by Ayn Rand
Think Twice, written five years later than Ideal, is finished, mature work, in all major respects characteristic of the author of The Fountainhead. It is the only such piece in the present collection. (Red Pawn is an unedited scenario, and Ideal is not fully representative.) The theme is the distinctive Ayn Rand approach to ethics: the evil of altruism, and the need of man to live an independent, egoistic existence. The hero, who now has primacy over the heroine, is a completely recognizable Ayn Rand type. The plot, fast-moving and logical, has an ingenious twist; the story presents an altruist who, acting on his ideas, specializes in seeking power over others, thereby giving them compelling reasons to want to kill him. (The Russian character was originally a German Nazi; in the 1950s, Miss Rand updated the play, turning him into a Communist.) The style is smoothly assured; the mechanics of alibis, motives, and clues are deftly handled; and the writing displays Ayn Rand’s clarity, her sense of drama, her intellectual wit. There is even the first sign of the science-fiction element which, years later, would become John Galt’s motor in Atlas Shrugged.
One of Ayn Rand’s most impressive literary skills, brilliantly demonstrated in her novels, is her ability to integrate theme and plot. That ability is evidenced in Think Twice—in the union of philosophy and murder mystery. This is not a routine murder story, with some abstract talk thrown in for effect. Nor is it a drawing-room discussion interrupted now and again by some unrelated events. The play is a union of thought and action: the philosophic ideas of the characters actually motivate and explain their actions, which in turn concretize and demonstrate the philosophic point, and acquire significance because of it. The result is a seamless blend of depth and excitement, at once art and entertainment.
A decade later, in her journal of August 28, 1949, Ayn Rand wrote the following:The idea that “art” and “entertainment” are opposites, that art is serious and dull, while entertainment is empty and stupid, but enjoyable—is the result of the nonhuman, altruistic morality. That which is good [in this view] must be unpleasant. That which is enjoyable is sinful. Pleasure is an indulgence of a low order, to be apologized for. The serious is the performance of a duty, unpleasant and, therefore, uplifting. If a work of art examines life seriously, it must necessarily be unpleasant and unexciting, because such is the nature of life for man. An entertaining, enjoyable play cannot possibly be true to the deeper essence of life, it must be superficial, since life is not to be enjoyed.
It is unlikely that Miss Rand had her early work in mind when she wrote these words, but the present piece does illustrate her point. Think Twice is an entertaining, enjoyable play that is true to the deeper essence of life.
I first read the play in the 1950s, with Miss Rand present, asking me now and then who I thought the murderer was. I guessed just about every possibility, except the right one. Each time, Miss Rand beamed and said: “Think twice.” When I finished, she told me that anyone who knew her and her philosophy should have been able to guess right away. She could not, she went on, ever write a series of mysteries, because everyone would know who the murderers were. “How?” I asked.
Now see if you can guess the murderer. After the play, I will quote her answer.
—L. P.
Think Twice
CHARACTERS
WALTER BRECKENRIDGE
CURTISS
SERGE SOOKIN
HARVEY FLEMING
TONY GODDARD
STEVE INGALLS
BILLY BRECKENRIDGE
FLASH KOZINSKY
ADRIENNE KNOWLAND
HELEN BRECKENRIDGE
GREGORY HASTINGS
DIXON
Place Living room of a home in Connecticut
Time Act I, Scene 1—Afternoon of July 3rd
Act I, Scene 2—That evening
Act II, Scene 1—Half an hour later
Act II, Scene 2—Next morning
Act I
SCENE 1
Afternoon of July 3rd. The living room of a home in Connecticut. A large room, not offensively wealthy, but evidencing both money and an unsuccessful attempt at good taste. The room is stately and Colonial—too deliberately so. Everything is brand-new, resplendently unused; one expects to see price tags on the furniture.
Large French windows, Center, opening upon a lovely view of the grounds with a lake in the distance, a view marred only by a dismal, gray sky. Stairway, Stage Right, leading to a door, and another door downstage, leading to the rest of the ground floor. Entrance door upstage Left. Downstage Left an unused fireplace, with logs stacked neatly, and above the fireplace—a large portrait of WALTER BRECKENRIDGE.
