to one Bastien André, a scoundrel who calls himself a picture
dealer. He gave me until today at six o’clock.
WIDOW. Lordy! Well, a pox on the knave. The blackguard. The
scamp. The scoundrel. The sneak.
Is He Dead? 49
LEROUX. I’m so heartsick I fear I will die

(LEROUX sits on the hot water bottle and it squeaks.)
MADAME BATHILDE. The hot water bottle.
MADAME CARON. The hot water bottle.
MARIE. It’s true, Madame Tillou. Papa’s been in a fever all day.
WIDOW. Now don’t any of you worry. I promise I will help you
any way I can.
(Grasping CHICAGO’s arm:)
As will dear, dear Chicago, of course.
CECILE. (Aside:) Agamemnon is blushing!
WIDOW. Chicago has helped me through so much…in his inimita
ble fashion.
CHICAGO. Shucks.
CECILE. (Aside:) So they know each other. Yet he’s never mentioned
her!
WIDOW. Come, give me a kiss now yourself, dear boy.
(CHICAGO ashamedly kisses the WIDOW’s cheek.)
There. That’s your payment for all our friendship.
CECILE. (Aside:) It’s more than he ever gave me!
LEROUX. Oh, Madam, if you could beg André for mercy—or some-
how persuade him to extend the time. But it’s after five o’clock. I fear
there’s no hope.
WIDOW. There is always hope, sir.
MARIE. (Aside to CECILE:) Cecile, isn’t she wonderful? I would I
had her spirit. And her figure.
CECILE. I would I had her neck.
WIDOW. Bucky…
CECILE. (Aside:) So it’s “Bucky” now!
WIDOW. Take a pen and write me a letter to this Mr. Erastus An-
derson.
LEROUX. Bastien André.
WIDOW. Pardon. To Bastien André, pig-dealer.
LEROUX. Picture-dealer.
WIDOW. Picture-dealer. Say that I wish to see him on a small matter.

CHICAGO. Dictate and it is done, dear lady.
WIDOW. What would I do without you, Aggy?
CECILE. (Aside:) So it’s “Aggy” now! I am going to find out the truth
about these two—and settle his hash.
(Knock at left.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. It’s Master Andry himself, yer Widowship.
WIDOW. Admit him, please, Phelim.
(Enter ANDRÉ.)
CHICAGO, DUTCHY, O’SHAUGHNESSY, WIDOW. (They howl
like wolves.)
ANDRÉ. Madame. Good day.
WIDOW. And good day to you, sir—if you mean good.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) This must be the widowed sister. Well, well! She’s
quite a stunner!
(To LEROUX:)
Leroux, I have come to serve personal notice to you that I allow you
just— (Checks pocket watch.) —twenty-two minutes to produce the
money you owe me. If not the money, then your daughter.
WIDOW. (With aristocratic lassitude:) Wait, please. You are speaking
of the woman… (—is about to say “I am in love with”—) …I have just
met. You are disturbing my nerves. And your manner toward this
valued old friend of my brother is uncourteous to him and an affront
to me. One should not get excited over a pecuniary trifle.
ANDRÉ. A trifle, Madam! When you come to know the amount…
WIDOW. Peace! I know all about this fifty thousand francs.
MARIE. No, no, no! Fifteen thousand!
WIDOW. Is that all? Fifteen thousand francs? So it’s the custom for
people in your line of business to go around in person collecting fi
nancial chicken-feed?
CHICAGO. (Aside:) By George, he is an artist!
WIDOW. The checkbook, Bucky. I’ll give the man his filthy lucre,
just to be rid of his snivelling, sneering face.
MARIE. Sweet heaven. A savior!
Is He Dead? 51
LEROUX. (Kissing WIDOW’s hand:) I am speechless, Madame.

WIDOW. Tut, tut. The pen, please.
(Aside to CHICAGO:)
What’s my name?
CHICAGO. (Whispering:) Daisy. Here’s the sample.
(WIDOW signs the check.)
DUTCHY. Py yiminy, she got all the curves now.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And all the angles, too. She’s more feminyne
than me cousin Dennis.
WIDOW. (Signing:) “Daisy Tillou!”
(Giving checks to ANDRÉ:)
Here are the fifteen thousand. I believe my brother also owed you
twenty-five hundred francs. Here they are. I don’t want a receipt.
I want nothing that you have touched. I wish to say a word to you,
then you may go. I ought to put it in strong language, but I am a lady
and that privilege is denied me.
(Without thinking, the WIDOW takes one of the cigars and ex-
pertly rolls it in his fingers, sniffs it, and cuts off the end during
the following.)
From these friends I know your history. You are a man without pity—
a man whose lust for money has withered every kindly impulse you
were born with. You found my brother and his poor artist-friends
struggling honestly and manfully for their bread against hunger and
misery and you have traded upon their poverty. You have bought
their pictures for francs and sold them for Louis d’or, you have hid-
den their talents from the world, you have beguiled them into debt
and robbed them in a hundred mean and pitiful ways. And yonder
sits the blameless old man whom your deceptions, your inhuman-
ities, your pitiless brutalities have brought to the edge of ruin.
(Sticks the cigar in CHICAGO’s mouth.)
I am a lady, and I know the limitations that are upon me, but this I
will say—that from head to heel, from heart to marrow, from pallet
to midriff you are a mean, cowardly, contemptible, base-begotten
damned scoundrel! Oh!
(Kicks the couch, then sits demurely.)
You have what you want, now leave!
MADAME BATHILDE. (Reverently:) Beautiful as a prayer!

MADAME CARON. And a mind as sound as a nut!
ANDRÉ. Your words strike me to the heart, Madam. But business
remains business, and I have a contract signed by your brother and
sealed by two witnesses. It says that I may take twenty-five of his
pictures at the value of one hundred francs apiece. And so I will.
WIDOW. (MILLET’s voice:) You refused those same pictures yesterday!
(Reverting to the WIDOW:)
I mean—so I hear…
ANDRÉ. Yesterday the pictures were worthless. Today with your
brother dying they are worth a great deal indeed.
WIDOW. (Aside to CHICAGO and the lads:) Well, boys, thank you for
hiking my prices.
ANDRÉ. Jean-François Millet is a world master, of course. I knew it
from the moment I met him and saw his work. I remember the day
he signed this agreement. He was so grateful to me as his patron and
long-time supporter, and even his friend.
WIDOW. (Aside:) The man is a moral abscess.
ANDRÉ. Thank you for the offer, but I demand my rights, under the
contract. I will have the pictures. I refuse your check.
WIDOW. Monsieur André, you seem to have cornered me. Have
I no alternative to simply handing over the equivalent of a small
fortune?
ANDRÉ. Yes, madam, you have a very simple alternative.
WIDOW. And what is that?
ANDRÉ. (Kneeling:) Marry me!
(The WIDOW faints into DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY’s
arms. General consternation.)
(Curtain.)
End of Act I
ACT II
(The Widow’s palatial drawing-room in Paris, three months later.

