The Early Ayn Rand

Red Pawn

In 1930, while still working in the RKO wardrobe department, Ayn Rand began to outline We the Living. But she interrupted the novel late in 1931 to write a movie original, hoping to earn enough money to enable her to write full-time. Ayn Rand regarded Red Pawn as her first professional work. Happily, it was also her first sale: she sold it to Universal Pictures in 1932 for $1,500, and was thus finally able to escape RKO. The payment of $1,500 was for a synopsis of the story as well as the screenplay-Universal later traded the story to Paramount (for a property that had cost Paramount $20,000). All rights are now owned by Paramount Pictures, which has never produced the story, but which has granted permission to reprint the synopsis here.

Red Pawn presents Ayn Rand's first serious, philosophical theme: the evil of dictatorship — specifically, of Soviet Russia. Miss Rand's full objection to dictatorship involves her whole system of philosophy, including her view of the nature of reality and of the requirements of the human mind (see Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal). But in Red Pawn the argument is reduced to its essence. Communism demands that the individual renounce his independence and his happiness, in order to become a cipher selflessly serving the group. Communism, therefore, is the destroyer of the individual and of human joy. Or, as we may put it in terms of the themes of "The Husband I Bought" and "Good Copy," the philosophic issue is: Communism vs. man-worship and Communism vs. the "benevolent universe," i.e., Communism vs. values. This is the link between the political theme of the story and Ayn Rand's lifelong ethical concerns.

The answer to Communism, Ayn Rand held, is the recognition of man's right to exist — to exist by his own mind and for his own sake, sacrificing neither himself to others nor others to himself. The goal and badge of such a man is the kind of happiness symbolized in this story by the "Song of Dancing Lights." This song is, in effect, Ayn Rand's refutation of Communism; the song's laughing spirit — the fact that such joy is possible to man — is the answer to the apostles of selfless toil. To demand the renunciation of such joy, Ayn Rand held, is evil, no matter what benefit any recipient claims to gain from the sacrifice.

Red Pawn has a subtheme: the philosophic identity of Communism and religion. Both subordinate the individual to something allegedly higher (whether God or the state), and both equate virtue with selfless service. From her early teens, Ayn Rand saw clearly that Communism, contrary to its propaganda, is not the alternative to religion, but only a secularized version of it, with the state assuming the prerogatives once reserved to the supernatural. (The alternative is a philosophy of reason and rational self-interest.)

The plot situation in Red Pawn, like the theme, is very similar to that of We the Living. Both works involve a triangle: a passionate woman (who dominates the action), her anti-Communist lover (or husband), and a dedicated Communist who holds power over him, and whom she must court in order to save the lover's life. In the conventional triangle of this kind, the heroine despises the second man, and sleeps with him only for practical reasons. In the Ayn Rand version, however, the Communist is not a villain, but a misguided idealist whom the heroine grows to love; this gives the heroine a much more painful situation to resolve, and the story an incomparably greater suspense.

As in most Ayn Rand fiction, the story leaves one with a special, uplifted sense of human stature, and even grandeur, because the essential conflict is not between good and evil, but between good and good (the two men). In accordance with her view that evil is impotent, the villains in Ayn Rand's fiction rarely rise to the role of dominant, plot-determining figures. For the most part, like Fedossitch in this story, they are peripheral creatures doomed by their own irrationality to failure and defeat. The focus of the story, therefore, is not on man the sordid, but on man the heroic. (In The Fountainhead, the main conflict is not Roark against Toohey or Keating, but Roark against Dominique and Wynand. In Atlas Shrugged, the main conflict is Dagny and Rearden against Galt and the other strikers.)

In Red Pawn, as befits a story for the screen, the central situation is presented in simplified terms. The husband (Michael) is a prisoner on a desolate island, the Communist (Kareyev) is the Commandant, and the goal of the wife (Joan) is to help the husband escape. The details and the pace are thus very different from what they are in We the Living— and so is the ending, which is in itself a brilliant touch; the suspense is resolved by four unexpected but logical, even inevitable, words uttered by Joan to the soldiers. The title seems to be a play on words: Joan is a pawn made available to Kareyev by the red state, but Kareyev is a red who is a pawn of Joan's own plan-By its nature, a movie synopsis focuses on dramatic action open to the camera to record. This synopsis offers a Romantic director an abundance of such drama. One can almost see the close-up of Michael's face as he waits table on his wife and rival, torn by jealousy but unable to speak; or the spotlight stabbing an urgent message into the void, accompanied by the pealing of the bells; or, at the end, the two sleighs moving slowly apart, in opposite directions across the trackless snow, with Joan's eyes intent on a head that is held proudly high as its owner rides to his death.

The most brilliant visualization of the theme occurs in the prison library. Kareyev is standing between a Communist poster and a painting left on the island by ancient monks. The poster depicts ant-sized men sweating beneath a slogan demanding sacrifice for the collective; the painting depicts a saint ecstatically burning at the stake. And across from both there is Joan with "her head thrown back, her body on the dark altar steps, tense, listening to the song [of Dancing Lights]... seeming to be] a sacrificial offering to the Deity she was serving." Here is the reverence of man-worship contrasted with its two destroyers — and all of it captured in one visual scene. That is "writing for the movies."

It is astonishing how much of purely literary worth this mere synopsis contains. There is Ayn Rand's eloquent economy of means, enabling one or two words in the right context to speak volumes. (For example, when Kareyev asks Joan why she came to the island, she tells him she heard that he was the loneliest man in the republic. "I see," he says. "Pity?" "No. Envy.") There are the dramatic antitheses in the style of Victor Hugo, whose novels Ayn Rand admired above all others. ("The civil war had given him a scar on his shoulder and a contempt of death. Peace gave him Strastnoy Island and a contempt of life.") There are the sensuous descriptions with their evocative images (for instance, the description of the monastery at twilight, or of the waves at night).

After Red Pawn and We the Living, Ayn Rand rarely wrote again about Soviet Russia. She had had her say about the slave state in which she had grown up. Thereafter, her interest moved from politics to the fundamental branches of philosophy, and from slavery to the achievements (and problems) of life in a human country.

A note on the text: Ayn Rand wrote an original draft of this synopsis, then edited about twenty pages, to the point where Michael first sees Joan on the island. Presumably, these pages were sufficient as a submission to the studios and further editing proved unnecessary. This is why the early pages are somewhat tighter and smoother than the rest.

In her editing, Miss Rand changed the names and backgrounds of some of the characters. Joan was originally Tania, a Russian princess; Michael was Victor, a Russian prince; and the prisoners generally were drawn from the Russian nobility. I have had to make many small changes to render the manuscript consistent with the new opening. I have not, however, written new sentences; I have merely changed the necessary names and deleted references to backgrounds that were altered.

L.P.

"No woman," said the young convict, "could accept such a thing."

"As you can observe," said the old convict, shrugging, "there's one who has."

They leaned over the tower parapet to look far out at the sea. From the frost-glazed stone under their elbows, the tower was a straight drop of three hundred feet to the ground below; far out at sea, where the white clouds rolled softly like a first promise of snowdrifts to come, a boat plowed its way toward the island.

Down on the shore guards were ready, waiting under the wall, on a landing of old, rotted boards; on the wall, guards stopped in their rounds; they leaned on their bayonets and looked at the boat. It was a serious breach of discipline.

"I've always thought," said the young convict, "that there was a limit to a woman's voluntary degradation."

"That," said the old convict, pointing at the boat, "proves there isn't any."

He shook his hair, for it got tangled in his monocle; there was a strong wind and he needed a haircut.

A faded gilt cupola rose high over them, like the countless peaks that raised gold crosses into the heavy sky over Russia; but its cross had been broken off; a flag floated over it, a bright, twisted, flickering tongue of red, like a streak of flame dancing through the clouds. When the wind unfurled it into a straight, shivering line, a white sickle and hammer flashed for a second on the red cloth — the crossed sickle and hammer of the Soviet Republic.