At curtain rise, WALTER BRECKENRIDGE stands alone in front of the fireplace. He is a stately, gray-haired man of fifty, who looks like a saint; a very “human” saint, however: benevolent, dignified, humorous, and a little portly. He stands, looking up at the portrait, deeply absorbed, a gun in his hand.
After a while, CURTISS, the butler, enters from door Right, carrying two empty flower vases. CURTISS is elderly, and severely well-mannered. He deposits the vases on a table and a cabinet. BRECKENRIDGE does not turn and CURTISS does not see the gun.
CURTISS: Anything else, sir? [BRECKENRIDGE does not move] Mr. Breckenridge . . . [No answer] Is anything the matter, sir?
BRECKENRIDGE: [Absently] Oh . . . no . . . no . . . I was just wondering . . . [Points at the portrait] Do you think that in the centuries to come people will say he was a great man? [Turns to face CURTISS] Is it a good likeness of me, Curtiss? [CURTISS sees the gun and steps back with a little gasp] What’s the matter?
CURTISS: Mr. Breckenridge!
BRECKENRIDGE: What’s the matter with you?
CURTISS: Don’t do it, sir! Whatever it is, don’t do it! BRECKENRIDGE: [Looks at him in amazement, then notices the gun in his own hand and bursts out laughing] Oh, that? . . . I’m sorry, Curtiss. I’d quite forgotten I held it.
CURTISS: But, sir . . .
BRECKENRIDGE: Oh, I just sent the car down to meet Mrs. Breckenridge at the station, and I didn’t want her to find this in the car, so I brought it in. We mustn’t tell her about . . . you know, about why I have to carry this. It would only worry her.
CURTISS: Yes, of course, sir. I’m so sorry. It just gave me a jolt.
BRECKENRIDGE: I don’t blame you. You know, I hate the damn thing myself. [Walks to a cabinet and slips the gun into a drawer] Funny, isn’t it? I’m actually afraid of it. And when I think of all the deadly stuff I’ve handled in the laboratory. Radioactive elements. Cosmic rays. Things that could wipe out the whole population of the state of Connecticut. Never been afraid of them. In fact, never felt anything at all. But this . . . [Points to the drawer] Do you suppose it’s my old age and I’m being sensitive about any . . . reminder?
CURTISS: [Reproachfully] Your old age, sir!
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, time passes, Curtiss, time passes. Why do they celebrate birthdays? It’s just one year closer to the grave. And there’s so much to be done. [Looks at the portrait] That’s what I was thinking when you came in. Have I done enough in my life? Have I done enough?
[SERGE SOOKIN enters through the French doors. SERGE is about thirty-two, pale, blond, with the face and the manner of a fervent idealist. His clothes are neat, but very poor. His arms are loaded with an enormous bunch of freshly cut flowers]
Ah, Serge . . . thank you. . . . So kind of you to help us.
SERGE: I hope this flowers Mrs. Breckenridge will like.
BRECKENRIDGE: She loves flowers. We must have lots of flowers. . . . Over here, Serge. . . . [Indicating the vases as SERGE arranges the flowers] We’ll put them here—and over there, on the cabinet—and on the fireplace, just one or two sprays on the fireplace.
SERGE: [Wistfully] By us in Moscow, we had the more beautiful flowers.
BRECKENRIDGE: Try not to think of all that, Serge. There are things it’s best to forget. [To CURTISS] Have you taken care of the cigarettes, Curtiss?
[CURTISS busies himself filling cigarette boxes]
SERGE: [Grimly] There are the things never one can forget. But I am so sorry. That we should not discuss about. Not today, no? This is a great day.
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes, Serge. This is a great day for me. [Indicating an armchair] I don’t think that chair is right, over there. Curtiss, would you move it please this way, to the table? [As CURTISS obeys] That’s better, thank you. We must have everything right, Curtiss. For our guests. They are very important guests.
CURTISS: Yes, sir.
[From offstage, there comes the sound of Tchaikovsky’s “Autumn Song” expertly played on the piano. BRECKENRIDGE looks in the direction of the sound, a little annoyed, then shrugs and turns to SERGE]
BRECKENRIDGE: You will meet some very interesting people today, Serge. I want you to meet them. Perhaps it will give you a better idea of me. You know, one can judge a man best by his friends.
SERGE: [Looking up the stairs, a little grimly] Not always, I hope.