Afternoon. A magnificent sofa. Some fashionable chairs. French
doors up center give onto a terrace. Door to the house’s front hall
up left. Door up right to the Widow’s bedroom. Doors down left
and down right to sitting rooms.)
(At curtain, CHARLIE, a gorgeous flunkey in a powdered wig,
enters from up left with a vase containing a huge bouquet. He sets
the vase on a table. The WIDOW sweeps in from up right, wear-
ing a bright, sumptuous gown.)
WIDOW. Charlie…? Don’t tell me it’s more flowers, Charlie.
CHARLIE. Yes, Madam, they’re from Monsieur André, with a note.
WIDOW. Thank you, Charlie. That’s all.
CHARLIE. Madam.
(CHARLIE exits up left with a bow.)
WIDOW. (Reading the note:) “Peerless goddess…” That’s me, I guess.
“Peerless goddess, I shall come to you this afternoon for the answer
I have craved for three months. Must I go to the law to get those
pictures, or will you meet me tomorrow at Notre Dame and make
me the happiest man in Paris? The stars do not shine as brightly as
the diamonds of your eyes, the gold of the Andes does not glitter as
brightly as your hair…” Mm-hm, mm-hmm, mmm-hmmm… “Your
eternal servant, Bastien André.”
(Sniffs roses, then takes tobacco and packs a pipe during the follow
ing.)
Well, he sure knows how to woo a lady. Truth to tell, Monsieur An-
dré’s wooing begins to tire me a little. It’s been a mine of satisfaction
to the boys, and a body can’t refuse them anything. Chicago says I
ought to marry him, says it’d serve him right. Well, I draw the line at
the altar. Still, Notre Dame is just up the street. And ten yards of Bel-
gian lace and a wedding dress never hurt a man. Suppose I promised
to marry him on condition that he—Daisy, don’t even think about it.
(Clock chimes.)
Oh, Christmas. He’ll be here any time and I’m not even ready.
(Goes to mirror to powder his nose.)
Of course, I have to get out of that contract or he’ll seize those pic
tures. And we can’t afford that. We can’t let him get rich out of us, oh
53
no! And with all this moonshine and spooning I haven’t had a single
minute to paint…
(CHARLIE enters from up left.)
CHARLIE. Excuse me, Madam.
WIDOW. Yes, Charlie. Is it Monsieur André?
CHARLIE. No, Madam. It’s Monsieur Leroux.
WIDOW. At this hour? All right, Charlie, send him in.
(CHARLIE exits. WIDOW lights the pipe.)
A funny time for Louis to come calling. I wonder what he wants. Of
course I’ve made him and the family rich as Croesus, what with all
those pictures. Now they have a house in Paris and a house in the
country.
(Studies the pipe.)
I’ve got to remember to get some more of this tobacco…
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Monsieur Leroux!
WIDOW. Whoops!
(WIDOW runs about looking for a place to put the pipe. LER-
OUX enters, looking spritely and handsomely tricked out, minus
cane but with a black crepe band on his arm. He carries an enor-
mous bouquet of red roses and looks every inch the suitor. CHAR-
LIE exits.)
LEROUX. Dearest Madame Tillou!
WIDOW. (Whipping the pipe behind back, snapping open a fan to blow the
smoke away:) Hello, Louis! How are you?
LEROUX. At the sight of Daisy Tillou? I’m rejuvenated. I’m invigo
rated.
WIDOW. Strong words for little old me.
LEROUX. No words are strong enough for a woman as beautiful
and charming as you.
WIDOW. Lordy!
LEROUX. Will you grant an intimate chat to a lonely bachelor? A
bachelor with something very, very important to ask you?
WIDOW. (To audience:) Uh-oh.
Is He Dead? 55
(To LEROUX:)
A “lonely bachelor,” you say? Surely you mean “contented widower,”
sir.
LEROUX. (Moving in closer all the time:) Alas, that you and I should
know the meaning of widowhood while still so vital. Loneliness is
something we have in common, fair lady. It’s something that binds
us two…very, very tightly…
WIDOW. (Pointing upwards:) What’s that?
LEROUX. Where?
(While LEROUX is distracted, WIDOW lifts roses from vase,
dumps the pipe into the vase, reinserts the flowers.)
WIDOW. Flowers for me? How sweet. Charlie!
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Yes, Madam.
WIDOW. Charlie, put these in water.
WIDOW. And bring my headache pills, please.
WIDOW. The big bottle.
WIDOW. And Charlie—poke your head in from time to time.
(CHARLIE exits with flowers.)
LEROUX. May I express my sympathy on this, the saddest of all days?
WIDOW. I’m sorry. The saddest of all days…?
LEROUX. Your brother’s funeral.
WIDOW. Ah, yes, yes. My brother’s funeral. I knew I should’ve
checked my book. I’ve been so busy lately. Oh, poor François, would
that he were here today…
LEROUX. François was as a son to me. Now he’s gone and my poor
Marie has no comfort any more.
WIDOW. Yes, we must do something to comfort poor Marie.
LEROUX. François had a genius for art. (Drawing closer:) But you,
Daisy, you have a genius for life.
WIDOW. (Drawing away:) Oh, I just make it all up as I go along…
LEROUX. (Moving closer:) He captured beauty. He created beauty.
But you—you are beauty!
WIDOW. (Pulling away:) It’s all a facade, you know. The right dress
and a touch of powder…
LEROUX. (Falling to his knees:) Daisy…
WIDOW. Really, sir!
LEROUX. (Following her about on his knees:) Daisy, Daisy…
WIDOW. Have I given you permission to be so familiar with my
name?
LEROUX. (Still following on his knees:) Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, Daisy…
WIDOW. It’s Madame Tillou, to you.
LEROUX. You not only saved a man’s property, you made young
his old heart.
(Produces a box with a ring inside it.)
Marry me!
(Taking a second look:)
That is a very nice ring.
LEROUX. “Tillou and Leroux” has very nice ring to it, too. We
rhyme, Daisy, remember? We rhyme!
WIDOW. Well, is that so important?
LEROUX. We’re poetry! We’re an ode! We’re an epic! I ask nothing
of you. Merely your companionship.
WIDOW. Yes, that’s what they all say…
LEROUX. Let me live in your light. I beg you! Marry me!
WIDOW. (Aside:) Well, if I married him, at least I wouldn’t have to
marry André…
LEROUX. Is there someone else? Do I have a rival? I’ll kill him!
WIDOW. Now, now, Louis…
LEROUX. Is it Bastien André? I will kill him!
Is He Dead? 57
(Takes out a pistol.)

I’ll shoot the cur in the street!
WIDOW. No, Louis. Don’t. It would be wrong. Wrong. Not very
wrong, but still wrong.
(CHARLIE enters with a bottle and more red roses.)
CHARLIE. Your headache pills, Madam. And flowers from the
Swedish Ambassador.
WIDOW. Put them in water, Charlie.
CHARLIE. There’s a gentleman outside.
WIDOW. Is it Monsieur…You-Know-Who-Hey?
CHARLIE. No, Madam. He’s from the police.
WIDOW. The police?
LEROUX. Really, Daisy, I must have an answer.
WIDOW. Let him in, Charlie! Let the man in!
LEROUX. (Kissing her hand:) Daisy, please. Have pity…
CHARLIE. The gentleman in question, Madame.
(CECILE enters, in a fake moustache and dressed like a man. LE-
ROUX continues kissing while WIDOW tries to get it away.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. (French accent:) Madame Tillou, I am Inspector
Gerard LeFaux of the Paris Police.
LEROUX. Daisy!
WIDOW. (Wrenching hand away from LEROUX:) Louis, that’s enough!
CECILE / LEFAUX. (Aside to audience:) Actually, it is I, Cecile Leroux,
in disguise. I come here to discover the truth about this hussy and
Agamemnon—and I find my father on his knees kissing her hand!
CECILE / LEFAUX. I have some questions for you, Madame.
LEROUX. How dare you, sir! This lady and I are in the midst of a
private conversation.
WIDOW. No, no, thank you for coming, Inspector. —Charlie, keep
on poking.
CHARLIE. Very good, Madame.
(CHARLIE exits up left.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. Madame Tillou, your brother Jean-François Mil-

let, the painter. I understand that after he took ill he went to the
Barbary Coast?
WIDOW. Three months ago today, where he remained until his
death last week—or was it the week before…
CECILE / LEFAUX. My investigations show no sign that your broth-
er was ever in the Barbary Coast.
WIDOW. My brother? Jean-François? Never in the Barbary Coast?
CECILE / LEFAUX. No.
WIDOW. Where is the Barbary Coast?
CECILE / LEFAUX. I do not know. But if he did not go to the Barbary
Coast, where did he go? He seems to have disappeared!
WIDOW. He didn’t disappear. His body lies in state in the Pantheon
this very minute.
CECILE / LEFAUX. Does it really? The casket, madame, is closed.
And who has all Jean-François Millet’s money since he disappeared?
You do!
WIDOW. Well, of course, I have it. I’m his sister…
CECILE / LEFAUX. So you say! I think you also know a man named
Agamemnon Buckner.
WIDOW. Dear Chicago. Ah, yes. You may say I owe everything to
dear Mr. Buckner.
LEROUX. Daisy, will you marry me or not?
WIDOW. Louis, please. This is important.
CECILE / LEFAUX. Madame Tillou! I must ask you! What is your
relationship to this Monsieur Buckner? Is he your lover?
WIDOW. My lover? Chicago? Ha ha ha ha ha!
LEROUX. Daisy, please…
WIDOW. All right! Yes! He is my lover!
LEROUX. (Aside:) I’m crushed!
CECILE / LEFAUX. (Aside:) I’m crushed!
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Monsieur André.
WIDOW. Put him in water, Charlie!
Is He Dead? 59
CHARLIE. Very good, Madame.