In the days of the Czar the island had been a monastery. Fanatical monks had chosen this bit of land in the Arctic waters off the Siberian coast; they had welcomed the snow and the winds, and bowed in voluntary sacrifice to a frozen world no man could endure for many years. The revolution had dispersed the monks and brought new men to the island, men who did not come voluntarily. No letter ever left the place; no letter ever reached it. Many prisoners had landed there; none had returned. When a man was sentenced to Strastnoy Island, those he left behind whispered the prayers for the dead.

"I haven't seen a woman for three years," said the young convict. There was no regret in his voice; only a wistful, astonished wonder.

"I haven't seen a woman for ten years," said the old convict. "But this one won't be worth looking at."

"Maybe she's beautiful."

"Don't be a fool. Beautiful women don't have to do things like this."

"Maybe she'll tell us what's happening... outside."

"I'd advise you not to speak to her."

"Why?"

"You don't want to give up the last thing you've got."

"What?"

"Your self-respect."

"But maybe she..."

He stopped. No one had told him to stop and he had heard nothing behind them, no steps or sound. But he knew that a man stood behind them, and he knew who it was, and he turned slowly, without being asked to turn, wishing he could leap off the tower rather than turn to face that man.

Commandant Kareyev stood there, at the head of the stairs. People always knew when Commandant Kareyev entered a room, perhaps because he was never conscious of them, of the room, or of his entering it. He stood without moving, looking at the two convicts. He was tall, straight, thin. He seemed to be made of bones, skin, and anesthetized nerves.

His glance held no menace, no anger. It held no meaning at all. His eyes never held any human meaning. The convicts had seen him reward some guard for distinguished service or order a prisoner to be flogged to death — with the same expression. They could not say who feared him more — the guards or the prisoners. His eyes never seemed to see people; they saw, not men, but a thought; a single thought many centuries ahead; and so when people looked at him, they felt cold and lonely, as if they were walking into an endless distance on an open plain at night.

He said nothing. The two convicts moved past him, to the stairs; and went down, hastily, not too steadily; he heard one of them stumbling, if he heard or noticed them at all. He had not ordered them to go.

Commandant Kareyev stood alone on the tower platform, his hair flying in the wind. He leaned over the parapet and looked at the boat. The sky above him was gray as the steel of the gun at his belt.

Commandant Kareyev had worn a gun at his belt for five years. For five years he had been Commandant of Strastnoy Island, the only one of the garrison who had been able to stand it that long. Years before, he had carried a bayonet and fought in the civil war, against some of the men whose prison he was now guarding, and against the parents of others. The civil war had given him a scar on his shoulder and a contempt of death. Peace gave him Strastnoy Island and a contempt of life.

Commandant Kareyev still served the revolution as he had served it in the civil war. He had accepted the island as he had accepted night attacks in the trenches; only this was harder.

He walked sharply, lightly, as if each step were a quick electric shock throwing him forward; a few white streaks shone in his hair, as his first decoration of the North; his lips were motionless when he was pleased, and smiled when he wasn't; he never repeated an order. At night, he sat at his window and looked somewhere, without movement, without thought. They called him "Comrade Commandant" when they met him; behind his back, they called him "the Beast."

The boat was approaching. Commandant Kareyev could distinguish figures on deck. He bent over the parapet; there was no eagerness in his glance, and no curiosity. He could not find the figure he expected. He turned and went down the stairs.

The guard on the first landing straightened quickly at his approach; the guard had been looking at the boat. At the foot of the stairs, two convicts leaned over a windowsill overlooking the sea.

"... he told them he was lonely," he heard one of them say.

"I wouldn't want what he's getting," said the other.

He walked down a deserted corridor. In one of the cells he saw three men standing on a table pushed against a small barred window. They were looking at the sea.

In the hall he was stopped by Comrade Fedossitch, his assistant. Comrade Fedossitch coughed. When he coughed his shoulders shook, drooping forward, and his long neck dipped like the beak of a starving bird. Comrade Fedossitch's eyes had lost their color; they stared, reflecting, like a frozen mirror, the gray of the monastery walls. They stared timidly and arrogantly at once, as if fearing and inviting an insult. He wore a leather whip at his belt.

Comrade Fedossitch had been told that Strastnoy Island was not good for his cough. But it was the only job he knew where he could wear a whip. Comrade Fedossitch had stayed.

He saluted the Commandant, and bowed, and said with a little grin, a servile grin spread like lacquer over the sharp edges of his words:

"If you please, Comrade Commandant. Of course, the Comrade Commandant knows what's best, but I was just thinking: a female citizen coming here against all regulations and..."

"What do you want?"

"Well, for instance, our rooms are good enough for us, but do you think the comrade woman will like hers? Do you want me to fix it up a little and..."

"Never mind. It's good enough for her."

In the yard, convicts were busy chopping logs. A wide archway opened upon the sea, and a guard stood in the archway, his back to the convicts, watching the boat that rocked softly, growing, approaching in the pale green fog of waves and sky.

A few axes struck the logs indifferently, once in a while; the convicts, too, were looking at the sea. A stately gentleman, erect in his ragged prison garb, whispered to his companions:

"Really, it's the best story I've ever heard. You see, Commandant Kareyev had sent in his resignation. I presume five years of Strastnoy Island was too much, even for his red nerves. But how would they ever run the place without the Beast? They asked him to stay."

"Where would they find another fool who'd freeze his blood away for the sake of his duty to the revolution?"

"And this was his condition to the authorities on the mainland: I'll stay, if you send me a woman; any woman.'"

"Just that: any woman."

"Well, gentlemen, that's only natural: a good red citizen lets his superiors select his mates. Leaves it to their judgment. All in the line of duty."

"You can imagine how far a woman must fall to accept such an invitation."

"And a man to make it."

Michael Volkontzev stood aside from the others. He did not look at the sea. The ax flashed over his head in a wide silver circle, as he chopped the logs vigorously, rhythmically, without stopping. A lock of black hair rose and fell over his right eye. One of his sleeves was torn, and the muscles of his arm stood out, young and strong. He did not take part in the conversation. But when he was not busy he usually spoke to his fellow convicts, spoke often and long; only the more he spoke, the less they could learn about him. They knew one thing for certain, however: when he spoke, he laughed; he laughed gaily, easily, with an air of mocking, boyish defiance; it was sufficient to know that about him; to know that he was the kind of man who could still laugh like that after two years on Strastnoy Island. He was the only one who could.

The prisoners liked to talk about their past. Their memories were the only future they had. And there were many memories to exchange: memories of the universities where some of them had taught, of the hospitals where others had attended the sick, of the buildings they had designed, of the bridges they had built. There were men of many professions. All of them had been useful and had worked hard in the past. All of them had one thing in common: that the Red State had chosen to discard them and to throw them into jail, for some reason or another, often without reason; perhaps because of some careless word they had uttered somewhere; perhaps simply because they had been too able and had worked too hard.

Michael Volkontzev was the only one among them who would not speak about his past. He would speak about anything under the sun, and often on a subject and at a time when it would have been far safer to remain quiet; he would risk his life drawing caricatures of Commandant Kareyev on the walls of his cell; but he would not speak about his past. No one knew where he had come from or why. They suspected that he had been an engineer at some time in his life, because he was always assigned to any work that required an engineer's skill, such as repairing the dynamo that operated the wireless high in a room on top of the tower. They could discover nothing else about him.

The boat's siren roared hoarsely outside. A convict waved his arm in the direction of the sea and announced:

"Gentlemen, salute the first woman on Strastnoy Island!"

Michael raised his head.

"Why all this excitement," he asked indifferently, "about some cheap tramp?"

Commandant Kareyev had stopped at the entrance to the yard. He walked slowly toward Michael. He stood, watching him silently. Michael did not seem to notice it, but raised his ax and split another log in two. Kareyev said:

"I'm warning you, Volkontzev. I know how little you're afraid of and how much you like to show it. But you're not to show it on the subject of that woman. You're to leave her alone."

