by Ayn Rand
KAY GONDA: Mr. Fink?
FINK: [Nodding frantically] Yes. Chuck Fink. In person. . . . But you . . . you’re Kay Gonda, aren’t you?
KAY GONDA: Yes. I am hiding. From the police. I have no place to go. Will you let me stay here for the night?
FINK: Well, I’ll be damned! . . . Oh, excuse me!
FANNY: You want us to hide you here?
KAY GONDA: Yes. If you are not afraid of it.
FANNY: But why on earth did you pick . . .
KAY GONDA: Because no one would find me here. And because I read Mr. Fink’s letter.
FINK: [Quite recovering himself] But of course! My letter. I knew you’d notice it among the thousands. Pretty good, wasn’t it?
FANNY: I helped him with it.
FINK: [Laughing] What a glorious coincidence! I had no idea when I wrote it, that . . . But how wonderfully things work out!
KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] I am wanted for murder.
FINK: Oh, don’t worry about that. We don’t mind. We’re broadminded.
FANNY: [Hastily pulling down the window shade] You’ll be perfectly safe here. You’ll excuse the . . . informal appearance of things, won’t you? We were considering moving out of here.
FINK: Please sit down, Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA: [Sitting down, removing her hat] Thank you.
FINK: I’ve dreamed of a chance to talk to you like this. There are so many things I’ve always wanted to ask you.
KAY GONDA: There are many things I’ve always wanted to be asked.
FINK: Is it true, what they say about Granton Sayers? You ought to know. They say he was a regular pervert and what he didn’t do to women . . .
FANNY: Chuck! That’s entirely irrelevant and . . .
KAY GONDA: [With a faint smile at her] No. It isn’t true.
FINK: Of course, I’m not one to censure anything. I despise morality. Then there’s another thing I wanted to ask you: I’ve always been interested, as a sociologist, in the influence of the economic factor on the individual. How much does a movie star actually get?
KAY GONDA: Fifteen or twenty thousand a week on my new contract—I don’t remember.
[FANNY and FINK exchange startled glances]
FINK: What an opportunity for social good! I’ve always believed that you were a great humanitarian.
KAY GONDA: Am I? Well, perhaps I am. I hate humanity.
FINK: You don’t mean that, Miss Gonda!
KAY GONDA: There are some men with a purpose in life. Not many, but there are. And there are also some with a purpose—and with integrity. These are very rare. I like them.
FINK: But one must be tolerant! One must consider the pressure of the economic factor. Now, for instance, take the question of a star’s salary . . .
KAY GONDA: [Sharply] I do not want to talk about it. [With a note that sounds almost like pleading in her voice] Have you nothing to ask me about my work?
FINK: Oh, God, so much! . . . [Suddenly earnest] No. Nothing. [KAY GONDA looks at him closely, with a faint smile. He adds, suddenly simple, sincere for the first time:] Your work . . . one shouldn’t talk about it. I can’t. [Adds] I’ve never looked upon you as a movie star. No one does. It’s not like looking at Joan Tudor or Sally Sweeney, or the rest of them. And it’s not the trashy stories you make—you’ll excuse me, but they are trash. It’s something else.
KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] What?
FINK: The way you move, and the sound of your voice, and your eyes. Your eyes.
FANNY: [Suddenly eager] It’s as if you were not a human being at all, not the kind we see around us.
FINK: We all dream of the perfect being that man could be. But no one has ever seen it. You have. And you’re showing it to us. As if you knew a great secret, lost by the world, a great secret and a great hope. Man washed clean. Man at his highest possibility.
FANNY: When I look at you on the screen, it makes me feel guilty, but it also makes me feel young, new and proud. Somehow, I want to raise my arms like this. . . . [Raises her arms over her head in a triumphant, ecstatic gesture; then, embarrassed:] You must forgive us. We’re being perfectly childish.
FINK: Perhaps we are. But in our drab lives, we have to grasp at any ray of light, anywhere, even in the movies. Why not in the movies, the great narcotic of mankind? You’ve done more for the damned than any philanthropist ever could. How do you do it?
