by Ayn Rand
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: [To the WOMAN IN SLACKS, in a low voice] Kept up his courage—and his bank account.
WOMAN IN SLACKS: No. Really?
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: My dear, it’s no secret. Where do you suppose the money came from for the “dark years of struggle”? The Hammond millions. Not that old man Hammond didn’t kick her out of the house. He did. But she had some money of her own.
EFFEMINATE YOUNG MAN: Oh, my yes. The Social Register dropped her, too. But she didn’t care one bit, not one bit.
MAN IN SWEATER: [To EUNICE] How about it, Eunice? Where are the drinks?
EUNICE: [Hesitating] I’m afraid . . .
LANGLEY: [Rising] She’s afraid she doesn’t approve. But we’re going to drink whether she approves of it or not. [Searches through the cupboards frantically]
WOMAN IN SLACKS: Really, folks, it’s getting late and . . .
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Oh, just one more drink, and we’ll all toddle home.
LANGLEY: Hey, Eunice, where’s the gin?
EUNICE: [Opening a cabinet and producing two bottles, quietly] Here.
MAN IN SWEATER: Hurrah! Wait for baby!
[There is a general rush to the bottles]
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: Just one last drink and we’ll scram. Hey everybody! Another toast. To Dwight Langley and Eunice Hammond!
EUNICE: To Dwight Langley and his future!
[All roar approval and drink]
EVERYONE: [Roaring at once] Speech, Lanny! . . . Yes! . . . Come on, Lanny! . . . Speech! . . . Come on!
LANGLEY: [Climbs up on a chair, stands a little unsteadily, speaks with a kind of tortured sincerity] The bitterest moment of an artist’s life is the moment of his triumph. The artist is but a bugle calling to a battle no one wants to fight. The world does not see and does not want to see. The artist begs men to throw the doors of their lives open to grandeur and beauty, but those doors will remain closed forever . . . forever . . . [Is about to add something, but drops his hand in a gesture of hopelessness and ends in a tone of quiet sadness] . . . forever. . . . [Applause. The general noise is cut short by a knock at the door. LANGLEY jumps off his chair] Come in!
[The door opens, disclosing an irate LANDLADY in a soiled Chinese kimono]
LANDLADY: [In a shrill whine] Mr. Langley, this noise will have to stop! Don’t you know what time it is?
LANGLEY: Get out of here!
LANDLADY: The lady in 315 says she’ll call the police! The gentleman in . . .
LANGLEY: You heard me! Get out! Think I have to stay in a lousy dump like this?
EUNICE: Dwight! [To LANDLADY] We’ll keep quiet, Mrs. Johnson.
LANDLADY: Well, you’d better! [She exits angrily]
EUNICE: Really, Dwight, we shouldn’t . . .
LANGLEY: Oh, leave me alone! No one’s going to tell me what to do from now on!
EUNICE: But I only . . .
LANGLEY: You’re turning into a damnable, nagging, middle-class female!
[EUNICE stares at him, frozen]
WOMAN IN SLACKS: Going a bit too far, Langley!
LANGLEY: I’m sick and tired of people who can’t outgrow their possessiveness! You know the hypocritical trick—the chains of gratitude!
EUNICE: Dwight! You don’t think that I . . .
LANGLEY: I know damn well what you think! Think you’ve bought me, don’t you? Think you own me for the rest of my life in exchange for some grocery bills?
EUNICE: What did you say? [Screaming suddenly] I didn’t hear you right!
MAN IN SWEATER: Look here, Langley, take it easy, you don’t know what you’re saying, you’re . . .
LANGLEY: [Pushing him aside] Go to hell! You can all go to hell if you don’t like it! [To EUNICE] And as for you . . .
EUNICE: Dwight . . . please . . . not now . . .
LANGLEY: Yes! Right here and now! I want them all to hear! [To the guests] So you think I can’t get along without her? I’ll show you! I’m through! [To EUNICE] Do you hear that? I’m through! [EUNICE stands motionless ] I’m free! I’m going to rise in the world! I’m going places none of you ever dreamed of! I’m ready to meet the only woman I’ve ever wanted—Kay Gonda! I’ve waited all these years for the day when I would meet her! That’s all I’ve lived for! And no one’s going to stand in my way!