Michael threw his head back and looked at Kareyev innocently.

"Certainly, Commandant," he said with a charming smile. "She'll be left alone. Trust my good taste."

He gathered an armful of logs and walked away, down the steps of the cellar.

The boat's siren roared again. Commandant Kareyev went to meet it at the landing.

The boat came to the island four times a year. It brought food and new prisoners. There were two convicts aboard, this time. One of them was mumbling prayers and the other one was trying to hold his head high, but it was not convincing, because his lips trembled as he looked at the island.

The woman stood on deck and looked at the island, too. She wore a plain, black coat. It did not look expensive, but it was too plain, and fitted too well, and showed a slim, young body, not the kind that Commandant Kareyev had seen tramping wearily the dark streets of Russian cities. Her hand held her fur collar tightly under her chin. Her hand had long, slender fingers. There was a quiet curiosity in her large, wide eyes, and such an indifferent calm that Commandant Kareyev would not believe she was looking at the island. No one had ever looked at it like that. But she did.

He watched her walking down the gangplank. The fact that her steps were steady, light, assured was astonishing; the fact that she looked like a woman who belonged in exquisite drawing rooms was startling; but the fact that she was beautiful was incredible. There had been some mistake: she was not the woman sent to him.

He bowed curtly. He asked:

"What are you doing here, citizen?"

"Commandant Kareyev?" she inquired. Her voice had a strange, slow, indifferent calm — and a strange foreign accent.

"Yes."

"I thought you were expecting me."

"Oh."

Her cool eyes looked at him as they had looked at his island. She had nothing of the smiling, inviting, professional charm he had expected. She was not smiling. She did not seem to notice his astonishment. She did not seem to find the occasion unusual at all. She said:

"My name is Joan Harding."

"English?"

"American."

"What are you doing in Russia?"

She took a letter from her pocket and handed it to him. She said:

"Here is my letter of introduction from the GPU at Nijni Kolimsk."

He took the letter, but did not open it. He said curtly:

"All right. Come this way, Comrade Harding."

He walked up the hill, to the monastery, stiff, silent, without offering a hand to help her up the old stone steps, without looking back at her, followed by the eyes of all the men on the landing and by the unusual, long-forgotten sound of French heels. The room he had prepared for her was a small cube of gray stone. There was a narrow iron cot, a table, a candle on the table, a chair, a small barred window, a stove of red bricks built in the wall. There was nothing to greet her, nothing to show that a human being had been expected to enter that room, only a thin red line of fire trembling in the crack of the stove's iron door.

"Not very comfortable," said Commandant Kareyev. "This place wasn't built for women. It was a monastery — before the revolution. The monks had a law that a woman's foot could not touch this ground. Woman was sin."

"You have a better opinion of women, haven't you, Comrade Kareyev?"

"I'm not afraid of being a sinner."

She looked at him. She spoke slowly, and he knew she was answering something he had not said:

"The only sin is to miss the things you want most in life. If they're taken from you, you have to reclaim them — at any price."

"If this is the price you're paying for whatever it is you want, it's pretty high, you know. Sure it's worth it?"

She shrugged lightly:

"I've been accustomed to rather high-priced things."

"So I notice, Comrade Harding."

"Call me Joan."

"It's a funny name."

"You'll get used to it."

"What are you doing in Russia?"

"In the coming months — anything you wish me to do."

It was not a promise nor an invitation; it was said as an efficient secretary might have said it, and more coldly, more impersonally than that; as one of the guards might have said it, awaiting orders; as if the sound of her voice added that the words meant nothing — to him or to her.

He asked:

"How do you happen to be in Russia at all?"

She shrugged lazily. She said:

"Questions are so boring. I've answered so many of them at the GPU before they sent me here. The GPU officials were satisfied. I'm sure you never disagree with them, do you?"

He watched her as she took her hat off, and threw it down on the table, and shook her hair. Her hair was short, blond, and stood like a halo over her face. She walked to the table and touched it with her finger. She took out a small lace handkerchief and wiped the dust off the table. She dropped the handkerchief to the floor. He looked at it. He did not pick it up.

He watched her thoughtfully. He turned to go. At the door he stopped and faced her suddenly.

"Do you," he asked, "whoever you are, understand what you're here for?"

She looked straight into his eyes, a long, quiet, disconcerting look, and her eyes were mysterious because they were too calm and too open.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I understand." The letter from the GPU said:

Comrade Kareyev,

As per your request, we are sending to you the bearer of this, Comrade Joan Harding. We vouch for her political trustworthiness. Her past reputation will guarantee that she will satisfy the purpose of your request and lighten the burden of your difficult duty on the far outpost of our great proletarian Republic.

With Communistic greetings, Ivan Veriohoff,

Political Commissar

Commandant Kareyev's bed had a coarse gray blanket, like those on the prisoners' cots. His cell of damp gray stone looked emptier than theirs; there was a bed, a table, two chairs. A tall glass door, long and narrow like a cathedral window, led to an open gallery outside. The room looked as if a human being had been flung there in a hurry for a short moment: there were rows of old nails on the bare stone walls bearing clothes and arms, wrinkled shirts hanging by one sleeve, old leather jackets, rifles, trousers turned inside out, cartridge belts; there were cigarette butts and ashes on the bare stone floor. The human being had lived there for five years.

There was not a single picture, not a book, not an ashtray. There was a bed because the human being had to sleep; and clothes, because he had to dress; he needed nothing else.

But there was one single object which he did not need, his single answer to any questions people could ask looking at his room, although no one had ever asked them: in a niche where ikons had been now hung, on a rusty nail, Commandant Kareyev's old Red Army cap.

The unpainted wooden table had been pulled to the center of the room. On the table stood heavy tin dishes and tin cups without saucers; a candle in an old bottle; and no tablecloth.

Commandant Kareyev and Joan Harding were finishing their first dinner together.

She raised a tin jug of cold tea, with a smile that should have accompanied a glass of champagne, and said:

"Your health, Comrade Kareyev."

He answered brusquely:

"If it's a hint — you're wasting your time. No drinks here. Not allowed. And no exceptions."

"No exceptions and no hints, Comrade Kareyev. But still — your health."

"Cut the nonsense. You don't have to drink my health. You don't have to smile. And you don't have to lie. You'll hate me — and you know it. And I know it. But you may not know that I don't care — so you're warned in advance."

"I didn't know I'll hate you."

"You know it now, don't you?"

"Less than ever."

"Listen, forget the pretty speeches. That's not part of your job. If you expect any compliments — you might as well be disappointed right now."

"I wasn't expecting any compliments when I took the boat for Strastnoy Island."

"And I hope you weren't expecting any sentiment. This is a business deal. That's all."

"That's all, Comrade Kareyev."

"Did you expect a companion like me?"

"I've heard about you."

"Have you heard what I'm called?"

"The Beast."

"You may find I deserve the name."

"You may find I like it."

"No use telling me about it — if you do. I don't care what you think of me."

"Then why warn me about it?"

"Because the boat's still here. It goes back at dawn. There's no other for three months."

She had lighted a cigarette. She held it in two straight fingers, looking at him.

"Were you in the civil war, Comrade Kareyev?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Did you acquire the habit of retreating?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

He leaned toward her, his crossed elbows on the table, watching her in the trembling glow of the candle, his eyes narrow, mocking. He said:

"I've seen some soldiers overestimate their strength." She smiled, and reached over and flicked the ashes off her cigarette into his empty plate.

"Good ones," she answered, "take chances."

"Listen," he said impatiently, "you don't like questions, so I won't bother you, because I don't like to talk either. But there's just one thing I'm going to ask you. That letter from the GPU said you were all right politically, but you don't look as... as you should look at all."

She blew at the smoke and did not answer. Then she looked at him and shrugged lightly.

"The letter told you about my present. The past is dead. If I'm not thinking of it, why should you?"

"No reason," he agreed. "Makes no difference."