(CHARLIE exits.)
WIDOW. Gentlemen, you see how besieged I am today.
LEROUX. I won’t leave you, Daisy, until we settle this.
CECILE / LEFAUX. And I still have many questions to ask you.
WIDOW. Very well. You’ll both have to wait.
LEROUX. I’ll wait in here.
(LEROUX heads toward room up right.)
WIDOW. Not in there, it’s my bedroom. In here.
(Takes LEROUX down left. On the way, he attempts to embrace
the WIDOW.)
LEROUX. I’m frisky, Daisy. Frisky.
WIDOW. Stop that. Here.
(Thrusts a book in his hand.)
Read something sedative. Ponder your mortality. Consider your age.
(WIDOW shuts LEROUX in the room down left.)
You may wait in here, Inspector.
(Takes CECILE’s arm and leads her down right.)
I’m so happy you came. Aren’t you a handsome fellow. Have a Ha
vana. Toodle-oo!
(CECILE exits into room right.)
So—I have the police on my hands now…
(MESDAMES BATHILDE and MADAME CARON sweep in
from up left, with MARIE. They are all richly dressed now, and
in deep mourning.)
MADAME BATHILDE. Madame Tillou!
MADAME CARON. Dearest Daisy!
MADAME BATHILDE. Our deepest sympathies.
MADAME CARON. Deepest sympathies of the day.
WIDOW. Sympathies…? Oh, yes, the funeral. I really must remem
ber that.
MADAME BATHILDE. And we’ve brought you dear Marie.
MADAME CARON. Dear Marie.

WIDOW. Marie—dear heart—come rest your head upon my shoulder.
MARIE. O, Daisy!
(MARIE embraces WIDOW.)
WIDOW. (Aside:) It breaks my heart to see her suffer so. —Bear up,
dear heart. François is better off now than when he was alive.
MARIE. Do you think so, Daisy?
WIDOW. Oh, I know it.
MARIE. It’s almost time for the burial, you know.
MADAME BATHILDE. And you’re not wearing mourning, dear.
WIDOW. Damned if I’m not. I mean—no, well, I’ve never had a fu
neral before.
MADAME CARON. Except your husband and eleven children.
WIDOW. Amazing how soon one forgets.
MADAME BATHILDE. We just saw your brother’s casket.
MADAME CARON. It was so awful!
WIDOW. I thought it was rather nice. I paid enough for it.
MADAME BATHILDE. The casket is beautiful.
MADAME CARON. We mean your brother’s death.
MADAME BATHILDE. O, Daisy!
MADAME CARON. O, Daisy!
MARIE. O, Daisy!
(MARIE, BATHILDE, and CARON weep on WIDOW’s shoul-
der, howling.)
WIDOW. Ladies. Ladies, I would like to speak to Marie, if you
wouldn’t mind waiting.
(Leads BATHILDE and CARON to the room down left.)
Why don’t you keep Monsieur Leroux company in here.
MADAME BATHILDE. If there’s anything we can do…
MADAME CARON. Anything at all.
WIDOW. You just let me know.
(WIDOW opens door and LEROUX starts out.)
Is He Dead? 61
LEROUX. Daisy?
WIDOW. Thank you!
MADAME BATHILDE. (Exiting:) Monsieur Leroux!
MADAME CARON. (Exiting:) Dear Monsieur Leroux!
WIDOW. Come kiss me for his sake, dear.
(WIDOW and MARIE embrace and kiss, sitting on the couch.)
MARIE. François couldn’t be better off than he is now, could he?
WIDOW. Not imaginable.
MARIE. I love to have you kiss me, Daisy.
WIDOW. Do you, dear?
MARIE. It’s just the way François used to do it his own self.
WIDOW. Is it?
MARIE. Exactly. And he hugged me the same way. Just exactly.
Isn’t it strange?
WIDOW. I guess it must run in the blood.
MARIE. You remind me of him in oh so many ways. You look like
him, you act like him, you have his dear voice, you almost walk like
him.
WIDOW. Do I?
MARIE. François was more graceful.
WIDOW. Hmp!
MARIE. But in woman’s clothes I think he wouldn’t have been. I
don’t think he would have kicked his skirts around the way you do
sometimes. Still—he might because he was an impetuous creature.
These three months it’s almost as if I was with him.
WIDOW. I am glad that I remind you of him.
(WIDOW gives MARIE a long kiss. MARIE pulls back in shock.)
MARIE. Daisy! I do wish you wouldn’t smoke!
WIDOW. Just a little corncob once in a while, in memory of him.
MARIE. He used to forget himself and swear. You do that, Daisy,
and it’s very naughty. Promise me you won’t.
WIDOW. I’ll be da—hanged if I will. But I promise for you.
MARIE. And he wasn’t as—as queer as you, Daisy. He wouldn’t be

dressed the way you are if it was his funeral.
WIDOW. He certainly wouldn’t. He’d be in a suit. I know, I know.
I’m made all wrong.
MARIE. Of course you’ve made all of dear François’s friends rich.
How sweet that was of you! And they all worship you, just as they
did him.
WIDOW. It’s no merit in me, child. I did it for his sake.
MARIE. It’s more merit in you than it would have been in him, a
hundred times over. For they were his friends, not yours. But you
don’t treat poor Monsieur André right.
WIDOW. Monsieur André is a bad man and he tried to ruin your
father.
MARIE. He is bad, but there is good in everybody somewhere. He’s
never had the right influences around him. It hurts me so to see him
hopeful a week, and then miserable a week and then hopeful again.
You know it’s cruel. And he loves you, Daisy.
WIDOW. You poor innocent, he’s only after my money.
MARIE. It’s no such thing.
WIDOW. How do you know?
MARIE. Because he told me so.
WIDOW. That settles it.
MARIE. Marry him, Daisy.
WIDOW. You really think I should, dear heart?
MARIE. It would uplift him, and save him. Do it, Daisy, for my sake.
(Raised voices, CHARLIE’s and ANDRÉ’s, off left.)
ANDRÉ. (Offstage:) I won’t wait a moment longer.
CHARLIE. (Offstage:) Please be patient, sir…
ANDRÉ. (Offstage:) I will not be patient! I will see her now!
MARIE. I hear voices now. I don’t wish to meet anyone. It’s too sad.
WIDOW. Rest in my bedroom, darling. And do try to bear up.
(WIDOW leads MARIE off up right. CHARLIE enters up left.)
CHARLIE. Monsieur André says he’ll wait no longer, Madam.
Is He Dead? 63
WIDOW. All right, send him in, please. And Charlie, this time—no
poking.
CHARLIE. Very good Madame.
(ANDRÉ enters, CHARLIE exits.)
ANDRÉ. My precious!
WIDOW. My sweetest!
ANDRÉ. Those eyes! That hair! That face! Those lips!
(He makes to kiss the WIDOW. The WIDOW breathes right in
his face and he turns away fast.)
Phew! She’s been smoking!
WIDOW. You naughty boy! I ought to scold you. But dear Bastien,
you have conquered me.
ANDRÉ. At last!
(ANDRÉ kisses WIDOW’s neck passionately several times.)
WIDOW. (Pushing him off:) Lordy! O, you frighten me! But…
ANDRÉ. But what, sweetest?
WIDOW. (Pulling him back on her neck:) I like it.
ANDRÉ. You darling! I could eat you!
WIDOW. Do you love me, Bastien? Really and truly?
ANDRÉ. Love you? O, Daisy!
WIDOW. Yes, I know you love me but do you love me well enough
to…
ANDRÉ. To what, dear?
WIDOW. To make me forget that you ever said those cruel words?
ANDRÉ. Cruel words?
WIDOW. That if I don’t marry you tomorrow you’ll take me to
court?
ANDRÉ. I never meant that, darling. It was a wild outburst of de
spair. Forgive me, precious. You do forgive me, don’t you?
WIDOW. Forgive you! The moment you have made me forget it—
gladly. But as long as that nasty old contract exists to remind me of
that cruel hour…
ANDRÉ. (Producing the contract:) This shall cease to exist the mo
ment you promise to be mine.
(Aside:)
She’s just in the humor. A touch of the heroics will fetch her.
(To WIDOW:)
Only say the word, darling, and I shall rip this to pieces.
WIDOW. Only one word?
ANDRÉ. One little word.
WIDOW. And it’s pieces?
ANDRÉ. Just say oui!
WIDOW. Just oui?
ANDRÉ. Oui!
WIDOW. Wuh… Wuh…
ANDRÉ. We’d be so happy together. Give me the promise, sweet
heart, and make me entirely happy beyond all doubt or question.
Come now. Promise me. Promise.
WIDOW. I do puh…puh…puh…
(Aside:)
I must gain time.
(The WIDOW begins to cry.)
ANDRÉ. Dearest! What is it?
WIDOW. O, think of the day! I’m so wicked to forget it.
ANDRÉ. The day?
WIDOW. François’s funeral, of course! Betroth myself today—with
my dear brother still cooling off in his coffin? No. It’s impossible.
ANDRÉ. But Daisy, I must have my answer.
(Noises offstage left.)
WIDOW. Run, dear. I hear someone in the house.
ANDRÉ. Do you think I care if someone finds me here?
WIDOW. You wouldn’t want to compromise…your future wife?
ANDRÉ. Future wife? You mean—oui? Oui-oui?
WIDOW. I mean…oui’ll see.
Is He Dead? 65
ANDRÉ. Very well. (Heading down left:) I’ll wait in here—