EUNICE: [She walks to door Left, picks up her hat and coat from a pile of clothing in a corner, turns to him again, quietly] Goodbye, Dwight . . . [Exits]
[There is a second of strained silence in the room: the WOMAN IN SLACKS is the first one to move; she goes to pick up her coat, then turns to LANGLEY]
WOMAN IN SLACKS: I thought you had just done a painting called “Integrity.”
LANGLEY: If that was intended for a dirty crack . . . [The WOMAN IN SLACKS exits, slamming the door] Well, go to hell! [To the others] Get out of here! All of you! Get out!
[There is a general shuffle for hats and coats]
WOMAN IN EVENING GOWN: Well, if we’re being kicked out . . .
MAN IN DRESS SUIT: That’s all right. Lanny’s a bit upset.
LANGLEY: [Somewhat gentler] I’m sorry. I thank you all. But I want to be alone. [The guests are leaving, waving halfhearted goodbyes]
BLOND GIRL: [She is one of the last to leave. She hesitates, whispering tentatively:] Lanny . . .
LANGLEY: Out! All of you! [She exits. The stage is empty but for LANGLEY surveying dazedly the havoc of his studio. There is a knock at the door] Out, I said! Don’t want any of you! [The knock is repeated. He walks to the door, throws it open. KAY GONDA enters. She stands looking at him without a word. He asks impatiently:] Well? [She does not answer] What do you want?
KAY GONDA: Are you Dwight Langley?
LANGLEY: Yes.
KAY GONDA: I need your help.
LANGLEY: What’s the matter?
KAY GONDA: Don’t you know?
LANGLEY: How should I know? Just who are you?
KAY GONDA: [After a pause] Kay Gonda.
LANGLEY: [Looks at her and bursts out laughing] So? Not Helen of Troy? Nor Madame Du Barry? [She looks at him silently] Come on, out with it. What’s the gag?
KAY GONDA: Don’t you know me?
LANGLEY: [Looks her over contemptuously, his hands in his pockets, grinning] Well, you do look like Kay Gonda. So does her stand-in. So do dozens of extra girls in Hollywood. What is it you’re after? I can’t get you into pictures, my girl. I’m not even the kind to promise you a screen test. Drop the racket. Who are you?
KAY GONDA: Don’t you understand? I am in danger. I have to hide. Please let me stay here for the night.
LANGLEY: What do you think this is? A flop house?
KAY GONDA: I have no place to go.
LANGLEY: That’s an old one in Hollywood.
KAY GONDA: They will not look for me here.
LANGLEY: Who?
KAY GONDA: The police.
LANGLEY: Really? And why would Kay Gonda pick my house to hide in of all places? [She starts to open her handbag, but closes it again and says nothing] How do I know you’re Kay Gonda? Have you any proof?
KAY GONDA: None, but the honesty of your vision.
LANGLEY: Oh, cut the tripe! What are you after? Taking me for a . . . [There is a loud knock at the door] What’s this? A frame-up? [Walks to door and throws it open. A uniformed POLICEMAN enters. KAY GONDA turns away quickly, her back to the others]
POLICEMAN: [Good-naturedly] ’Evening. [Looking about him, helplessly] Where’s the drunken party we got a complaint about?
LANGLEY: Of all the nerve! There’s no party, officer. I had a few friends here, but they left long ago.
POLICEMAN: [Looking at KAY GONDA with some curiosity] Between you and me, it’s a lotta cranks that call up complaining about noise. As I see it, there’s no harm in young people having a little fun.
LANGLEY: [Watching curiously the POLICEMAN’s reaction to KAY GONDA] We really weren’t disturbing anyone. I’m sure there’s nothing you want here, is there, officer?
POLICEMAN: No, s
ir. Sorry to have bothered you.
LANGLEY: We are really alone here—[Points to KAY GONDA]—this lady and I. But you’re welcome to look around.
POLICEMAN: Why, no, sir. No need to. Good night. [Exits]
LANGLEY: [Waits to hear his steps descending the stairs. Then turns to KAY GONDA and bursts out laughing] That gave the show away, didn’t it, my girl?
KAY GONDA: What?
LANGLEY: The cop. If you were Kay Gonda and if the police were looking for you, wouldn’t he have grabbed you?
KAY GONDA: He did not see my face.
LANGLEY: He would have looked. Come on, what kind of racket are you really working?
KAY GONDA: [Stepping up to him, in full light] Dwight Langley! Look at me! Look at all these pictures of me that you’ve painted! Don’t you know me? You’ve lived with me in your hours of work, your best hours. Were you lying in those hours?