A convict, waiting on the Commandant's table, had removed the dishes, sliding silently out of the room. Joan rose.

"Show me the island," she said. "I want to get acquainted. I'm staying here for a long time — I hope."

"I hope you'll repeat that," he answered, rising, "three months from today."

When they walked out, the sky was red behind the monastery towers, a shivering red, as if the light were dying in gasps. The monastery looked silently upon them, with small barred windows like reluctant eyes opened upon a sinful world, guarded by menacing saints of gray stone; cold evening shadows settled in the wrinkles of the saints' faces cut by reverent hands, stormy winds, and centuries. A thick stone wall encircled the shore, and sentinels walked slowly on the wall, with measured steps, with bayonets red in the sunset, with heads bowed in resignation, watchful and weary like the saints by the windows.

"The prisoners aren't locked up in their cells here," Commandant Kareyev explained to her. "They have the freedom to move around. There's not much space to move in. It's safe."

"They get tired of the island, don't they?"

"They go mad. Not that it matters. It's the last place they'll see on earth."

"And when they die?"

"Well, no room for a cemetery here. But a strong current."

"Has anyone ever tried to escape?"

"They forget the word when they land here."

"And yourself?"

He looked at her, without understanding. "Myself?"

"Have you ever tried to escape?"

"From whom?"

"From Commandant Kareyev."

"Come on. What are you driving at?"

"Are you happy here?"

"No one's forcing me to stay."

"I said: are you happy?"

"Who cares about being happy? There's so much work to be done in the world."

"Why should it be done?"

"Because it's one's duty."

"To whom?"

"When it's duty, you don't ask why and to whom. You don't ask any questions. When you come up against a thing about which you can't ask any questions — then you know you're facing your duty."

She pointed far out at the darkening sea and asked:

"Do you ever think of what lies there, beyond the coast? Of the places where I came from?"

He answered, shrugging contemptuously:

"The best of that world beyond the coast is right here."

"And that is?"

"My work."

He turned and walked back to the monastery. She followed obediently.

They walked down a long corridor where barred windows threw dark crosses on the floor, over the red squares of dying light, and figures of saints writhed on ancient murals. From behind every door furtive eyes watched the stranger. The eyes were eager and contemptuous at once. Commandant Kareyev did not notice them; Joan was braver — she did, and walked on, not caring.

They had reached the foot of the stairs where, at tall windows, a group of prisoners loitered, as if by chance, aimlessly studying the sunset.

Her foot was on the first step when a cry stopped her, the kind of cry she would have heard if the martyrs of the murals had suddenly found voice.

"Frances!"

Michael Volkontzev stood grasping the banister, barring her way. Many people were looking at his face, but his face looked like a thing that should not be seen.

"Frances! What are you doing here?"

The men around them could not understand the question, because of the way his voice sounded — and because he spoke it in English.

Her face was cool and blank and a little astonished — politely, indifferently astonished. She looked straight at him, her eyes calm and open.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in Russian. "I don't believe I know you."

Kareyev stepped between them and seized Michael's shoulder, asking:

"Do you know her?"

Michael looked at her, at the stairway, at the men around them.

"No," he muttered. "I was mistaken."

"I warned you," said Kareyev angrily, and threw him out of the way, against the wall. Joan turned and walked up the steps. Kareyev followed.

The prisoners watched Michael pressed to the wall, as he had fallen, not moving, not straightening himself, only his eyes watching her go up and his head nodding slowly as if counting each step.

There was no door to connect Joan's cell with Commandant Kareyev's. For five years Commandant Kareyev had not spoken to a woman, but almost forty years had gone before he had ever spoken to a woman like this guest of his. She was his prize, his reward, the pawn from the red republic for the hours and years of his life, for his blood, for his gray hair. She was his as his salary, as the rations of bread citizens got on their provision cards. But she had helpless white fingers and cool eyes that did not invite and did not forbid and looked at him with an open, wondering calm beyond his understanding. He had waited for five years; he could wait one night longer.

He had closed his door and listened. He could hear the moaning of waves outside; and the steps of sentinels on the wall; and the rustle of her long dress against the stone floor, in the next cell.

It was long after midnight, and the monastery towers had dissolved into the black sky, and only the smoking lanterns of the guards floated over the darkness, when a hand knocked on Joan's door. She had not been sleeping. She was standing at a bare stone wall, under the faint square of a barred window, and the lighted candle tore out of the darkness the white spots of her hands and bowed face. The wax of the candle had frozen in long rivulets across the table. She hesitated for only a second. She tightened the folds of her long, black robe and opened the door.

It was not Commandant Kareyev; it was Michael.

He put his hand on the door so that she could not close it. His lips were determined, but his eyes were desperate, tortured, pleading.

"Keep quiet," he whispered. "I've got to see you alone."

"Get out of here," she ordered, in a whisper. "At once."

"Frances," he begged, "this... all this isn't possible. I can't understand... I've got to hear a word, a..."

"I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. Let me close this door."

"Frances, I have to... I can't... I must know the reason you..."

"If you don't go, I'll call Commandant Kareyev."

"Oh, you will?" He raised his head defiantly. "Well, let me see you do it."

She opened her door wider and called:

"Comrade Kareyev!"

She did not have to call twice. He threw his door open and faced them, hand on the gun at his belt.

"I didn't come here to be annoyed by your prisoners, Comrade Kareyev," she said evenly.

Commandant Kareyev did not say a word. He blew his whistle. Down the long corridor, the echoes of their heavy boots pounding against the vaults, two guards ran to his summons.

"Into the pit," he ordered, pointing at Michael.

Michael's eyes were not desperate any longer. A contemptuous smile pulled down the corners of his mouth. His hand went to his forehead in a military salute to Joan.

She stood, motionless, until the guards' footsteps died in the darkness beyond the stairs, leading Michael away. Then, Kareyev entered her room and closed the door. He looked at her throat, white against the black robe.

"After all," said Commandant Kareyev, "he had the right idea."

He did not know whether the soft warmth under his hands was the velvet or the body under the velvet. For one short second, it seemed to him that her eyes had lost their hard calm, that they were helpless and frightened and childish, like the fluffy blond hair that fell over his arm. But he did not care, for then her lips parted in a smile and his closed them again.

Joan was unpacking her trunks. She was hanging her clothes on a row of nails. Just enough light crawled in through the barred window to make the satins and laces glimmer, shivering and surprised, in the stone niche built for monks' robes.

The light seemed to rise out of the sea and the sky hung over it, a dead gray reflecting feebly a borrowed glow. The leaden waves moved restlessly; they did not run towards the shore; they seemed to boil and knock against each other, furious whitecaps flashing up and disappearing instantly, as if the sea, a huge tank, had been shaken and its waters stirred, swaying against unseen walls.

From her window, Joan could watch the statue of St. George on a cornice. His huge, awkward face looked straight at the far horizon, without bending towards the dragon under his horse's hoofs. The dragon's head hung over the sea, limp under centuries of threat from a heavy stone spear, as if the last drops of blood had been drained through its gaping mouth into the waves far below.

Joan was hanging a shawl to cover the niche, a square piece of old linen heavy with crosses of embroidery. Commandant Kareyev entered when she struck her finger with the hammer, trying to drive a nail into the hard wooden frame around the niche.

"It's your fault," she said, a little smile softening her lips in a wordless greeting. "You promised to help me."

He took her hand without hesitation, possessively, and looked, worried, at the little red spot.

"I'm sorry. Here, I'll nail it for you."

"You've left me alone three times this morning," she complained.

"Sorry. I had to go. A disturbance down there. One of the fools chopped his toe off."

"Accident?"

"No. Madness. Thought he'd be sent to the mainland to a hospital."

"Didn't you send him?"

"No. Had the doctor tend to him. The doctor's a useful prisoner to have; been a surgeon at the Medical Academy in St. Petersburg. He's cauterizing the idiot's foot now — with red iron... What's all this here?"

"My clothes."