WIDOW. No, not in there.
ANDRÉ. (Heading down right:) In here, then.
WIDOW. No, not in there.
ANDRÉ. (ANDRÉ heads up right.) Then in here.
WIDOW. No, not there, either. Go out the French doors, across the
terrace, down the stairs, take a left at the corner, then a right, keep
going straight, then a left, a right, a left, you’ll find a bench beneath a
chestnut tree, sit there and gaze at the river and think of me.
ANDRÉ. I will.
(Starts out, but comes right back.)
But wait! Bastien André should escape out the window like a com
mon thief?
WIDOW. Even a common thief guards the honor of…his future wife.
ANDRÉ. I’m the happiest man alive!
WIDOW. I haven’t promised. I’ve only weakened.
ANDRÉ. Weaken, Madam, weaken! I shall expect your full oui-oui
by six o’clock.
(ANDRÉ exits upstage through the French doors.)
WIDOW. I’d better get back into trousers fast. I’m turning into
Cleopatra.
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Madam.
WIDOW. Yes, Charlie?
CHARLIE. Monsieur Chicago!
(Enter CHICAGO, nobbily dressed in a plug hat, with a crepe
band on arm.)
CHICAGO. Thanks, Percival.
WIDOW. That will be all, Charlie.
CHICAGO. Oh, and have my horses polished. They’re looking a
little dingy.
(CHARLIE exits.)
Princess, it’s the grandest day! Everything is booming! Lemme hug

you.
(He hugs WIDOW. CECILE steps out, sees them.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. (Aside:) Look at them! So Chicago is her lover,
just as she said!
(CECILE / LEFAUX retreats. CHICAGO and WIDOW part.
Crowd noise and funeral bells, offstage.)
WIDOW. What’s all the ruckus out there?
CHICAGO. That ruckus is you, old boy. Your casket being car-
ried through the streets! The nobbiest funeral Paris has seen in 50
years, bar Napoleon. What a spectacle! The whole Champs Elysées
swathed in black from eaves to pavement and packed with people
clear to the Arch. Infantry, cavalry, artillery, the whole French army.
Say, what are you doing in this jolly rig? Aren’t you going to attend?
WIDOW. No, I’m not. The idea of man attending his own funeral. I
never heard of such a thing.
CHICAGO. All right, but you’re going to miss some fun. It’s a once-
in-a-lifetime opportunity!
WIDOW. Chicago, a policeman is here.
CHICAGO. To protect you from the swarms?
WIDOW. No. To arrest me for murdering myself.
CHICAGO. Mm. We’re going to have to use the old pumpkin for
that one.
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Monsieur Dutchy and Monsieur O’Shaughnessy are here,
Madam—with the coffin.
CHICAGO. Great! Send ’em in, Curlicue.
(CHARLIE exits. DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY enter,
also richly rigged out, carrying a coffin.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Thanks, Humphrey. Top o’ the mornin’, me lady.
DUTCHY. Vould you like to pay yourself some final respects?
WIDOW. So this is my coffin.
CHICAGO. Not too bad for a final sardine tin, huh. Roomy enough
for two, plus you got all the modern conveniences.
WIDOW. I wish I’d gotten the blue.
Is He Dead? 67
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Where shall we put it?

WIDOW. Oh. Just anywhere. Prop it against the wall.
CHICAGO. Give a hand, man. Give a hand.
DUTCHY. You’re heavier than you tink.
WIDOW. (Taking an end:) What have you got in here? Bricks?
DUTCHY. Ein hundert fifty pounds of bricks.
(They set the coffin down on two chairs.)
CHICAGO. And in an hour these bricks go to their eternal resting
place.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Y’know they’re buryin’ you between Louie the
Fourteen and the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
(Funeral bell rings, offstage.)
WIDOW. I wish they’d stop tolling that darn bell. It gives me the
jimjams.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Lord, Francis, if you could hear the payple
talk. Only three days dead and yer bigger than Raf-ay-ell.
CHICAGO. “The Gleaners” just went for five hundred thousand
potatoes.
DUTCHY. Und O’Shaughnessy’s dachshund for six hundred thou
sand!
CHICAGO. We could sell your old yellow-pine easel for five grand,
easy.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And boys, listen to this—the King o’ France
himself is goin’ to the cemetery!
(CHICAGO marches, playing trombone. The other three dance
a jig.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. And the Emperor of Russia. And the Sultan of
Turkey! As for popes and archbishops and such, we’re suffocated
with ’em! You’re the toast of the court!
(More dancing. The WIDOW dances with CHICAGO as CE-
CILE/ LEFAUX looks out of her room.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. She’s dancing now! On the day of her brother’s
funeral!
(CECILE / LEFAUX retreats back into her room.)
CHICAGO. Tomorrow Daisy Tillou can get on a train and vanish

forever. In a week you return with a moustache and set back up right
here. We’ve got a whole new disguise for you.
WIDOW. What now? A milkmaid from Marseilles?
CHICAGO. Placide Duval. A rich amateur painter, and marvelously
successful imitator of the late lamented.
WIDOW. Imitator of who?
CHICAGO. Of you, who else? Of Millet!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ye can paint a million-worth a year painting
like Millet.
WIDOW. Like Millet? I am Millet!
CHICAGO. Duval’s already getting famous. You know that copy
of “The Angelus” you made? Our English nabob just bought it for
twenty thousand francs.
WIDOW. That wasn’t the copy, that was the original. The other was
the copy.
CHICAGO. Well, it’s good enough for the money it brought.
WIDOW. Ah, boys, you’ve killed me for good. Live another fifty
years as a successful imitator of myself? Suffer the daily torture of
that bastard fame?
CHICAGO. The bastard fame has netted you three million francs.
DUTCHY. It’s a rich life.
WIDOW. It’s a poor excuse for a real one.
CHICAGO. You could even win Marie back as Duval.
WIDOW. I want to win Marie as myself. If I can remember who that
is.
CHICAGO. Cheer up, my dear, the worst is yet to come! Oh, come
on!
(CHICAGO starts up a tune on an imaginary accordion. The
boys join in.)
WIDOW. Well, I may as well dance as anything else. It’s my funeral!
(They all dance the can-can. The WIDOW hops up onto the coffin
and does the can-can there as MARIE enters from up right.)
MARIE. This is shameful! Shameful!
Is He Dead? 69
(They stop dancing.)

