by Ayn Rand
KAY GONDA: Do we have to discuss that?
JOHNNIE: It’s something I must know. Did anyone see you kill him?
KAY GONDA: No.
JOHNNIE: Have the police got anything on you?
KAY GONDA: No. Except what I could tell them. But I will not tell it to them. Nor to you. Not now. Don’t question me.
JOHNNIE: How much is the reward on your head?
KAY GONDA: [After a pause, in a strange kind of voice] What did you say, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE: [Evenly] I said, how much is the reward on your head? [She stares at him] Never mind. [He walks to the door, throws it open, calls:] Mrs. Monaghan! Come here!
KAY GONDA: What are you doing? [He does not answer or look at her. MRS. MONAGHAN shuffles up the stairs and appears at the door]
MRS. MONAGHAN: [Angrily] What d’ye want?
JOHNNIE: Mrs. Monaghan, listen carefully. Go downstairs to your phone. Call the police. Tell them to come here at once. Tell them that Kay Gonda is here. You understand? Kay Gonda. Now hurry.
MRS. MONAGHAN: [Aghast] Yes, sir. . . . [Exits hurriedly]
[JOHNNIE closes the door, turns to KAY GONDA. She tries to dash for the door. The table is between them. He opens a drawer, pulls out a gun, points it at her]
JOHNNIE: Stand still. [She does not move. He backs to the door and locks it. She sags suddenly, still standing up]
KAY GONDA: [Without looking at him, in a flat, lifeless voice] Put it away. I will not try to escape. [He slips the gun into his pocket and stands leaning against the door. She sits down, her back turned to him]
JOHNNIE: [Quietly] We have about three minutes left. I am thinking now that nothing has happened to us and nothing will happen. The world stopped a minute ago and in three minutes it will go on again. But this—this pause is ours. You’re here. I look at you. I’ve seen your eyes—and all the truth that man has ever sought. [Her head falls down on her arms] There are no other men on earth right now. Just you and I. There’s nothing but a world in which you live. To breathe for once that air, to move in it, to hear my own voice on waves that touch no ugliness, no pain . . . I’ve never known gratitude. But now, of all the words I’d like to say to you, I’ll say just three: I thank you. When you leave, remember I have thanked you. Remember—no matter what may happen in this room. . . . [She buries her head in her arms. He stands silently, his head thrown back, his eyes closed]
[Hurried steps are heard rising up the stairs. JOHNNIE and KAY GONDA do not move. There is a violent knock at the door. JOHNNIE turns, unlocks the door, and opens it. A police CAPTAIN enters, followed by two POLICEMEN . KAY GONDA rises, facing them]
CAPTAIN: Jesus Christ! [They stare at her, aghast]
POLICEMAN: And I thought it was another crank calling!
CAPTAIN: Miss Gonda, I’m sure glad to see you. We’ve been driven crazy with . . .
KAY GONDA: Take me away from here. Anywhere you wish.
CAPTAIN: [Making a step toward her] Well, we have no . . .
JOHNNIE: [In a quiet voice which is such an implacable command that all turn to him] Stay away from her. [The CAPTAIN stops. JOHNNIE motions to a POLICEMAN and points to the table] Sit down. Take a pencil and paper. [The POLICEMAN looks at the CAPTAIN, who nods, baffled. The POLICEMAN obeys] Now write this: [Dictates slowly, his voice precise, emotionless] I, John Dawes, confess that on the night of May fifth, willfully and with premeditation, I killed Granton Sayers of Santa Barbara, California. [KAY GONDA takes a deep breath, which is almost a gasp] I have been absent from my home for the last three nights, as my landlady, Mrs. Sheila Monaghan, can testify. She can further testify that I was dismissed from my job at the Alhambra Hotel on May third. [KAY GONDA starts laughing suddenly. It is the lightest, happiest laughter in the world] I had worked for Granton Sayers a year ago, at the Greendale Golf Club of Santa Barbara. Being jobless and broke, I went to Granton Sayers on the evening of May fifth, determined to extort money from him through blackmail, under threat of divulging certain information I possessed. He refused my demands even at the point of a gun. I shot him. I disposed of the gun by throwing it into the ocean on my way back from Santa Barbara. I was alone in committing this crime. No other person was or is to be implicated. [Adds] Have you got it all? Give it to me. [The POLICEMAN hands the confession to him. JOHNNIE signs it]
CAPTAIN: [He cannot quite collect his wits] Miss Gonda, what have you got to say about this?