BRECKENRIDGE: [Looking up] Oh, Steve? You mustn’t mind Steve. You mustn’t let him upset you.
SERGE: [Coldly] Mr. Ingalls he is not kind.
BRECKENRIDGE: No. Steve’s never been kind. But then, you know, strictly speaking, Steve is not a friend. He’s my business partner—just a junior partner, as we call it, but darn useful. One of the best physicists in the country.
SERGE: You are so modest, Mr. Breckenridge. You are in the country the greatest physicist. That everybody knows.
BRECKENRIDGE: Perhaps everybody but me.
SERGE: You are to mankind the benefactor. But Mr. Ingalls he is not a friend to the world. In his heart for the world there is no place. Today the world needs friends. BRECKENRIDGE: That’s true. But—
[Doorbell rings. CURTISS opens the door. HARVEY FLEMING stands on the threshold. He is a man in his late forties, tall, gaunt, disreputably unkempt. He looks like anything but an “important” guest: he needs a shave, his clothes need pressing; he is not drunk, but not quite sober. He carries a small, battered overnight bag. He stands for a moment, studying the room glumly]
CURTISS: [Bowing] Good afternoon, sir. Come right in, sir.
FLEMING: [Enters, without removing his hat. Snaps glumly:] Billy arrived yet?
CURTISS: Yes, sir.
BRECKENRIDGE: [Advancing toward FLEMING with a broad smile] Well, Harvey! Greetings and welcome. Harvey, I want you to meet—
FLEMING: [Nods curtly in the general direction of BRECKENRIDGE and SERGE] Hello. [To CURTISS] Where’s Billy’s room?
CURTISS: This way, sir.
[FLEMING exits with him through door Right, without a glance at the others]
SERGE: [A little indignant] But what is the matter?
BRECKENRIDGE: You mustn’t mind him, Serge. He is a very unhappy man. [Looks impatiently in the direction of the music] I do wish Tony would stop playing.
SERGE: It is so sad, this piece. It is not appropriate today.
BRECKENRIDGE: Ask him to stop, will you?
[SERGE exits Right while BRECKENRIDGE continues rearranging the room. The music stops. SERGE returns, followed by TONY GODDARD. TONY is young, tall, slender, modestly dressed, and a little high-strung, which he does his best to conceal. BRECKENRIDGE speaks gaily:]
Did you notice that there’s a phonograph right by the piano, Tony? Why didn’t you put on a record by Egon Richter? He plays that piece ever so much better. TONY: It was the record.
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, well! That’s one on me.
TONY: I know you don’t like to hear me playing.
BRECKENRIDGE: I? Why shouldn’t I, Tony?
TONY: I’m sorry. . . . [Indifferently, but not at all offensively ] Have I wished you a happy birthday, Mr. Breckenridge?
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes, of course you have. When you arrived. Why, Tony! How unflattering!
TONY: Guess I shouldn’t have asked. Makes it worse. I always do things like that.
BRECKENRIDGE: Anything wrong, Tony?
TONY: No. No. [Listlessly] Where are our host and hostess?
BRECKENRIDGE: [With a broad smile] They haven’t arrived.
TONY: Not yet?
BRECKENRIDGE: No.
TONY: Isn’t that rather peculiar?
BRECKENRIDGE: Why, no. Mrs. Dawson asked me to take care of everything—it was very kind of her, she wanted so much to please me.
SERGE: It is unusual, no?—your preparing the party for your own birthday in the house of somebody else?
BRECKENRIDGE: Oh, the Dawsons are old friends of mine—and they insisted that they wanted to give the party and give it here.
TONY: Well, the house isn’t old. It doesn’t look as if they’d ever lived in it.
BRECKENRIDGE: It was built very recently.
STEVE INGALLS: [From the top of the stairway] And in very bad taste.
[INGALLS is a man of about forty, tall and lean, with a hard, inscrutable face. He looks like a man who should have great energy—and his appearance is a contrast to his manner and movements: slow, lazy, casual, indifferent. He wears simple sports clothes. He comes lazily down the stairs, while BRECKENRIDGE speaks sharply, looking up at him:]
BRECKENRIDGE: Was that necessary, Steve?
INGALLS: Not at all. They could have chosen a better architect.
BRECKENRIDGE: That’s not what I meant.