"Why do you have so many?"

"Why do you carry that gun?"

"That's my profession."

"That" — she pointed to the niche — "is mine."

"Oh." He looked at the clothes, at her, frowned. "Yes, and a paying one... And if it paid so well, why did you come here?"

"I was tired. I heard about you — and liked it."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard that you were the loneliest man in this republic."

"I see. Pity?"

"No. Envy.”

She bent and took out of the trunk a dress of soft, dark satin.

"Hold it," she ordered, taking out a wrap, shaking its fluffy fur collar, stroking it gently, hanging it carefully in the niche. He held the dress cautiously, his fingers moving slowly in the smooth, lustrous folds, soft and bewildering as some unknown beast's skin. He said:

"You won't need such things here."

"I thought you might like them."

"I don't notice rags."

"Give me that dress. Don't hold it up by the hem like that."

"What's the use of such a thing?"

"It's beautiful."

"It's useless."

"But it's beautiful. Isn't that reason enough to bring it along, Comrade Kareyev?"

"One of us," said Commandant Kareyev, "has a lot to learn."

"One of us," she answered slowly, "has."

She bent into the trunk and took out a long satin nightgown. She displayed the luxury of her exquisite possessions in a natural, indifferent manner, as if they were to be

expected, as if she did not notice Kareyev's surprised eyes; as if she did not know that this elegance of a fashionable boudoir transplanted into a monk's cell was a challenge to the frozen walls, to the grim Communist, to the very duty she had accepted. Under the dusty bottle that held a candle on the table, she put down a huge white powder puff.

He asked gruffly:

"Where do you think you are?"

"I think," she answered with her lightest smile, "that you may wish to think of places where you haven't been — someday."

"I don't have many wishes," he answered sternly, "except those that come on official blanks with a Party seal. If they tell me to stay here — I'll stay."

He looked at the row of dresses in the niche. He kicked an open trunk impatiently.

"Are you through with that?" he asked. "I haven't much time to waste here helping you.'

"You haven't given me much time," she complained. "They have been calling you away all morning."

"They'll call me again. I have more important things to do than to hang up that junk of yours."

She brought out a satin slipper. She studied its buckle thoughtfully, attentively.

"That man who came to my room last night," she asked, "where did you put him?"

"Into the pit."

"The pit?"

"Fifty feet under the ground. Could swim down there if all the water on the walls wasn't frozen. But it's frozen. And I gave him the limit."

"The limit of what?"

"Of light. When we give the limit, we close the big shutter over the hole above. Until we open it to throw him food, he might as well be blind for all the good his eyes will do him."

"How long is his sentence?"

"Ten days."

She bent for the second slipper. She put them down carefully under the folds of a long robe. She asked with a light smile:

"Do men think that kind of punishment satisfies a woman?"

"What would a woman do?"

"I would make him apologize."

"You wouldn't want me to have him shot, would you? For disobedience? He'll never apologize."

"Suspend his sentence if he does."

"He's a hard one. I've broken many a hard one here, but he's steel — so far. Strastnoy Island hasn't put its rust on him, yet."

"Well? Are you only after those you know are easily broken?”

Commandant Kareyev walked to the door, opened it, and blew his whistle.

"Comrade Fedossitch," he ordered his assistant when shuffling feet stopped at the door, "bring Citizen Volkontzev here."

Comrade Fedossitch looked, surprised, at Kareyev. He looked into the room at Joan, a veiled glance of resentful hatred- He bowed and shuffled away.

They heard his steps again mingled with the resonant stride of Volkontzev. Comrade Fedossitch pushed the door open with his boot and, stepping aside, drawing his head into his shoulders in the obsequious bow of a headwaiter, his elbows pressed tightly to his body, let Michael enter, approached Kareyev and remarked, smiling softly, his smile timidly apologetic and arrogantly remonstrative at once:

"It's against the law, Comrade Commandant. The sentence was ten days."

"Has Comrade Fedossitch forgotten," Kareyev asked, "that my order brought Citizen Volkontzev here?"

And he slammed the door, leaving his assistant outside.

Commandant Kareyev looked at Michael, pale, erect in his old jacket that fitted so well; then, he looked at Joan, who faced the prisoner, studying with an indifferent curiosity the patches on that jacket and the blue, frozen hands in its sleeves.

"You are here, Volkontzev," said Commandant Kareyev, "to apologize."

"To whom?" Michael asked calmly.

"To Comrade Harding."

Michael made a step toward her and bowed graciously.

"I'm sorry, madam," he smiled, "that you made the worthy Commandant break a law — for the first time in his life. But I warn you, Comrade Commandant, laws are easily broken by... er... Comrade Harding."

"Citizen Volkontzev is not a fair judge of women," Joan answered, her voice expressionless.

"I should hate to judge all women, Comrade Harding, by some I have known."

"You're here to apologize," reminded Kareyev. "If you do, your sentence will be suspended."

"And if I don't?"

"I've been here five years and all the prisoners until now have obeyed me. If I stay here longer, all of them will learn to obey me. And I'm not leaving — yet."

"Well, then, you can feed me to the rats in the pit; or you can have me flogged till I stop bleeding; but you won't hear me apologize to this woman."

Commandant Kareyev did not answer, for the door flew open and Comrade Fedossitch saluted, out of breath.

"Comrade Commandant! There's a disturbance in the kitchen!"

"What's the matter?"

"The convicts on vegetable duty refuse to peel the potatoes. They say the potatoes are frozen and rotten and not fit to cook."

"Well, they'll eat them raw."

He hurried out, and Comrade Fedossitch followed.

In one swift movement, Joan was at the closed door. She listened, her ear and her hands pressed to the panel. She waited till the last step echoed against the vaults far downstairs.

Then, she turned. She said one word, her voice alive, tremulous, ringing like the first blow to a bursting dam, pleading and triumphant and anguished:

"Michael!"

The word slapped him in the face. He did not move. He did not soften, did not smile. Only his lips quivered when he asked almost without sound:

"Why are you here?"

She smiled softly, her smile pleading, radiant. Her hands rose, hungrily, imperiously, to his shoulders. He seized her wrists; it was an effort that shook every muscle of his body, but he threw her hands aside.

"Why are you here?" he repeated.

She whispered, a faint trace of reproach in her voice:

"I thought you had enough faith in me to understand. I couldn't recognize you yesterday — I was afraid of being watched. I'm here to save you.”

He asked grimly:

"How did you get here?"

"I have a friend in Nijni Kolimsk," she whispered hurriedly, breathlessly. "A big English merchant, Ellers. His place is right across the street from the GPU. He knows men there, influential men he can order, you understand? We heard about that... that invitation of Kareyev's. Ellers arranged it — and I was sent here."

She stopped, looking at his white face. She asked:

"Why so... stern, dearest? Won't you smile to reward me?"

"Smile at what? My wife in the arms of a foul Communist?"

"Michael!"

"Did you really think that you'd find me willing to be saved — at such a price?"

She smiled calmly. "Don't you know how much a woman can promise — and how little fulfill?"

"My wife can't pretend to play a part like that."

"We can't choose our weapons, Michael."

"But there is an honor that..."

She spoke proudly, solemnly, her head high, her voice tense, ringing, throwing each word straight into his face:

"I have a shield that my honor will carry high through any battle: I love you... Look at these walls. There's frozen water in the stone. A few more years — your eyes, your skin, your mind will freeze like that, crushed by this stone, by the days and hours that do not move. Do you want me to go away, to wander through the world with but one thought, one desire, and leave you to wither in this frozen hell?"

He looked at her. He took a step toward her. She did not move. She made no sound, but her bones crackled when his arms tore her off the ground, his lips sinking into her body, hungry with the dreams, the despair, the sleepless nights of two long years.

"Frances!... Frances..."

She was the first one to tear herself away from him. She listened at the door and threw a long gold thread of hair off her temple with the back of her hand, her fingers drooping limply, a quick, sharp movement.

He whispered breathlessly:

"Do it again."