KAY GONDA: [Without looking at him] One can do it just so long. One can keep going on one’s own power, and wring dry every drop of hope—but then one has to find help. One has to find an answering voice, an answering hymn, an echo. I am very grateful to you. [There is a knock at the door. They look at one another. FINK walks to the door resolutely]
FINK: Who’s there?
WOMAN’S VOICE: [Offstage] Say, Chuck, could I borrow a bit of cream?
FINK: [Angrily] Go to hell! We haven’t any cream. You got your nerve disturbing people at this hour! [A muffled oath and retreating steps are heard offstage. He returns to the others] God, I thought it was the police!
FANNY: We mustn’t let anyone in tonight. Any of those starving bums around here would be only too glad to turn you in for a—[Her voice changes suddenly, strangely, as if the last word had dropped out accidentally]—a reward.
KAY GONDA: Do you realize what chance you are taking if they find me here?
FINK: They’ll get you out of here over my dead body.
KAY GONDA: You don’t know what danger . . .
FINK: We don’t have to know. We know what your work means to us. Don’t we, Fanny?
FANNY: [She has been standing aside, lost in thought] What?
FINK: We know what Miss Gonda’s work means to us, don’t we?
FANNY: [In a flat voice] Oh, yes . . . yes . . .
KAY GONDA: [Looking at FINK intently] And that which means to you . . . you will not betray it?
FINK: One doesn’t betray the best in one’s soul.
KAY GONDA: No. One doesn’t.
FINK: [Noticing FANNY’s abstraction] Fanny!
FANNY: [With a jerk] Yes? What?
FINK: Will you tell Miss Gonda how we’ve always . . .
FANNY: Miss Gonda must be tired. We should really allow her to go to bed.
KAY GONDA: Yes. I am very tired.
FANNY: [With brisk energy] You can have our bedroom. . . . Oh, yes, please don’t protest. We’ll be very comfortable here, on the couch. We’ll stay here on guard, so that no one will try to enter.
KAY GONDA: [Rising] It is very kind of you.
FANNY: [Taking the lamp] Please excuse this inconvenience. We’re having a little trouble with our electricity. [Leading the way to the bedroom] This way, please. You’ll be comfortable and safe.
FINK: Good night, Miss Gonda. Don’t worry. We’ll stand by you.
KAY GONDA: Thank you. Good night. [She exits with FANNY into the bedroom. FINK lifts the window shade. A broad band of moonlight falls across the room. He starts clearing the couch of its load of junk. FANNY returns into the room, closing the door behind her]
FANNY: [In a low voice] Well, what do you think of that? [He stretches his arms wide, shrugging] And they say miracles don’t happen!
FINK: We’d better keep quiet. She may hear us. . . . [The band of light goes out in the crack of the bedroom door] How about the packing?
FANNY: Never mind the packing now. [He fishes for sheets and blankets in the cartons, throwing their contents out again. FANNY stands aside, by the window, watching him silently. Then, in a low voice:] Chuck . . .
FINK: Yes?
FANNY: In a few days, I’m going on trial. Me and eleven of the kids.
FINK: [Looking at her, surprised] Yeah.
FANNY: It’s no use fooling ourselves. They’ll send us all up.
FINK: I know they will.
FANNY: Unless we can get money to fight it.
FINK: Yeah. But we can’t. No use thinking about it. [A short silence. He continues with his work]
FANNY: [In a w
hisper] Chuck . . . do you think she can hear us?
FINK: [Looking at the bedroom door] No.
FANNY: It’s a murder that she’s committed.
FINK: Yeah.
FANNY: It’s a millionaire that she’s killed.
FINK: Right.
FANNY: I suppose his family would like to know where she is.
FINK: [Raising his head, looking at her] What are you talking about?
FANNY: I was thinking that if his family were told where she’s hiding, they’d be glad to pay a reward.
FINK: [Stepping menacingly toward her] You lousy . . . what are you trying to . . .
FANNY: [Without moving] Five thousand dollars, probably.
FINK: [Stopping] Huh?
FANNY: Five thousand dollars, probably.
FINK: You lousy bitch! Shut up before I kill you! [Silence. He starts to undress. Then:] Fanny . . .