WIDOW. Marie! Dear Marie…
MARIE. Don’t you speak to me. Don’t ever speak to me again!
WIDOW. (Aside to the boys:) Confound you harum-scarum rascals.
You would have to have an Irish wake.
(Aloud:)
Leave me, gentlemen. I wish to speak with this young lady.
(CHICAGO, DUTCHY, and O’SHAUGHNESSY exit up left.)
MARIE. O Daisy, how could you act so?
WIDOW. You poor dear, it wasn’t my natural self who was dancing.
When I’m grieved I get so emotional, you know.
MARIE. Oh. Then it was only…womanly hysterics?
WIDOW. Womanly hysterics. That was it.
MARIE. And the others? They were having womanly hysterics, too?
WIDOW. Every blessed one of them. They’re all so full of youth and
high spirits, you know.
(Cannons boom in the distance. WIDOW jumps into MARIE’s
arms.)
You see how jumpy I am? With all these cannons and bells I’m a
regular jack-in-the-box today.
MARIE. Well, François wouldn’t be dancing and carrying on. He’d
be weeping bitter tears.
WIDOW. Yes, François did have a gift for gloom. I lack that talent.
MARIE. You can be so whimsical, Daisy. And at the oddest times.
WIDOW. Ah, well. Life hath made me whimsical.
MARIE. Poor, dear Daisy! It must be so hard for you. (Indicating the
coffin:) Is that—is that him?
WIDOW. It better be. I don’t keep coffins lying around my parlor
every day.
(That makes MARIE weep.)
Forgive me. Forgive me. It’s those whimsies again.
MARIE. I can’t believe it’s François in there.
WIDOW. It isn’t François. It’s only mortal clay. Fired in the kiln of
life. Glazed by death. Squared off and waiting for the mortar of eter-
nity.
MARIE. Oh, he was a brick, wasn’t he?
WIDOW. He still is. More than ever.
MARIE. (Lifting the coffin lid:) Maybe one last look—
WIDOW. (Slamming it shut again:) No, no, no. You don’t want to do
that.
MARIE. You think I wouldn’t recognize him?
WIDOW. He’s changed, changed.
MARIE. And to think that this is his funeral, and we shall never
have him again.
WIDOW. But we shall have each other.
MARIE. You darling sister. (Solemnly:) I worship the very ground
you walk on, Daisy Tillou.
MARIE. Why do you laugh?
WIDOW. I always laugh when I’m touched.
MARIE. Have you spoken with Monsieur André? May I send word
you’re going to marry him? Do let me, Daisy. Please.
WIDOW. If you asked me for my head I’d give it to you. I’d screw it
off my neck and hand it to you in a box.
(Aside:)
Wait a moment. That’s a capital idea! I think I see my way out of
widowhood! Without the help of Placide Duval!
MARIE. How I shall miss you.
WIDOW. I’m sorry?
MARIE. If you marry.
WIDOW. Will you really?
MARIE. I shall have no husband now. I don’t know what shall be
come of me.
WIDOW. Ah, dear heart, how beautiful it would be if this were all a
delusion. A dream. If it were only a fictitious François Millet in here.
Is He Dead? 71
MARIE. O, what a sweet thought!

WIDOW. It is a pretty thought.
MARIE. Let’s imagine it. Go on, darling.
WIDOW. Imagine François appearing before you, disguised some
how.
MARIE. Oh, how lovely!
WIDOW. In some extravagant disguise. Without any sign by which
to know him. And his voice disguised, too. So that even if he told
you it was he, you mightn’t believe him.
MARIE. Why would he be disguised?
WIDOW. Oh, I don’t know…
MARIE. Perhaps…wracked by debt and deep in despair he decided
to disappear for a while.
WIDOW. Oh, that’s good. You’re good at this.
MARIE. Go on, sister.
WIDOW. Then he would ask you to marry him.
MARIE. I’d do it right away. Oh, but even in disguise I’d recognize
him instantly!
WIDOW. Really? How?
MARIE. Why, by the pink scar on his wrist! But Daisy, I’m sorry you
had that beautiful vision. I shan’t get it out of my mind now, and it
will break my heart. Oh, he’s gone, he’s gone, and we shall never
see him anymore! There’s no hope left on earth! O fate, O cruel fate!
(MARIE weeps.)
WIDOW. Marie…?
MARIE. Yes, Daisy?
(WIDOW pulls up her sleeve and shows the scar.)
WIDOW. Guess who.
MARIE. François!?
(MARIE throws herself into WIDOW’s arms, then immediately
breaks away.)
How dare you?!
(Slaps WIDOW’s face.)
Oh, my love!
(Re-embraces WIDOW, who bends her over for a passionate kiss.)
(While they’re locked in their kiss, all the doors open and CHAR-
LIE, LEROUX, CECILE, and MESDAMES BATHILDE and
CARON step out.)
CHARLIE, LEROUX, CECILE / LEFAUX, BATHILDE, CARON.
(Variously, as appropriate:) Madame! —Daisy, you must listen. —Ma-
dame Tillou! —Dear Daisy. —My dear girl, I—
(They all see the kiss, and exit immediately back into their rooms.)
MARIE. So—you’re not dead?
WIDOW. Not to my knowledge.
MARIE. How in the world will we ever explain to father?
WIDOW. That I’m alive?
MARIE. About the dress!
WIDOW. Never mind that. There’s much to do, and I must get out
of this disguise today. Marie, go tell Bastien André to come slip into
my rooms at six o’clock, unannounced.
MARIE. You won’t marry him?
WIDOW. Not unless they change the laws of France.
MARIE. Oh, sweetheart! One more kiss?
WIDOW. Take two. One for each of me. Now go—go!
MARIE. Yes!
(Starts out, turns back.)
But where is Monsieur André?
WIDOW. Go across the terrace, down the stairs, take a left at the cor-
ner, then a right, keep going straight, then a left, a right, a left, you’ll
find a bench beneath a chestnut tree, he’ll be sitting there gazing at
the river and thinking of me.
MARIE. As he should be.
(Rushes to kiss again.)
O, you wonderful—
WIDOW. Not now! Goodbye!
MARIE. Goodbye!
Is He Dead? 73
(MARIE exits as O’SHAUGHNESSY runs in fast from left, fol

lowed by DUTCHY and CHICAGO.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Francis—Francis—you’d better pack up and
get out o’ town right now.
WIDOW. What’s the matter?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Chicago will nivver blather us out o’ this one.
WIDOW. What is it? What’s wrong?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ye know who’s outside? The King of France,
the Emperor of Russia, and the Sultan of Turkey. And ye know what
they’re here for? To view the remains.
CHICAGO & WIDOW. (Together:) O, Lordy!
WIDOW. My remains?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I don’t know whose else ain’t in that box.
When they see that yer a load of bricks, I think your prices are bound
to fall—and yer head along with it.
WIDOW. What do I do?
CHICAGO. Get in the box.
(CHICAGO and O’SHAUGHNESSY grab the WIDOW and
start her toward the coffin.)
WIDOW. No, no, no! Not that!
CHICAGO. François, you have to—
WIDOW. You got me into a dress. You’re not getting me into a box.
And do I look like the remains of Jean-François Millet? Did I die and
grow all this?
CHICAGO. All right. Turn them down, man. Say they can’t come in.
WIDOW. May I turn them down?
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ye can’t now. Dutchy invited ’em in.
CHICAGO. But why, you unspeakable idiot?
DUTCHY. It’s okay, poys. Bring on da kinks!
CHICAGO. What are you talking about?
DUTCHY. Shecaggo, ve haff nodding to worry about.
(Fanfare.)
MILLET, CHICAGO, O’SHAUGHNESSY. There they are.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. There’s no stoppin’ ’em now. It’s a royal flush!

WIDOW. How’s my hair?
CHICAGO. To hell with your hair!
(Doors open.)
DUTCHY. Ze Kink of France, ze Emperor von Russia, und ze Sultan
von Turkey!
(Second fanfare. KING, EMPEROR, and SULTAN enter, all
thickly bearded and in voluminous robes.)
WIDOW. (Drops a deep curtsey:) Your Majesties, I am Daisy Tillou.
Welcome to my humble home.
KING OF FRANCE. Our condolences, Madame.
(The Royals bow. CHICAGO, DUTCHY, and O’SHAUGH
NESSY all drop in a curtsey. Funeral bells outside.)
Do you hear those bells, Madame? That is the moan of a desolate
world.
CHICAGO. Excuse me, your Majesty—if you don’t mind me calling
your Majesty “your Majesty”…
(To the EMPEROR and SULTAN, respectively:)
…your Majesty, your Majesty. The Widow’s been moaning a bit
herself today. Maybe you could all come back another day, when
there’s not a funeral on.
KING OF FRANCE. Monsieur, we have come to view the remains
of a true génie de la France! And we will!
WIDOW. Yes, but you see, François was always so shy. He never
liked to be stared at.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Ye know what the poor fella died of. (Shudders.)
(CHICAGO and WIDOW shudder, too.)
CHICAGO. Remains don’t keep the way they used to, especially for
us commoners. This being the middle of August, all you’d see is the
remains of the remains, if you know what I mean.
WIDOW. Your Majesties, if a poor woman—well, not so poor—if a
woman could prevail on you to spare her feelings…
CHICAGO. And it’s getting pretty late now. Say, what time is it?
(WIDOW, CHICAGO and O’SHAUGHNESSY check their
watches.)
Is He Dead? 75
WIDOW. Mine says five-forty-five.