KAY GONDA: [Hysterically] Don’t ask me! Not now! Don’t speak to me!
JOHNNIE: [Hands the confession to the CAPTAIN] You will please let Miss Gonda depart now.
CAPTAIN: Wait a minute, my boy. Not so fast. There’s a lot of explaining you have to do yet. How did you get into the Sayers house? How did you leave it?
JOHNNIE: I have told you all I’m going to tell.
CAPTAIN: What time was it when you did the shooting? And what is Miss Gonda doing here?
JOHNNIE: You know all you have to know. You know enough not to implicate Miss Gonda. You have my confession.
CAPTAIN: Sure. But you’ll have to prove it.
JOHNNIE: It will stand—even if I do not choose to prove it. Particularly if I am not here to prove it.
CAPTAIN: Gonna be tough, eh? Well, you’ll talk at headquarters all right. Come on, boys.
KAY GONDA: [Stepping forward] Wait! You must listen to me now. I have a statement to make. I . . .
JOHNNIE: [Steps back, pulls the gun out of his pocket, covering the group] Stand still, all of you. [To KAY GONDA] Don’t move. Don’t say a word.
KAY GONDA: Johnnie! You don’t know what you’re doing! Wait, my dearest! Put that gun down.
JOHNNIE: [Without lowering the gun, smiles at her] I heard it. Thank you.
KAY GONDA: I’ll tell you everything! You don’t know! I’m safe!
JOHNNIE: I know you’re safe. You will be. Step back. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt anyone. [She obeys] I want you all to look at me. Years from now you can tell your grandchildren about it. You are looking at something you will never see again and they will never see—a man who is perfectly happy! [Points the gun at himself, fires, falls]
CURTAIN
SCENE 4
Entrance hall in the residence of KAY GONDA. It is high, bare, modern in its austere simplicity. There is no furniture, no ornaments of any kind. The upper part of the hall is a long raised platform, dividing the room horizontally, and three broad continuous steps lead down from it to the foreground. Tall, square columns rise at the upper edge of the steps. Door into the rest of the house downstage in wall Left. The entire back wall is of wide glass panes, with an entrance door in the center.
Beyond the house, there is a narrow path among jagged rocks, a thin strip of the high coast with a broad view of the ocean beyond and of a flaming sunset sky. The hall is dim. There is no light, save the glow of the sunset.
At curtain rise, MICK WATTS is sitting on the top step, leaning down toward a dignified BUTLER who sits on the floor below, stiff, upright, and uncomfortable holding a tray with a full highball glass on it. MICK WATTS’ shirt collar is torn open, his tie hanging loose, his hair disheveled. He is clutching a newspaper ferociously. He is sober.
MICK WATTS: [Continuing a discourse that has obviously been going on for some time, speaking in an even, expressionless monotone, his manner earnest, confidential] . . . and so the king called them all before his throne and he said: “I’m weary and sick of it. I am tired of my kingdom where not a single man is worth ruling. I am tired of my lusterless crown, for it does not reflect a single flame of glory anywhere in my land.” . . . You see, he was a very foolish king. Some scream it, like he did, and squash their damn brains out against a wall. Others stagger on, like a dog chasing a shadow, knowing damn well that there is no shadow to chase, but still going on, their hearts empty and their paws bleeding. . . . So the king said to them on his deathbed—oh, this was another time, he was on his deathbed this time—he said: “It is the end, but I am still hoping. There is no end. Ever shall I go on hoping . . . ev
er . . . ever.” [Looks suddenly at the BUTLER, as if noticing him for the first time, and asks in an entirely different voice, pointing at him:] What the hell are you doing here?
BUTLER: [Rising] May I observe, sir, that you have been speaking for an hour and a quarter?
MICK WATTS: Have I?
BUTLER: You have, sir. So, if I may be forgiven, I took the liberty of sitting down.
MICK WATTS: [Surprised] Fancy, you were here all the time!
BUTLER: Yes, sir.
MICK WATTS: Well, what did you want here in the first place?
BUTLER: [Extending the tray] Your whiskey, sir.
MICK WATTS: Oh! [Reaches for the glass, but stops, jerks the crumpled newspaper at the BUTLER, asks:] Have you read this?
BUTLER: Yes, sir.
MICK WATTS: [Knocking the tray aside; it falls, breaking the glass] Go to hell! I don’t want any whiskey!