LANGLEY: Kindly leave my art out of it. My art has nothing to do with your life or mine.
KAY GONDA: Of what account is an art that preaches things it does not want to exist?
LANGLEY: [Solemnly] Listen. Kay Gonda is the symbol of all the beauty I bring to the world, a beauty we can never reach. We can only sing of her, who is the unattainable. That is the mission of the artist. We can only strive, but never succeed. Attempt, but never achieve. That is our tragedy, but our hopelessness is our glory. Get out of here!
KAY GONDA: I need your help.
LANGLEY: Get out!!
[Her arms fall limply. She turns and walks out. DWIGHT LANGLEY slams the door]
CURTAIN
Act II
SCENE 1
The letter projected on the screen is written in an ornate, old-fashioned handwriting: Dear Miss Gonda,
Some may call this letter a sacrilege. But as I write it, I do not feel like a sinner. For when I look at you on the screen, it seems to me that we are working for the same cause, you and I. This may surprise you, for I am only a humble Evangelist. But when I speak to men about the sacred meaning of life, I feel that you hold the same Truth which my words struggle in vain to disclose. We are traveling different roads, Miss Gonda, but we are bound to the same destination.
Respectfully yours,
Claude Ignatius Hix
. . . Slosson Blvd.
Los Angeles, California
Lights go out, screen disappears. When the curtain rises on the temple of CLAUDE IGNATIUS HIX, the stage is almost completely black. Nothing can be seen of the room save the dim outline of a door, downstage Right, open upon a dark street. A small cross of electric lights burns high on wall Center. It throws just enough light to show the face and shoulders of CLAUDE IGNATIUS HIX high above the ground (He is standing in the pulpit, but this cannot be distinguished in the darkness). He is tall, gaunt, clothed in black; his hair is receding off a high forehead. His hands rise eloquently as he speaks into the darkness.
HIX: . . . but even in the blackest one of us, there is a spark of the sublime, a single drop in the desert of every barren soul. And all the suffering of men, all the twisted agonies of their lives, come from their treason to that hidden flame. All commit the treason, and none can escape the payment. None can . . . [Someone sneezes loudly in the darkness, by the door Right. HIX stops short, calls in a startled voice:] Who’s there?
[He presses a switch that lights two tall electric tapers by the sides of his pulpit. We can now see the temple. It is a long, narrow barn with bare rafters and unpainted walls. There are no windows and only a single door. Rows of old wooden benches fill the room, facing the pulpit]
[SISTER ESSIE TWOMEY stands downstage Right, by the door. She is a short, plump woman nearing forty, with bleached blond hair falling in curls on her shoulders, from under the brim of a large pink picture hat trimmed with lilies-of-the-valley. Her stocky little figure is draped in the long folds of a sky blue cape]
ESSIE TWOMEY: [She raises her right arm solemnly] Praise the Lord! Good evening, Brother Hix. Keep going. Don’t let me interrupt you.
HIX: [Startled and angry] You? What are you doing here?
ESSIE TWOMEY: I heard you way from the street—it’s a blessed voice you have, though you don’t control your belly tones properly—and I didn’t want to intrude. I just slipped in.
HIX: [Icily] And of what service may I be to you?
ESSIE TWOMEY: Go ahead with the rehearsal. It’s an inspiring sermon you have there, a peach of a sermon. Though a bit on the old-fashioned side. Not modern enough, Brother Hix. That’s not the way I do it.
HIX: I do not recall having solicited advice, Sister Twomey, and I should like to inquire for the reason of this sudden visitation.
ESSIE TWOMEY: Praise the Lord! I’m a harbinger of good news. Yes, indeed. I got a corker for you.
HIX: I shall point out that we have never had any matters of common interest.
ESSIE TWOMEY: Verily, Brother Hix. You smacked the nail right on the head. That’s why you’ll be overjoyed at the proposition. [Settling herself comfortably down on a bench] It’s like this, brother: there’s no room in this neighborhood for you and me both.
HIX: Sister Twomey, these are the first words of truth I have ever heard emerging from your mouth.
ESSIE TWOMEY: The poor dear souls in these parts are heavily laden, indeed. They cannot support two temples. Why, the mangy bums haven’t got enough to feed the fleas on a dog!
HIX: Dare I believe, sister, that your conscience has spoken at last, and you are prepared to leave this neighborhood?