FANNY: Yes?
FINK: Think they’d—hand over five thousand?
FANNY: Sure they would. People pay more than that for ordinary kidnappers.
FINK: Oh, shut up! [Silence. He continues to undress]
FANNY: It’s jail for me, Chuck. Months, maybe years in jail.
FINK: Yeah . . .
FANNY: And for the others, too. Bud, and Pinky, and Mary, and the rest. Your friends. Your comrades. [He stops his undressing] You need them. The cause needs them. Twelve of our vanguard.
FINK: Yes . . .
FANNY: With five thousand, we’d get the best lawyer from New York. He’d beat the case. . . . And we wouldn’t have to move out of here. We wouldn’t have to worry. You could continue your great work . . . [He does not answer] Think of all the poor and helpless who need you. . . . [He does not answer] Think of twelve human beings you’re sending to jail . . . twelve to one, Chuck. . . . [He does not answer] Think of your duty to millions of your brothers. Millions to one. [Silence]
FINK: Fanny . . .
FANNY: Yes?
FINK: How would we go about it?
FANNY: Easy. We get out while she’s asleep. We run to the police station. Come back with the cops. Easy.
FINK: What if she hears?
FANNY: She won’t hear. But we got to hurry. [She moves to the door. He stops her]
FINK: [In a whisper] She’ll hear the door opening. [Points to the open window] This way. . . .
[They slip out through the window. The room is empty for a brief moment. Then the bedroom door opens.
KAY GONDA stands on the threshold. She stands still for a moment, then walks across the room to the entrance door and goes out, leaving the door open]
CURTAIN
SCENE 3
The screen unrolls a letter written in a bold, aggressive handwriting:
Dear Miss Gonda,
I am an unknown artist. But I know to what heights I shall rise, for I carry a sacred banner which cannot fail—and which is you. I have painted nothing that was not you. You stand as a goddess on every canvas I’ve done. I have never seen you in person. I do not need to. I can draw your face with my eyes closed. For my spirit is but a mirror of yours.
Someday you shall hear men speak of me. Until then, this is only a first tribute from your devoted priest—
Dwight Langley
. . . Normandie Avenue
Los Angeles, California
Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals studio of DWIGHT LANGLEY. It is a large room, flashy, dramatic, and disreputable. Center back, large window showing the dark sky and the shadows of treetops; entrance door center Left; door into next room upstage Right. A profusion of paintings and sketches on the walls, on the easels, on the floor; all are of KAY GONDA; heads, full figures, in modern clothes, in flowering drapes, naked.
A mongrel assortment of strange types fills the room: men and women in all kinds of outfits, from tails and evening gowns to beach pajamas and slacks, none too prosperous-looking, all having one attribute in common—a glass in hand—and all showing signs of its effect.
DWIGHT LANGLEY lies stretched in the middle of a couch; he is young, with a tense, handsome, sunburnt face, dark, disheveled hair, and a haughty, irresistible smile. EUNICE HAMMOND keeps apart from the guests, her eyes returning constantly, anxiously, to LANGLEY; she is a beautiful young girl, quiet, reticent, dressed in a smart, simple dark dress obviously more expensive than any garment in the room.
As the curtain rises, the guests are lifting their glasses in a grand toast to LANGLEY, their voices piercing the raucous music coming over the radio.
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Here’s to Lanny!
MAN IN SWEATER: To Dwight Langley of California!
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: To the winner and the best of us—from the cheerful losers!
TRAGIC GENTLEMAN: To the greatest artist ever lived!
LANGLEY: [Rising, waving his hand curtly] Thanks.
[ALL drink. Someone drops a glass, breaking it resonantly. As LANGLEY steps aside from the others, EUNICE approaches him]
EUNICE: [Extending her glass to his, whispers softly] To the day we’ve dreamed of for such a long time, dear.
LANGLEY: [Turning to her indifferently] Oh . . . oh, yes . . . [Clinks glass to hers automatically, without looking at her]
WOMAN IN SLACKS: [Calling to her] No monopoly on him, Eunice. Not anymore. From now on—Dwight Langley belongs to the world!