BUTLER: But you ordered it, sir.
MICK WATTS: Go to hell just the same! [As the BUTLER bends to pick up the tray] Get out of here! Never mind! Get out! I don’t want to see any human snoot tonight!
BUTLER: Yes, sir. [Exits Left]
[MICK WATTS straightens the paper out, looks at it, crumples it viciously again. Hears steps approaching outside and whirls about. FREDERICA SAYERS is seen outside, walking hurriedly toward the door; she has a newspaper in her hand. MICK WATTS walks to door and opens it, before she has time to ring]
MISS SAYERS: Good evening.
[He does not answer, lets her enter, closes the door and stands silently, looking at her. She looks around, then at him, somewhat disconcerted]
MICK WATTS: [Without moving] Well?
MISS SAYERS: Is this the residence of Miss Kay Gonda?
MICK WATTS: It is.
MISS SAYERS: May I see Miss Gonda?
MICK WATTS: No.
MISS SAYERS: I am Miss Sayers. Miss Frederica Sayers.
MICK WATTS: I don’t care.
MISS SAYERS: Will you please tell Miss Gonda that I am here? If she is at home.
MICK WATTS: She is not.
MISS SAYERS: When do you expect her back?
MICK WATTS: I don’t expect her.
MISS SAYERS: My good man, this is getting to be preposterous!
MICK WATTS: It is. You’d better get out of here.
MISS SAYERS: Sir?!
MICK WATTS: She’ll be back any minute. I know she will. And there’s nothing to talk about now.
MISS SAYERS: My good man, do you realize . . .
MICK WATTS: I realize everything that you realize, and then some. And I’m telling you there’s nothing to be done. Don’t bother her now.
MISS SAYERS: May I ask who you are and what you’re talking about?
MICK WATTS: Who I am doesn’t matter. I’m talking about—[Extends the newspaper]—this.
MISS SAYERS: Yes, I’ve read it, and I must say it is utterly bewildering and . . .
MICK WATTS: Bewildering? Hell, it’s monstrous! You don’t know the half of it! . . . [Catching himself, adds flatly] I don’t, either.
MISS SAYERS: Look here, I must get to the bottom of this thing. It will go too far and . . .
MICK WATTS: It has gone too far.
MISS SAYERS: Then I must . . .
[KAY GONDA enters from the outside. She is dressed as in all the preceding scenes. She is calm, but very tired]
MICK WATTS: So here you are! I knew you’d be back now!
KAY GONDA: [In a quiet, even voice] Good evening, Miss Sayers.
MISS SAYERS: Miss Gonda, this is the first sigh of relief I’ve breathed in two days! I never thought the time should come when I’d be so glad to see you! But you must understand . . .
KAY GONDA: [Indifferently] I know.
MISS SAYERS: You must understand that I could not foresee the astounding turn of events. It was most kind of you to go into hiding, but, really, you did not have to hide from me.
KAY GONDA: I was not hiding from anyone.
MISS SAYERS: But where were you?
KAY GONDA: Away. It had nothing to do with Mr. Sayers’ death.
MISS SAYERS: But when you heard those preposterous rumors accusing you of his murder, you should have come to me at once! When I asked you, at the house that night, not to disclose to anyone the manner of my brother’s death, I had no way of knowing what suspicions would arise. I tried my best to get in touch with you. Please believe me that I did not start those rumors.
KAY GONDA: I never thought you did.
MISS SAYERS: I wonder who started them.
KAY GONDA: I wonder.
MISS SAYERS: I do owe you an apology. I’m sure you felt it was my duty to disclose the truth at once, but you know why I had to keep silent. However, the deal is closed, and I thought it best to come to you first and tell you that I’m free to speak now.
KAY GONDA: [Indifferently] It was very kind of you.
MISS SAYERS: [Turning to MICK WATTS] Young man, you can tell that ridiculous studio of yours that Miss Gonda did not murder my brother. Tell them they can read his suicide letter in tomorrow’s papers. He wrote that he had no desire to struggle any longer, since his business was ruined and since the only woman he’d ever loved had, that night, refused to marry him.
KAY GONDA: I’m sorry, Miss Sayers.
MISS SAYERS: This is not a reproach, Miss Gonda. [To MICK WATTS] The Santa Barbara police knew everything, but promised me silence. I had to keep my brother’s suicide secret for a while, because I was negotiating a merger with . . .