ESSIE TWOMEY: Who? Me leave this neighborhood? [Solemnly ] Why, Brother Hix, you have no idea of the blessed work my temple is doing. The lost souls milling at its portals—praise the Lord! . . . [Sharply] No, brother, keep your shirt on. I’m going to buy you out.
HIX: What?!
ESSIE TWOMEY: Not that I really have to. You’re no competition. But I thought I might as well clear it up once and for all. I want this territory.
HIX: [Beside himself] You had the infernal presumption to suppose that the Temple of Eternal Truth was for sale?
ESSIE TWOMEY: Now, now, Brother Hix, let’s be modern. That’s no way to talk business. Just look at the facts. You’re washed up here, brother.
HIX: I will have you understand . . .
ESSIE TWOMEY: What kind of a draw do you get? Thirty or fifty heads on a big night. Look at me. Two thousand souls every evening, seeking the glory of God! Two thousand noses, actual count! I’m putting on a Midnight Service tonight—“The Night Life of the Angels”—and I’m expecting three thousand.
HIX: [Drawing himself up] There come moments in a man’s life when he is sorely pressed to remember the lesson of charity to all. I have no wish to insult you. But I have always considered you a tool of the Devil. My temple has stood in this neighborhood for . . .
ESSIE TWOMEY: I know. For twenty years. But times change, brother. You haven’t got what it takes anymore. You’re still in the horse-and-buggy age—praise the Lord!
HIX: The faith of my fathers is good enough for me.
ESSIE TWOMEY: Maybe so, brother, maybe so. But not for the customers. Now, for instance, take the name of your place: “Temple of Eternal Truth.” Folks don’t go for that nowadays. What have I got? “The Little Church of the Cheery Corner.” That draws ’em, brother. Like flies.
HIX: I do not wish to discuss it.
ESSIE TWOMEY: Look at what you were just rehearsing here. That’ll put ’em to sleep. Verily. You can’t hand out that line anymore. Now take my last sermon—“The Service Station of the Spirit.” There’s a lesson for you, brother! I had a whole service station built—[Rises, walks to pulpit]—right there, behind my pulpit. Tall pumps, glass and gold, labeled “Purity,” “Prayer,” “Prayer with Faith Super-Mixture.” And young boys in white uniforms—good-lookers, every one of ’em!—with gold wings, and caps inscribed “Creed Oil, Inc.” Clever, eh?
HIX: It’s a sacrilege!
ESSIE TWOMEY: [Stepping up on the pulpit] And the pulpit here was—[Lo
oks at her fingers]—hm, dust, Brother Hix. Bad business! . . . And the pulpit was made up like a gold automobile. [Greatly inspired] Then I preached to my flock that when you travel the hard road of life, you must be sure that your tank is filled with the best gas of Faith, that your tires are inflated with the air of Charity, that your radiator is cooled with the sweet water of Temperance, that your battery is charged with the power of Righteousness, and that you beware of treacherous Detours which lead to perdition! [In her normal voice] Boy, did that wow ’em! Praise the Lord! It brought the house down! And we had no trouble at all when we passed the collection box made up in the shape of a gasoline can!
HIX: [With controlled fury] Sister Twomey, you will please step down from my pulpit!
ESSIE TWOMEY: [Coming down] Well, brother, to make a long story short, I’ll give you five hundred bucks and you can move your junk out.
HIX: Five hundred dollars for the Temple of Eternal Truth?
ESSIE TWOMEY: Well, what’s the matter with five hundred dollars? It’s a lot of money. You can buy a good secondhand car for five hundred dollars.
HIX: Never, in twenty years, have I shown the door to anyone in this temple. But I am doing it now. [He points to the door]
ESSIE TWOMEY: [Shrugging] Well, have it your own way, brother. They have eyes, but they see not! . . . I should worry, by Jesus! [Raising her arm] Praise the Lord! [Exits]
[The minute she is out, EZRY’s head comes peering cautiously from behind the door. EZRY is a lanky, gangling youth, far from bright]
EZRY: [Calls in a whisper] Oh, Brother Hix!
HIX: [Startled] Ezry! What are you doing there? Come in.
EZRY: [Enters, awed] Gee, it was better’n a movie show!
HIX: Have you been listening?
EZRY: Gee! Was that Sister Essie Twomey?
HIX: Yes, Ezry, it was Sister Essie Twomey. Now you mustn’t tell anyone about what you heard here.
EZRY: No, sir. Cross my heart, Brother Hix. [Looking at the door with admiration] My, but Sister Twomey talks pretty!
