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, sir. 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.