MICK WATTS: . . . with United California Oil, and you didn’t want them to know the desperate state of the Sayers Company. Very smart. Now you’ve closed the deal and gypped United California. My congratulations.
MISS SAYERS: [Aghast, to KAY GONDA] This peculiar gentleman knew it all?
MICK WATTS: So it seems, doesn’t it?
MISS SAYERS: Then, in heaven’s name, why did you allow everybody to suspect Miss Gonda?
KAY GONDA: Don’t you think it best, Miss Sayers, not to discuss this any further? It’s done. It’s past. Let’s leave it at that.
MISS SAYERS: As you wish. There is just one question I would like to ask you. It baffles me completely. I thought perhaps you may know something about it. [Points at the newspaper] This. That incredible story . . . that boy I’ve never heard of, killing himself . . . that insane confession. . . . What does it mean?
KAY GONDA: [Evenly] I don’t know.
MICK WATTS: Huh?
KAY GONDA: I have never heard of him before.
MISS SAYERS: Then I can explain it only as the act of a crank, an abnormal mind . . .
KAY GONDA: Yes, Miss Sayers. A mind that was not normal.
MISS SAYERS: [After a pause] Well if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gonda, I shall wish you good night. I shall give my statement to the papers immediately and clear your name completely.
KAY GONDA: Thank you, Miss Sayers. Good night.
MISS SAYERS: [Turning at the door] I wish you luck with whatever it is you’re doing. You have been most courteous in this unfortunate matter. Allow me to thank you.
[KAY GONDA bows. MISS SAYERS exits]
MICK WATTS: [Ferociously] Well?
KAY GONDA: Would you mind going home, Mick? I am very tired.
MICK WATTS: I hope you’ve . . .
KAY GONDA: Telephone the studio on your way. Tell them that I will sign the contract tomorrow.
MICK WATTS: I hope you’ve had a good time! I hope you’ve enjoyed it! But I’m through!
KAY GONDA: I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow at nine.
MICK WATTS: I’m through! God, I wish I could quit!
KAY GONDA: You know that you will never quit, Mick.
MICK WATTS: That’s the hell of it! That you know it, too! Why do I serve you like a dog and will go on serving you like a dog for the rest of my days? Why can’t I resist any crazy whim of yours? Why did I have to go and spread rumors about a murder you never committed? Just because you wanted to find out something? Well, ha
ve you found it out?
KAY GONDA: Yes.
MICK WATTS: What have you found out?
KAY GONDA: How many people saw my last picture? Do you remember those figures?
MICK WATTS: Seventy-five million, six hundred thousand, three hundred and twelve.
KAY GONDA: Well, Mick, seventy-five million, six hundred thousand people hate me. They hate me in their hearts for the things they see in me, the things they have betrayed. I mean nothing to them, except a reproach. . . . But there are three hundred and twelve others—perhaps only the twelve. There are a few who want the highest possible and will take nothing less and will not live on any other terms. . . . It is with them that I am signing a contract tomorrow. We can’t give up the earth to all those others.
MICK WATTS: [Holding out the newspaper] And what about this?
KAY GONDA: I’ve answered you.
MICK WATTS: But you are a murderess, Kay Gonda! You killed that boy!
KAY GONDA: No, Mick, not I alone.
MICK WATTS: But the poor fool thought that he had to save your life!
KAY GONDA: He has.
MICK WATTS: What?!
KAY GONDA: He wanted to die that I may live. He did just that.
MICK WATTS: But don’t you realize what you’ve done?
KAY GONDA: [Slowly, looking past him] That, Mick, was the kindest thing I have ever done.
CURTAIN
Part III,
THE LATE THIRTIES
Think Twice
1939
Editor’s Preface
The Depression years in New York City (to which she moved in 1934) were a difficult financial struggle for Ayn Rand: she lived on the earnings from Night of January 16th and from a series of jobs she held as reader for various movie companies. She wrote when she could find the time. Nevertheless, the work moved ahead. In 1935, she began making notes for The Fountainhead and planning the architectural research that it would require. Realizing that the novel would be a long-term project, she interrupted it several times to do shorter pieces. In 1937, she wrote the novelette Anthem (published separately by New American Library). In 1939, she wrote a stage adaptation of We the Living, produced on Broadway under the title of The Unconquered (it was not successful). In the same year, she wrote her third and last original stage play, the philosophical murder mystery Think Twice. It has never been produced.