CHICAGO. Mine says almost six.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Mine must be slow, it says five twenty-five…
KING OF FRANCE. Madame, messieurs, step aside! We have come
to see the corpus and we are kings. We do what we will!
DUTCHY. Dot’s all right, your Mayesties, shtep right up und see
the corpus.
CHICAGO. (Pulling DUTCHY away:) “Shtep right up”? What are
you doing?
KING OF FRANCE. Open the coffin!
DUTCHY. (Aside to CHICAGO:) Let dem look, Shecaggo! I put my
lunch inside!
CHICAGO. Your lunch?
KING OF FRANCE. Open the coffin, I say!
DUTCHY. (Aside to CHICAGO:) Two pounds—limperger cheese!
KING OF FRANCE. Open the coffin!
WIDOW, O’SHAUGHNESSY, DUTCHY, CHICAGO. Open the coffin!
(They throw up the lid and with a cry of disgust all are blown back
from “the remains” by the stink of Dutchy’s lunch. Everyone looks
out from the various rooms and are blown back as well, returning
to their rooms.)
KING OF FRANCE. Close the coffin!
WIDOW, O’SHAUGHNESSY, DUTCHY, CHICAGO. Close the coffin!
KING OF FRANCE. Madame! Vous auriez dû enterrer votre frère
l’été dernier! Au revoir!
(A fanfare as the Royals exit.)
CHICAGO. What did he say?
WIDOW. He said we should have buried him last summer.
(To DUTCHY:)
O you darling, let me hug you!
CHICAGO, O’SHAUGHNESSY. Me, too!
DUTCHY. I put dot cheese in dere yoost in case somepody get curious.
CHICAGO. That’s no slouch of a cabbage you carry on those shoul-

ders, Dutchy.
DUTCHY. Oh, Shecaggo, you alvays flatter somepody.
WIDOW. You splendid old thing, you shall be feasted like a prince.
DUTCHY. Vell, Gott zy dank, it come out all righd, und ve are safe,
poys. Ve are safe!
(CECILE / LEFAUX has entered.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. Not entirely safe! I am Inspector Edouard Le
Faux of the Paris Police and I have a few questions for you gentle
men.
WIDOW. I thought you said Gerard LeFaux.
CECILE / LEFAUX. Gerard-Edouard LeFaux. Gentlemen, I believe
this woman Daisy Tillou to be a fraud!
(General protest. “No! no!” “A fraud?” “Impossible!” etc. They
stop for:)
WIDOW. (Aside to CHICAGO:) Chicago, André will be here any sec-
ond, and I’m going to need privacy for that.
(Resume general protest. “No! no!” “A fraud?” “Impossible!”
etc.)
CECILE / LEFAUX. Yes! A fraud! I charge that this woman is an
imposter who has come here to capitalize on Millet’s death. She may
even have murdered him! What is this—
(Opens coffin—without looking inside, herself—and they all
flinch.)
—if not a dead body?
(Closes coffin.)
CHICAGO. Why would she murder him?
CECILE / LEFAUX. For his money.
CHICAGO. He didn’t have any money.
CECILE / LEFAUX. Not until he died.
CHICAGO. If he had no money, why kill him?
CECILE / LEFAUX. To make sure he had money. For when this
world has a great master it lets him starve. But when he is dead, then
he is recognized! Then come the riches! And being dead, what can he
do with the money but be murdered for it?
Is He Dead? 77
CHICAGO. That’s the craziest idea I ever heard.

CECILE / LEFAUX. Indeed? And what was your role in this scheme,
monsieur? You—who are her lover?
CHICAGO. I, sir?
CECILE / LEFAUX. You, sir!
CHICAGO. Her lover?
CECILE / LEFAUX. She has admitted it herself.
(CHICAGO looks to WIDOW, who shrugs.)
You have certainly been familiar with her in public.
CHICAGO. Is it my fault if a woman is affectionate?
CECILE / LEFAUX. (Forgetting her disguise for a moment:) I’m not say-
ing it was anybody’s fault. It’s a crime, Agamemnon, that’s what
it is! And I’m glad to see you cheerful in spite of circumstances, as
usual!
CHICAGO. (Aside to audience:) Holy Toledo, it’s Cecile!
(To CECILE / LEFAUX:)
Well, sir, I reject your insinuations, for as it happens I am in love
with one Cecile Leroux!
CECILE / LEFAUX. You, sir?
CHICAGO. I, sir. The finest, sweetest, dearest, most precious wom-
an in all Paris.
CECILE / LEFAUX. You mean…she is? Is she really? The finest,
sweetest…
CHICAGO. …dearest, most precious woman in all Paris. No wom-
an, not even Daisy Tillou, could ever come between me and Cecile
Leroux!
CECILE / LEFAUX. Oh, you wonderful darling!
(CECILE / LEFAUX throws herself into his arms and kisses him.)
WIDOW. Monsieur, control yourself! Even for a Frenchman this is
excessive!
CHICAGO. We’re a little pressed for time, Inspector. I can tell you
all about it right in this room.
WIDOW. (Aside:) Charm him, Chicago. Keep him out of here.
CHICAGO. Oh, trust me.
(To CECILE, leading her down right:)

Did you know I studied for the ministry, Inspector?
CECILE. Did you really…?
(CHICAGO and CECILE exit down right.)
WIDOW. Charlie!
(To the others:)
Boys, I’m going to need your help.
(Glances out French windows.)
Here he comes.
(CHARLIE enters.)
Charlie, when I ring for you, bring in that old crate of modelling
equipment.
(CHARLIE exits.)
DUTCHY. Vot’s da plan, Daisy?
WIDOW. I’ll tell you in here. Come on.
(WIDOW exits up right with DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY
as ANDRÉ enters from the terrace and stealthily slips into the
room.)
ANDRÉ. Daisy? Darling, are you there? Daisy…? —By George, she
is just rancid with money. If it wasn’t for those pictures I wouldn’t
marry her or anybody. I believe she’ll give me that promise today.
Yet you never know with Daisy. She’s terribly capricious.
(Voices, off up right.)
Somebody’s coming.
(ANDRÉ hides behind a screen as WIDOW enters with
DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY.)
WIDOW. …I know that you and Mr. Buckner don’t want me to
marry Monsieur André. Nobody wants me to marry him. People say
that he’s a two-faced scoundrel and a three-handed rapscallion.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. I say he’s a horny-toad with the heart of an
alligator.
DUTCHY. Und I say he iss a misserable pig-dog schvein.
Is He Dead? 79
WIDOW. Maybe he is all those things. Yes! He is an alligator. He