INGALLS: Don’t be obvious, Walter. Was there ever a time when I didn’t know what you meant? [To TONY] Hello, Tony. You here, too? As was to be expected. Sacrificial offerings—needed at one’s birthday party.
SERGE: [Stiffly] It is Mr. Breckenridge’s birthday party.
INGALLS: So it is.
SERGE: If you think you—
BRECKENRIDGE: Please, Serge. Really, Steve, do let’s drop the personal remarks just for today, shall we? Particularly about the house and particularly when the Dawsons arrive.
INGALLS: When or if?
BRECKENRIDGE: What do you mean?
INGALLS: And another thing, Walter, is that you always know what I mean.
BRECKENRIDGE: [Does not answer. Then looks impatiently at door Right] I wish they’d bring Billy out. What is he doing there with Harvey? [Goes to ring bell]
TONY: Who else is coming?
BRECKENRIDGE: We’re almost all here, except Adrienne. I’ve sent the car to meet Helen.
SERGE: Adrienne? It is not perhaps Miss Adrienne Knowland?
BRECKENRIDGE: Yes.
[CURTISS enters Right]
CURTISS: Yes, sir?
BRECKENRIDGE: Please tell Mr. Kozinsky to bring Billy out here.
CURTISS: Yes, sir. [Exits Right]
SERGE: It is not the great Adrienne Knowland?
INGALLS: There’s only one Adrienne Knowland, Serge. But the adjective is optional.
SERGE: Oh, I am so happy that I should meet her in the person! I have seen her in that so beautiful play—Little Women. I have wondered so often what she is like in the real life. I have thought she must be sweet and lovely—like Mademoiselle Shirley Temple in the cinema, when I was a little boy in Moscow. INGALLS: Yeah?
BRECKENRIDGE: Please, Steve. We know you don’t like Adrienne, but couldn’t you control it for just a few hours?
[HARVEY FLEMING enters Right and holds the door open for FLASH KOZINSKY, who comes in pushing BILLY BRECKENRIDGE in a wheelchair. BILLY is a boy of fifteen, pale, thin, strangely quiet and a little too well-mannered. FLASH does not carry a college pennant, but “football hero” is written all over him as plainly as if he did. He is young, husky, pleasant-looking, and not too bright. As he wheels the chair in, he bumps it against the doorjamb]
FLEMING: Careful, you clumsy fool!
BILLY: It’s all right . . . Mr. Fleming.
BRECKENRIDGE: Well, Billy! Feel rested after the trip?
BILLY: Yes, Father.
INGALLS: Hello, Bill.
BILLY: Hello, Steve.
FLASH: [Turns to FLEMING. It has taken all this time to penetrate] Say, you can’t talk to me like that!
FLEMING: Huh?
FLASH:
Who are you to talk to me like that?
FLEMING: Skip it.
BRECKENRIDGE: [Indicating SERGE] Billy, you remember Mr. Sookin?
BILLY: How do you do, Mr. Sookin.
SERGE: Good afternoon, Billy. Feeling better, no? You look wonderful.
FLEMING: He looks like hell.
BILLY: I’m all right.
SERGE: You are not comfortable maybe? This pillow it is not right. [Adjusts the pillow behind BILLY’s head] So! It is better?
BILLY: Thank you.
SERGE: I think the footrest it should be higher. [Adjusts the footrest] So?
BILLY: Thank you.
SERGE: I think perhaps it is a little chilly. You want I should bring the warm shawl?
BILLY: [Very quietly] Leave me alone, will you please?
BRECKENRIDGE: There, there! Billy’s just a little nervous. The trip was too much for him—in his condition.
[FLEMING walks brusquely to the sideboard and starts pouring himself a glass of whiskey]
BILLY: [His eyes following FLEMING anxiously, his voice low and almost pleading] Don’t do that, Mr. Fleming.
FLEMING: [Looks at him, then puts the bottle down. Quietly :] Okay, kid.
SERGE: [To BRECKENRIDGE, in what he intends to be a whisper ] Your poor son, how long he has this paralysis? BRECKENRIDGE: Sh-sh.
BILLY: Six years and four months, Mr. Sookin.
[There is a moment of embarrassed silence. FLASH looks from one face to another, then bursts out suddenly and loudly:]
FLASH: Well, I don’t know what the rest of you think, but I think Mr. Sookin shouldn’t’ve asked that.