"What?"

"Your hair... the way you threw it back... I've been dreaming — for two years — of how you did that... and the way you walked, and the way you turned your head with that hair over one eye... I've tried to see it — as if you were here — so many times. And now you're here... here... Frances... but I want you to go back."

"It's too late to go back, Michael."

"Listen." His face was grim. "You can't stay here. I thank you. I appreciate what you've tried to do. But I can't let you stay. It's insane. There's nothing you can do."

"I can. I have a plan. I can't tell you now. And there's no other way for me to save you. I've tried everything. I've spent all the money I had. There's no way out of Strastnoy Island. No way but one. You have to help me."

"Not while you're here."

She walked away from him, turned calmly, stood, her arms crossed, her hands grasping her elbows, the golden thread of hair falling over one eye, looking at him calmly, the faintest wrinkle of a mocking smile in the corners of her long, thin mouth.

"Well?" she asked. "I'm here. What can you do about it?"

"If you don't go, I can tell one thing to Kareyev. Just one name. Yours."

"Can you? Think of it, Michael. Don't you know what he'd do to me if he learned the truth?"

"But..."

"It will be worse for me than for you, if you betray me. You could try to kill him. You'd never succeed, but you'd be executed and you'd leave me alone — in his power."

"But..."

"Or you could kill yourself — if you prefer. It would still leave me — alone."

She knew that she had won. She whirled toward him suddenly, her voice vibrant, passionate, commanding:

“Michael, don't you understand? I love you. I ask you to believe in me. There has never been a time when you could prove your faith, as you can do now. I'm asking the hardest of sacrifices. Don't you know that it's much harder sometimes to stand by and remain silent than to act? I'm doing my part. It's not easy. But yours is worse. Aren't you strong enough for it?"

His face set, his eyes on hers, a new fire in his eyes, he answered slowly:

"Yes."

She whispered, her lips close to his:

"It's not for your sake only, Michael. It's our life. It's the years awaiting us, and all that is still left to us, still possible — if we fight for it. One last struggle and then... then... Michael, I love you."

"I'll do my part, Frances."

"Keep away from me. Pretend you've never seen me before. Remember, your silence is your only way to protect me."

The vaults downstairs rang faintly as if from quick electric shocks. Kareyev's steps hurried up the stairs.

"He's coming, Michael," she whispered. "Here's your beginning. Apologize to me. It will be your first step to help me."

When Commandant Kareyev entered, Joan was standing by the table, examining indifferently a pair of stockings. Michael stood by the door. His head was bowed.

"Well, Volkontzev," the Commandant inquired, "have you had time to think it over? Have you changed your mind?"

Michael raised his head. Joan looked at him. Not a line moved in her calm face, not even the muscles around her eyes. But her eyes looked into his with a silent, desperate plea he alone could understand.

Michael made a step forward and bowed slightly.

"I have been mistaken about you, Comrade Harding," he said steadily, distinctly. "I'm sorry."

Editor's Note

In one summary of Red Pawn, Ayn Rand wrote the following about thebackground of Joan and Michael Presumably, this information would belong somewhere in the preceding sequence.

"Three years ago, as an engineer in charge of a Soviet factory, Michael had been sent on a mission to America. He had met Joan and married her there. But he was forced to return to Russia, because his mother was held as a hostage for his return. Joan had come to Russia with him. Then, during one of the usual political purges, Michael was arrested; the authorities had been suspicious of him for some time, because he showed too much ability, and men of ability are considered dangerous in Russia; besides, he had been abroad and was married to an American who, it was felt, must have taught him many dangerous ideas of freedom. Michael was sent to Strastnoy Island— for life. It had taken Joan two years to find out where he was."

The Strastnoy Island library was in the former chapel. Here, prisoners and guards off duty were allowed to spend their long days, to try and forget that their days had twenty-four hours — all of them alike.

The sacred emblems and ikons which could be removed had been taken down. But the old paintings on the walls could not be removed. Many centuries ago, the unknown hand of a great artist had spent a lifetime of dreary days immortalizing his soul on the chapel's walls. None could tell what dark secret, what sorrow had thrown him out of the world into its last, forgotten outpost. But all the power and passion, all the fire and rebellious agony of his tortured spirit had been poured into the somber colors on the walls, into majestic figures of a magnificent life, the life his eyes had seen and renounced. And the bodies of tortured saints silently cried of his ecstasy, his doubt, his hunger.

Through three narrow slits of windows, a cold haze of light streamed into the library, like a gray fog rolling in from the sea. It left the shadows of centuries to doze in the dark, vaulted corners. It threw white blotches on the rough, unpainted boards of bookshelves that cut into the angels' snowy wings, into the foreheads of saintly patriarchs; on the procession following the cross-bearing Jesus to the Golgotha; and above it — on the red letters on a strip of white cotton: PROLETARIANS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

Tall candles in silver stands at the altar had to be lighted in the daytime. Their little red flames stood immobile, each candle transformed into a chandelier by the myriads of tiny reflections in the gilded halos of carved saints; they burned without motion, without noise, a silent, resigned service in memory of the past — around a picture of Lenin-Above, on the vaulted ceiling, the unknown artist had placed his last work. A figure of Jesus floated in the clouds, His robe whiter than snow. He looked down with a sad, wise smile, His arms outstretched in silent invitation and blessing.

The library was the creation of Comrade Fedossitch, who liked to talk of "our duty to the new culture." The murals did not harmonize with his new culture and Comrade Fedossitch had tried to improve them. He had painted a red flag into the raised hand of Saint Vladimir as that first Christian ruler converted his people to the new faith; he had painted a sickle and hammer on Moses' tablets. But the ancient glazing that protected the murals, its secret lost with the monks, did not take fresh paint well. The red flag ran down the wall and peeled off in pieces. So Comrade Fedossitch had given up the idea of artistic alterations. He had compromised by tacking over Saint Vladimir's stomach a bright-red poster bearing a soldier and an airplane, and the inscription: COMRADES! DONATE TO THE RED AIR-FLEET!

On the shelves were The Constitution of the U.S.S.R., The ABC of Communism, the first volume of a novel, a book of verse without a cover, a Ladies' Guide to Fine Needlework, a manual of arithmetical problems for the first grade, and others.

Joan had brought a radio. She walked into the library carrying it under her arm, a square box with an awkward loudspeaker.

The men in the room rose, bowing to her, smiling a timid welcome. It was different from her first entrance into the library a week ago. Then they had ignored her, as if the door had opened to admit her and no one had entered the room; they had stepped out of her way, cautiously and speedily, as if she were a poisonous plant they did not care to touch. She had won them and none of them could say that she had tried. It was her fluffy, childish hair, and her wise, mysterious smile, and her eyes so defiantly open that they concealed her thoughts by exposing them, and her slow, leisurely steps that carried her down the monastery halls like a vision from these men's pasts, like the women they had left far behind in the years that had gone, in the halls of mansions that had crumbled.

An old surgeon and a former Senator did not greet her, however. They were playing chess on a corner of the long library table, where a chessboard had been traced on the unpainted wooden boards with cheap purple ink. The chess figures had been modeled out of stale bread. The Senator had a long black beard; he never shaved; he talked little and had trouble in shifting his eyes: they always looked straight into one spot for hours. He did not raise his head when Joan entered; neither did the surgeon.

An old general who wore a patched jacket and St. George's ribbon did not greet her, either. He was sitting alone, by a window, bending, his eyes squinting painfully in the dim light, busily carving wooden toys.

And still another man did not move when she entered: Michael sat alone under a tall candle reading a book for the third time. He turned a page and bent lower when the door opened to admit her.

"Good morning, Miss Harding," a prisoner who had been a Count greeted her. "How lovely you are today! May I help you? What is this?"

"Good morning," said Joan. "It's a radio."

"A radio!"

They surrounded her, stunned, eager, curious, looking at that box from somewhere where history, which had stopped for them, was still marching forward.