is a pig-dog schwein. But I have loved Bastien André, oh, for a
whole month now. There’s no resisting the man, he admires me so.
I couldn’t help teasing the poor darling. Well, I’ve worried him long
enough. I’m going to marry him.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. No!
WIDOW. (Rings bell.) Oui!
ANDRÉ. (Behind screen:) Oui…? She said oui?
WIDOW. Oui-oui.
ANDRÉ. Oui-oui!
WIDOW. He ought to be here anytime, and I must make myself su-
premely beautiful for him.
(CHARLIE enters with crate full of wooden arms and legs, etc.)
CHARLIE. Those things you wanted, madam.
WIDOW. Thank you, Charlie, by the sofa, please. That will be all.
(CHARLIE exits.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. All right, marry the blackguard. It’s your hair
is all I’m saying.
WIDOW. It is my hair, and I paid enough for it.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) “Paid enough for her hair”? That’s a curious re
mark…
WIDOW. Hand me the other.
(WIDOW whips off wig, revealing a bald pate. ANDRÉ lets out a
cry of horror. DUTCHY hands WIDOW another wig.)
No, not this, the other one. The dye is more golden.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:)And I always thought it was natural!
WIDOW. That’s where I cut that lock off of it. He begged me for it
so hard, the sweetheart.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) So I did.
(He takes out a lock of hair and tosses it away.)
WIDOW. I absolutely must buy a new complexion before the wed
ding.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) A new complexion…?
WIDOW. This is the worst one they ever sold me. It takes half a day
to daub it on and it still washes off in the rain. The other day in that
thunderstorm I left a puddle behind me like a housepainter. Hand
me my other teeth, will you?
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Digging in the crate:) Other
teeth… Other teeth…
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) Other teeth…?
WIDOW. These are the most troublesome choppers I’ve ever had.
Every time I go to a ball I get excited and cough them out.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) God bless my soul!
(O’SHAUGHNESSY hands WIDOW some teeth from the crate.)
WIDOW. (Mimics putting the new pair in her mouth.) That’s better.
These take up an awful lot of room, but they’re more stylish. André
will like these. They’ll give him more to kiss.
(WIDOW champs them loudly. ANDRÉ gags, in private.)
Now hand me a fresh glass eye.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Digging in crate:) Glass eye…
Glass eye…
WIDOW. A clean one this time.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Digging in crate:) Clean glass
eye… Clean glass eye…
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) It’s perfectly odious! There’s nothing solid about
her!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Is it any particular eye ye want, Madam?
WIDOW. My Sunday one, in blue. It’s not every day a woman gets
engaged.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Digging in crate:) Clean blue
eye… Clean blue eye…
WIDOW. (Tries to “pull out” the old eye.) This troublesome thing. It’s
stuck. Help me pop it out.
(They hit her on the back and “Pop!” the eye “comes out.”)
Ah, that’s a love. I won’t try to wear this one again. Dear André shall
have it for a gift.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) It’s ghastly!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Here’s a blue one.
Is He Dead? 81
WIDOW. No, that one’s always dropping out and rolling around
the floor.
(Taking another:)
That one’s good. Squishes like a real one, too. Help me squeeze it in,
will you?
(Business, as they “help” her and ANDRÉ writhes in agony.)
André will have to learn to do this for me. At night I can wear the
black patch.
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) Black patch! It’s a nightmare!
WIDOW. (As the eye “goes in”:) There! This one’s all right. Snug as a
plug. Full of expression, too. Fetch me some legs.
DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. Legs… Legs…
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) Is any part of her genuine?
(DUTCHY and O’SHAUGHNESSY haul out several artificial
legs, stockinged and gartered.)
WIDOW. No, no, those are both rights. I need a left. Ah, that’s the
new American one. It’s a daisy, too. Help me.
(Business of them fitting the leg on.)
ANDRÉ. (Aside:) She’s the ruins of ancient Rome!
WIDOW. No, the heel’s in front. Turn it around. No—no—let’s try
another one. Let’s try another one.
(WIDOW hits the wooden leg with a mallet and “pulls it off” as
ANDRÉ steps out from behind the screen.)
ANDRÉ. Ah! Madame Tillou!
WIDOW. (Jumps up on one leg, holding the wooden one:) Bastien, dar
ling, there you are! I give you my promise. I say—oui!
ANDRÉ. And I say non! I wouldn’t marry you if you were worth a
billion. You’re not a woman. You’re a kit!
WIDOW. But Bastien, now that I’ve given my word, you must marry
me. I have two witnesses here, you see? Just as you do in that old
contract.
ANDRÉ. Very well, then. I set you free.
(ANDRÉ rips up contract.)
WIDOW. (While he rips:) Bastien, no. How could you? How could
you, Bastien? No, Bastien, no!
ANDRÉ. Don’t touch me! You…debris!
(ANDRÉ exits hurriedly left.)
WIDOW. (Chasing him out and throwing the wooden leg after him:) Bas-
tien, wait! You must marry me! You must!
(WIDOW exits.)
DUTCHY. Vell, I dink André is disposed of.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. He ain’t gonna stop runnin’ till he reaches wa-
ter. How ’bout a cigar?
(CHARLIE enters.)
CHARLIE. Excuse me, gentlemen.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Thank you, Gaston.
CHARLIE. Ah-ha! So you have seen through my disguise, have you?
(Whips off powdered wig. French accent:)
Yes, it is I! Inspector Gaston Monnet of the Paris Police!
(Blows police whistle.)
Nobody moves!
(Everyone enters from the side rooms: CECILE, CHICAGO,
LEROUX, the MESDAMES. Ad lib: “What’s going on here?”
“What is this?” etc.)
CHARLIE / MONNET. Ladies and gentlemen, you are all under ar
rest in the murder of Jean-François Millet!
MARIE. (Entering through French doors:) I told Monsieur André…
CHARLIE. (Blows whistle again.) You too, mademoiselle! Now!
Where is the so-called Widow Tillou?
LEROUX. “So-called” Widow…?
INSPECTOR MONNET. I have been observing the goings-on in
this house for the past three months and I can tell you that some
thing is very suspicious here. For example—
(Opens coffin lid. All back off.)
Just as I thought! Two pounds of limburger cheese and a load of
bricks! Hardly what I would call the body of a great painter. Not
even close!
Is He Dead? 83
(Closes coffin.)
And you—so-called Inspector LeFaux.
(Rips off CECILE’s moustache.)
Just as I thought! Not Inspector LeFaux. The real Inspector LeFaux is
in Bordeaux!
CHICAGO. Monsieur! How dare you rip off the moustache of the
woman I’m going to marry!
INSPECTOR MONNET. You will marry her in prison, perhaps.
Where you, Monsieur Leroux, can wed the so-called Widow Tillou.
LEROUX. I won’t be marrying the so-called Widow Tillou, because
I’m going to marry one of these wonderful women.
(Embracing MADAME BATHILDE and CARON:)
I just don’t know which one yet!
MADAME BATHILDE. Maybe me.
MADAME CARON. Maybe me.
LEROUX. Only time will tell.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Congratulations on your approaching po-
lygamy. A man of your age. You ought to be ashamed. Now then.
Where is the body of Jean-François Millet?
(MILLET enters—as himself again.)
MILLET. What the devil is going on here?
(BATHILDE and CARON faint. CECILE faints. MARIE faints.
LEROUX faints. Then CHICAGO, O’SHAUGHNESSY, and
DUTCHY faint.)
INSPECTOR MONNET. Who are you, sir? You certainly have a
devastating effect on a room.
MILLET. I, sir, am Jean-François Millet!
(MONNET gets a little faint, and braces himself against the cof-
fin. The others revive.)
INSPECTOR MONNET. You don’t mean…?
MILLET. Yes.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Not the painter?
MILLET. Yes.
INSPECTOR MONNET. The greatest genius in the history of art?

MILLET. Yes.
INSPECTOR MONNET. The cheese in this coffin?
MILLET. I can’t answer for that. I’d have to see the cheese first.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Good Lord, Monsieur, where have you
been all this time?
MILLET. In the Barbary Coast.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Where is the Barbary Coast?
MILLET. Just off the coast of Barbary. Wracked by debt and deep in
despair I decided to disappear for a while—only to return and find
my funeral in progress.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Well, it’s no surprise. You have been dead
for a week, according to your so-called sister.
MILLET. Sister? What sister?
INSPECTOR MONNET. The Widow Tillou.
MILLET. I have no sister and I’ve never heard of any Widow Tillou.
INSPECTOR MONNET. Ah-ha! So she was not only an imposter—
she didn’t even exist!
MILLET. It looks like somebody’s been having a joke at my expense.
At my great expense.
INSPECTOR MONNET. But monsieur, have you any proof that
you are Jean-François Millet?
MILLET. Of course I do.
(Pulls up his sleeve.)
This pink scar!
ALL. (A cry of delighted recognition.)
MARIE. François!
MILLET. Marie!
DUTCHY. Franz!
MILLET. Dutchy!
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Francis!
MILLET. Phelim!
CHICAGO. Millet!
Is He Dead? 85
MILLET. Hello, old man!