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: Well, not that I mean to minimize Lanny’s triumph, but I must say that for the greatest exhibition of the decade, it was rather a fizz, wasn’t it? Two or three canvases with some idea of something, but the rest of the trash people have the nerve to exhibit these days . . .
EFFEMINATE YOUNG MAN: Dear me! It is positively preposterous!
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: But Lanny beat them all! First prize of the decade!
LANGLEY: [With no trace of modesty] Did it surprise you?
TRAGIC GENTLEMAN: Because Lanny’s a geniush!
EFFEMINATE YOUNG MAN: Oh, my yes! Positively a genius!
[LANGLEY walks over to a sideboard to refill his glass. EUNICE, standing beside him, slips her hand over his]
EUNICE: [In a low voice, tenderly] Dwight, I haven’t had a moment with you to congratulate you. And I do want to say it tonight. I’m too happy, too proud of you to know how to say it, but I want you to understand . . . my dearest . . . how much it means to me.
LANGLEY: [Jerking his hand away, indifferently] Thanks.
EUNICE: I can’t help thinking of the years past. Remember, how discouraged you were at times, and I talked to you about your future, and . . .
LANGLEY: You don’t have to bring that up now, do you?
EUNICE: [Trying to laugh] I shouldn’t. I know. Utterly bad form. [Breaking down involuntarily] But I can’t help it. I love you.
LANGLEY: I know it. [Walks away from her]
BLOND GIRL: [Sitting on the couch, next to the woman in slacks] Come here, Lanny! Hasn’t anyone got a chance with a real genius?
LANGLEY: [Flopping down on the couch, between the two girls] Hello.
WOMAN IN SLACKS: [Throwing her arms around his shoulders ] Langley, I can’t get over that canvas of yours. I still see it as it hung there tonight. The damn thing haunts me.
LANGLEY: [Patronizingly] Like it?
WOMAN IN SLACKS: Love it. You do get the damnedest titles, though. What was it called? Hope, faith, or charity? No. Wait a moment. Liberty, equality, or . . .
LANGLEY: Integrity.
WOMAN IN SLACKS: That’s it. “Integrity.” Just what did you really mean by it, darling?
LANGLEY: Don’t try to understand.
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: But the woman! The woman in your painting, Langley! Ah, that, my friend, is a masterpiece!
WOMAN IN SLACKS: That white face. And those eyes. Those eyes that look straight through you!
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: You know, of course, who she is?
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Kay Gonda, as usual.
MAN IN SWEATSHIRT: Say, Lanny, will you ever paint any other female? Why do y
ou always have to stick to that one?
LANGLEY: An artist tells. He does not explain.
WOMAN IN SLACKS: You know, there’s something damn funny about Gonda and that Sayers affair.
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: I bet she did it all right. Wouldn’t put it past her.
EFFEMINATE YOUNG MAN: Imagine Kay Gonda being hanged! The blond hair and the black hood and the noose. My, it would be perfectly thrilling!
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: There’s a new theme for you, Lanny. “Kay Gonda on the Gallows.”
LANGLEY: [Furiously] Shut up, all of you! She didn’t do it! I won’t have you discussing her in my house!
[The guests subside for a brief moment]
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Wonder how much Sayers actually left.
WOMAN IN SLACKS: The papers said he was just coming into a swell setup. A deal with United California Oil or some such big-time stuff. But I guess it’s off now.
MAN IN SWEATER: No, the evening papers said his sister is rushing the deal through.
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: But what’re the police doing? Have they issued any warrants?
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Nobody knows.
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: Damn funny. . . .
MAN IN SWEATER: Say, Eunice, any more drinks left in this house? No use asking Lanny. He never knows where anything is.
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: [Throwing his arm around EUNICE] The greatest little mother-sister-and-all-the-rest combination an artist ever had!”
[EUNICE disengages herself, not too brusquely, but obviously displeased]
EFFEMINATE YOUNG MAN: Do you know that Eunice darns his socks? Oh, my, yes! I’ve seen a pair. Positively the cutest things!
MAN IN SWEATER: The woman behind the throne! The woman who guided his footsteps, washed his shirts, and kept up his courage in his dark years of struggle.