"A radio!" said the Count, adjusting his monocle. "So I'm not going to die without seeing one, after all."

"What's a radio, anyway?" asked an old professor.

Comrade Fedossitch, who had been painting a poster while sitting alone at a table in a corner, put his brush down and looked up, resentfully, frowning.

Joan put the radio down on the altar, under Lenin's picture. She said:

"This will cheer us all a little."

"A charming thought." The Count clicked his heels gallantly. "And what a charming gown! We of the old world said that woman was the flower of creation — and clothes the petals."

"Nothing can extinguish the torch of human progress," the gray-haired professor said solemnly. His hair was white as the angels' wings on the walls, and his eyes sad and innocent as theirs.

A tall young convict, his blond hair disheveled over a face still pale from fifty lashes he had received, said softly, his hesitant fingers touching the radio timidly:

"I haven't heard any music... for three years."

"The first concert," Joan announced, "on Strastnoy Island."

The radio coughed, hissed, as if clearing its throat. Then — the first notes of music dropped into the chapel like pebbles cutting into a deep, stagnant pool, tearing in sweet agony the virginal air that had never been disturbed by the sound of life.

"The hand of fate draws an eternal trace, I see your face again so close to mine..."

It was a woman's voice singing a song of memories, with a poignant joy as a shadow softening its sorrow, slow and resigned, like an autumn day, still breathing of a past sunshine, but giving it up without thunder, without a storm, with just one teardrop of a first, cold rain.

It rolled into the tortured murals, into the bookshelves and posters and candles from the world outside where life breathed and sent them one faint draught. And they stood, their mouths and their hearts open, gasping for the draught, reverent as at a sacred mass, hearing the music more with a strange, contracted spot in their breasts than with their ears.

They did not speak until the voice of the radio announcer had told them that it was a station in Leningrad. Then, the blond youth broke the silence:

"That was beautiful, Miss Harding. Almost..." A violent cough interrupted him, shaking his thin shoulders. "Almost as beautiful as you are... Thank you..."

He grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips, and held it there longer than mere gratitude dictated.

"Leningrad," the Count remarked, adjusting his monocle, an effort bringing back to his lips his old nonchalant smile. "It was St. Petersburg in my day. Funny how time flies... The quays of the Neva were all white. The snow squealed under the sleighs. We had music, too, at the Aquarium. Champagne that sparkled like music, and girls that sparkled like champagne..."

"I'm from Moscow," said the professor. "I gave lectures... at the University. 'The History of Aesthetics' — that was my last course..."

"I'm from the Volga," said the blond youth. "We were building a bridge across the Volga. It gleamed in the sun — like a steel knife that was to slash across the river's body."

"When Mademoiselle Collette danced at the Aquarium," said the Count, "we threw gold coins on the table."

"Young students listened to me," the professor whispered. "Rosy cheeks... bright eyes... Young Russia..."

"It was to be the longest bridge in the world... Perhaps, someday... I might go back and..." He did not finish; he coughed.

"I have faith in Russia." The professor spoke solemnly, like a prophet. "Our Saint Russia has known dark years before and has risen triumphant. What if we have to fall on the way as dry leaves swept by a torrent? Russia will live."

"It seems to me, citizen" — Comrade Fedossitch rose slowly, frowning, approaching Joan — "that it must be against the law to play this here radio of yours."

"Is it, Comrade Fedossitch?"

"Well, if you ask me, it is. But then, I don't have the say. It may be all right for Comrade Kareyev. It was against the law to let a female citizen in here. But then, how could they refuse anything to such a worthy comrade as Commandant Kareyev?"

He walked out, slamming the door. Five years ago, in Nijni Kolimsk, Comrade Fedossitch had been a candidate for the post of Commandant of Strastnoy Island. But the GPU had chosen Comrade Kareyev.

"I gather," said the Count, following Fedossitch with his eyes, "that the male citizen does not care for the fine art of music. And I observe that he is not alone. How about you, Volkontzev? Not interested?"

"I've heard music before," Michael answered abruptly, turning a page.

"I think that men who let some pet prejudice of theirs stand against the most wonderful woman in the world," said the young engineer, "ought to be thrown into the pit."

"Leave him alone," said the Count. "I'm sure Miss Harding will excuse his unreasonable antipathy."

"But will she forgive mine?" a hoarse voice asked.

They all turned to the sound.

The old general got up, looking straight at Joan, a timid, awkward apology in his old, stubborn face. He made a step forward, came back, picked up his wooden toy; then walked to her, clutching his precious work in his big, stubby fingers.

"I'm sorry, Miss Harding" — he clicked his heels in bast shoes, as if hoping to hear the old sound of military spurs — "if I've been rather... Can you forget?"

"Certainly, General." Joan smiled, her smile warm as a caress, and extended her hand.

The general quickly transferred the toy to his left hand and shook hers in a tight grasp.

"That..." He indicated the box from which the soft tune of a folk song floated into the room. "Is that played in St. Petersburg?"

"Yes."

"I'm from St. Petersburg. Eleven years. I've left my wife there. And Iura, my grandson. He's the grandest little fellow. He was two years old when I left. He had blue eyes, just like... like my son."

He stopped suddenly. Joan noticed the awkward silence that none of the men seemed willing to break.

The Count proved to be the bravest.

"What are you making now, General? A new one?" he asked, pointing at the toy. "You know, Miss Harding, our general is a proud old man. We have a little workshop here where we're allowed to make things: boots, baskets, and such. When the boat comes, they collect it all and take it away, to the cities. They bring us cigarettes, woolen scarfs, socks — in exchange. The boots are the most profitable to make. But the general won't make boots."

"No one shall say," the general interrupted proudly, "that a general of the Army of his Imperial Majesty stooped to making boots."

"He makes wooden toys, instead," the Count explained. "He invents them himself."

"This is a new one." The general smiled eagerly. "I'll show you."

He raised the toy and pulled a little stick; a wooden peasant and bear armed with hammers struck an anvil in turn, jerking awkwardly. As the tiny hammers knocked rhythmically through the music, the Count whispered into Joan's ear:

"Don't ever mention his son. He was a captain in the old army. The reds hanged him — before his father's eyes."

"You see," the general was explaining, "I'm always thinking that my toys go out into the world and children play with them, little chubby, rosy fellows, like Iura... And sometimes, I think, wouldn't it be funny if one of the toys fell into his hands, and... But then, how stupid of me!... Eleven years... he's a full-grown young man, by now..."

"Checkmate, Doctor," the Senator's raucous voice boomed suddenly. "Were you paying any attention to the game? Or am I going to lose the last man I can speak to?"

He shot a dark, significant glance at the general, and left the room, slamming the door.

"Poor fellow," sighed the general. "You mustn't be angry at him, Miss Harding. He won't speak to anyone that speaks to you. He's not quite sane."

"He can't forgive you," explained the Count, "for what he presumes to be your... shall we say ethical differences?... with his code... You see, he shot his own daughter — and also the Bolshevik who had attacked her."

Comrade Fedossitch found Commandant Kareyev inspecting the guard posts on the wall.

"I'm taking the liberty to report to the Comrade Commandant" — he saluted — "that there are unlawful doings going on in the library."

"What's the trouble?"

"It's the comrade woman. She's playing music." "On what?" "On a radio."

"Well, isn't that great? I haven't heard one for five years."

When Commandant Kareyev entered, there was a strange, tense silence in the library. The men were surrounding Joan. She knelt by the radio, turning the dial slowly, listening intently, frowning in concentration. He felt the suspense and stopped at the door.

"I think I have it," Joan's triumphant voice greeted a faint rumble from the loudspeaker.

A blast of jazz music exploded into the room, like a skyrocket bursting out of the loudspeaker, rising and breaking into flaming colors under the dark vaults.

"Abroad," said one of the men, breathlessly, reverently, as if he were saying: "Heaven."

The music was the end of a dance. It finished abruptly in a burst of applause. It was an unusual sound to enter the library. The men grinned and applauded, too.