LEROUX, BATHILDE, CARON. François!
MILLET. How are you all, my friends?
CHICAGO. Well, well. I suspect there’s another wedding in the offing.
CECILE. Besides ours.
LEROUX, BATHILDE, CARON. Besides ours.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. (Side by side with DUTCHY:) Well, what are
you lookin’ at us for?
INSPECTOR MONNET. This settles it. Monsieur Millet, I would
call off my funeral if I were you. Meanwhile I am going to search for
the notorious, mysterious criminal Daisy Tillou!
MILLET. To arrest her?
INSPECTOR MONNET. No, Monsieur! To marry her!
(MONNET exits.)
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Well, Francis, now you’ve been declared a
gaynius, is it back to obscurity with ye?
DUTCHY. Are you going back into hiding from all the folks who
thought you were dead?
CHICAGO. You can’t exactly tell 40 million Frenchmen they made
a small mistake.
MILLET. Trust me, boys. France will die a hundred thousand deaths
rather than confess that she’s been wrong. Today I was merely im-
mortal. Tomorrow I’ll be a celebrity.
CHICAGO. Dutchy, I believe you owe me 34 million pounds.
DUTCHY. O dot Shecaggo. Shake!
MILLET. My friends, let’s all hear it for our benefactor. The mother
of us all—the Widow Tillou!
ALL. The Widow Tillou!
(They all dance as…)
(The curtain falls.)
End of Play
Afterword
I am inevitably asked: What is Twain and what’s Ives? What did I

“do” to Twain’s original play? Just what do those words “adapted
by” on the title page actually mean?
The incurably curious can find out the answers by picking up Shelley
Fisher Fishkin’s superb edition of Twain’s original text, published by
University of California Press. Her notes and supplementary materi-
als and of course Twain’s play will reveal all.
Short of that, I can say this. The first scene of my adaptation is a
drastic redaction of Twain’s whole first act. In Twain’s original, Mil-
let doesn’t appear till the middle of the first act; I brought our hero in
earlier. In Twain, Millet has a circle of friends as wide as the United
Nations. I reduced the circle to Chicago, Dutchy and O’Shaughnessy.
In Twain, there are several art buyers; I cut them down to one.
But these are just mechanical elements of the adaptation. In a larger
sense you might say that Twain provided the plot, I provided the
subplots, he the set-ups and I the pay-offs. For example, Twain is re-
sponsible for Cecile Leroux, Papa Leroux, and a “gorgeous flunkey”
for the Widow. I am responsible for Inspector LeFaux, Inspector
Monnet, and Papa Leroux’s crush on the Widow. Twain wrote a
long monologue for Dutchy about how the King of France wanted
to look inside the coffin; I brought that scene onstage. Twain wrote
a great joke about a chimney sweep leaving his outline on a cloth. I
kept the cloth, cut the sweep, and put the joke elsewhere in the play.
A hundred little things like that.
Certain scenes are here almost as Twain wrote them. The tea scene in
the first act, for example, is largely Twain, though I added the tea to
the scene. The physical deconstruction of the Widow toward the end
of Act Two is also by and large Twain, with a few additions. Maybe
the best way to demonstrate how I adapted Twain’s original is by
show-and-tell. Here is a section from Twain’s original:
CHICAGO. (Holds up the pants—exposing the patch—
views his work critically. Aside:) Failure—too loud—
can’t wear them—distract attention from the rest of
the exhibition—make a person look like a lightning-
bug—
Here is what I did with that:
CHICAGO. (Notices a large, yellow patch on the back-
side of O’SHAUGHNESSY’s pants.) Wait a minute.
86
You can’t face the public in trousers like that. You
look like a lightning bug. I’ve got an idea. Bend over.
(Takes a palette and quickly paints the patch
black.)
I knew all those lessons would come in handy. We
can’t have you distracting attention from the rest of
the exhibition.
DUTCHY. Maybe a little grey in here.
O’SHAUGHNESSY. Don’t forget to sign it.
CHICAGO. There, that’s first-rate. We’ll call it “The
Pantgelus.”
Mark Twain is of course a great American master, and if I ever

doubted it I knew it when I read his original play, which had the
genius of not one but two great comic ideas: not only a man faking
his own death, but passing himself off as his own sister to cover up
the plot. In everything I did as an adapter, I took it as my job not to
replace Twain but to complete his work, to do to the original what he
himself would have done had he had 97 more years to think about
it and a few more plays under his belt. He turned out to be a superb
collaborator. Except for the cigars, we got along just fine.
—David Ives
87

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Is He Dead? (2nd ed. - 12.01.

A play is a piece of property, fully owned by the author, just like a

Anyone who violates an author’s copyright is liable as a copyright

Playscripts, Inc. toll-free phone: 1-866-New-Play

Is He Dead? opened on Broadway at the Lyceum Theatre on Decem­

3. Credit shall be given to the Broadway producers of the Play sub-

Original Broadway production produced by

4. A Playscripts-approved bio of Mark Twain, The Mark Twain

Mark Twain wrote Is He Dead? in 1898 as he emerged from one of the

(An afternoon in spring, 1846, at Barbizon, near Paris. The studio

CHICAGO. I’ve been ruined all my life, Dutchy. Never hurt me a

press me. Now he as good as threatens to take all my prop­erty. Well,

(Showing the canvases: “The Sower,” “Man With Hoe,” “Har-

DUTCHY. Good morning!

MARIE. Oh, hunger, thirst, cold, everything!

MILLET. I have spoiled your life, dear. That’s the hardest.

MADAME BATHILDE. Tush!

DUTCHY. (Getting a little weepy:) Dot picture lif’ me righd up to

DUTCHY. (Saluting:) Jawohl, mein Kapitayn!

…three hundred francs.

DUTCHY. Und me, too!

CHICAGO. What’s thicker than a widow? You can be your very

DUTCHY. All righd.

CHICAGO. Hanged if I know.

(CHICAGO and O’SHAUGHNESSY are blown back by the

O’SHAUGHNESSY. Truth to tell, me lady, ye put me in mind of the

REPORTER. (Snatching the paper:) I should be infinitely grateful.

O’SHAUGHNESSY. Why, it’s a dachshund.

DUTCHY & O’SHAUGHNESSY. Picture? Picture…?

THORPE. Thirty thousand francs…!

CHICAGO. Sold to England for eighty thousand francs!

THORPE. (Writing a check:) There you are. One hundred thousand

WIDOW. It’s wonderful. Seems impossible. I’ve never had to do

MADAME BATHILDE. Not seriously.

MADAME BATHILDE. We do love your poor dear brother so.

MADAME CARON. Yes, thank you.

MADAME BATHILDE. (Aside to CARON:) She talks just as a rab­bit

(CHICAGO nudges sharply.)

LEROUX. I’m so heartsick I fear I will die

WIDOW. Picture-dealer. Say that I wish to see him on a small mat­ter.

LEROUX. (Kissing WIDOW’s hand:) I am speechless, Madame.

MADAME BATHILDE. (Reverently:) Beautiful as a prayer!

(The Widow’s palatial drawing-room in Paris, three months later.

(Takes out a pistol.)

CECILE / LEFAUX. Madame Tillou, your brother Jean-François Mil-

CHARLIE. Very good, Madame.

MADAME CARON. Dear Marie.

MARIE. And he wasn’t as—as queer as you, Daisy. He wouldn’t be

ANDRÉ. Very well. (Heading down left:) I’ll wait in here—

Princess, it’s the grandest day! Everything is booming! Lemme hug

O’SHAUGHNESSY. Where shall we put it?

CHICAGO. Tomorrow Daisy Tillou can get on a train and vanish

(They stop dancing.)

MARIE. O, what a sweet thought!

(MARIE exits as O’SHAUGHNESSY runs in fast from left, fol­

O’SHAUGHNESSY. There’s no stoppin’ ’em now. It’s a royal flush!

WIDOW. Mine says five-forty-five.

CHICAGO. That’s no slouch of a cabbage you carry on those shoul-

CHICAGO. That’s the craziest idea I ever heard.

Is He Dead? opened on Broadway at the Lyceum Theatre on Decem

press me. Now he as good as threatens to take all my property. Well,

MADAME BATHILDE. (Aside to CARON:) She talks just as a rabbit

WIDOW. Picture-dealer. Say that I wish to see him on a small matter.

(MARIE exits as O’SHAUGHNESSY runs in fast from left, fol