A nasal Oriental voice spoke an announcement in French. Joan translated:

"This is the Cafe Electric, Tokyo, Japan. We are now going to hear the lightest, gayest, maddest tune that ever conquered the capitals of Europe: the 'Song of Dancing Lights.'"

It was a challenge, it was an insulting burst of laughter right into the grim face of Strastnoy Island. It was like a ray of light split by a mirror, its sparkling bits sent flying, dancing over the dark, painted walls. It was the halting, drifting, irregular raving of a music drunk on its own gaiety. It was the voice of streetlights on a blazing boulevard under a dark sky, of electric signs, of automobile headlights, of diamond buckles on dancing feet.

Still kneeling by the radio, like a solemn priestess to that hymn of living, Joan spoke. She spoke to the men, but her eyes were on Commandant Kareyev. He stood at the door. At one side of him was a painting of a saint burning at the stake, his face distorted into a smile of insane ecstasy, renouncing the pleasures and the tortures of the flesh for the glory of his heaven; at the other side — a poster of a huge machine with little ant-sized men, sweating at its gigantic levers, and the inscription: "Our duty is our sacrifice to the red collective of the Communistic State!"

Joan was speaking:

"Somewhere, they are dancing to this music. It's not very far. It's on this same earth. Over there, the man is holding the woman in his arms. They, too, have a duty. It's a duty to look into each other's eyes and smile at life an answer beyond all doubts, all questions, all sorrows."

Her head thrown back, her body on the dark altar steps, tense, listening to the song with its every muscle, seemed a sacrificial offering to the Deity she was serving. The candlelight drowned in her hair, golden as the saints' halos.

She did not feel Michael's hungry eyes. She was smiling at Commandant Kareyev.

Commandant Kareyev did not say a word. He walked to the altar. He turned the radio dial without looking at it, his eyes on her. He turned until he found a voice speaking in stern, familiar, Party accents:

"... and in closing this meeting of the workers of the first Moscow Textile factory, let me remind you, comrades, that but one devotion has a place in our lives: our devotion to the great aim of the world revolution."

The radio coughed applause. Another voice announced:

"Comrades! We shall close this meeting by singing our great anthem — the Internationale.'"

The slow, majestic notes of the red hymn marched solemnly into the air.

"All men — stand up!" ordered Commandant Kareyev.

It seemed that red banners unrolled under the vaults, under Jesus' white robes. It seemed that drums beat through the singing chorus, drums and footsteps of men marching gladly, steadily into battle, their lives a ready sacrifice to the call of the song.

Commandant Kareyev did not say a word. He looked at Joan, a little wrinkle of a smile in the corners of his mouth, the song giving her his answer.

Joan stood up. She leaned over the radio. She looked at him, calm, undefeated. Her lips parted in a slow, mysterious, indulgent smile.

Snow was falling beyond the library windows. It gathered on the sills outside, rising slowly, closing the barred squares one by one. White flakes crashed silently into the glass panes and stayed there like fluffy, broken stars. It made the library darker. New candles burned at the altar.

Commandant Kareyev's hand had long, sinewy fingers. They grasped things tightly, precisely, as if closing over the trigger of an aimed gun. Commandant Kareyev was turning the radio dial impatiently.

"I can't get it, dear," he said. "No one seems to be playing our 'Song of Dancing Lights' today."

Joan's hand covered his and led it, turning the dial slowly, together. She bent over the radio, her cheek pressed to his forehead, her blond hair brushing his temple, blinding him, getting tangled in his dark eyelashes.

They caught the familiar tune in the middle of a laughing sentence. It came like the unseen hand of the outside world, drawing a curtain of tumbling notes over the snow-laden windows, making Commandant Kareyev's lips smile gaily, eagerly, a young happiness relaxing his stern wrinkles.

The library was deserted. He sat on the altar steps, drawing Joan close to him.

"Here it is," he said, "the anthem of our duty."

Her finger was wandering over his forehead, following the veins on his temple. She said:

"They play it well tonight. It's night in Japan now."

"And there are lights... dancing lights..."

"Not candles, like here."

"If we were there tonight, I'd take you to this place where they are playing our song. And if there's snow on the ground, like here, I'd carry you out of the car in my arms so that the snow wouldn't touch your little slippers."

"They have no snow there. They have cherry trees in blossom — all white."

"Like your shoulders under the lights. There are men sitting at tables there, the kind of men who wear black suits and diamond studs. They'll look at you. I want them to look at you. At your shoulders. I want them to know you're mine."

"Cherry blossoms and music... no footsteps on the wall outside; no groans from the pit."

"But you came to all this — and to me. And you've stayed with me."

"I came because I was desperate. I stayed because I found something I didn't expect."

Her hand moved slowly from his forehead down to his chin, studying tenderly every line.

"It's strange, Joan... I've tracked a cross over Russia, through forests and swamps, with a gun and a red flag. I thought I was marching toward the dawn of the world revolution. It has always been there, ahead of me. And now, when I look ahead, the golden dawn is nothing but," he finished with a laughing tenderness, drawing her closer, "a lock of your hair loose in the wind because you forgot to comb it."

He sat on the altar steps. She knelt by his side, erect, her hands on his shoulders. Behind them tall candles burned before golden saints; above them was the picture of Lenin; the radio played the "Song of Dancing Lights."

Through the windows where the rising snow was growing whiter against a darkening sky came the shrill whistle of a boat. He did not seem to notice it, but Joan started.

"The boat," she said. "The last boat before the sea freezes."

He did not turn to look at the window. He smiled slyly, happily.

"I have a little surprise for you, Joan. And will you do something for me? Will you wear tonight, for dinner, the blue dress I like?"

She walked to the window and peered through the frosted pattern. The boat had stopped at the old landing. Most of the prisoners had been ordered to unload the cargo; there was more freight than usual.

The general was the first to appear, bent under a huge crated object. Joan heard his heavy steps in the corridor. She opened the library door and watched him pass on his way upstairs.

"I think it's an armchair," the general grinned at her, passing by. "It feels like one. Although I've never yet felt an armchair from the underside."

The next one to come was Comrade Fedossitch. He shuffled to the library door and stopped, saluting, out of breath.

"It's here, Comrade Commandant. It's arrived," he reported, servility fighting indignation in his voice. "The boat's arrived. Don't you want to come down and watch the men — under the unusual circumstances?"

Commandant Kareyev waved his hand, annoyed.

"I thought I told you to watch them. You can do it. I'm busy.”

More packages came, carried through the corridor, up the stairs to Kareyev's room. The prisoners' boots left tracks of dirty, melting snow as they passed.

The professor and the Senator came with a long, heavy roll of carpet. The professor smiled at Joan. The Senator, his beard longer, his cheeks whiter than before, turned his head away.

The young engineer carried a box in which something rattled with a metallic sound. His cheeks were beginning to acquire an unnatural bright rosiness. His eyes sparkled with a feverish vivacity.

"I think it's for Miss Harding," he said aloud as if to himself, passing by the library door, rattling the box, watching Joan from the corner of his eye. "I admire the Commandant — for the first time."

The Count carried a carefully crated box stuffed with straw. He held it with the reverence due a priceless load. The load made the sound of clinking glass.

"Congratulations, Miss Harding," he smiled triumphantly, winking at the box. "That is what I call a real victory!"

Commandant Kareyev watched Joan's wide, questioning eyes as they followed the procession up the stairs. He did not explain.

Michael stopped at the open door. His tall shoulders were beginning to droop; so did the corners of his mouth. His eyes were darker than usual; and that darkness, like a wave of unbearable pain, seemed to have overflown his eyes and frozen in blue puddles of circles under them. The sparkling defiance of Michael Volkontzev was gone; a brooding bitterness had taken its place.

He carried on his shoulders a large bundle sewn in heavy burlap. It seemed soft and light. He looked at Joan and Kareyev in the doorway, her head resting on his shoulder.

"These are pillows, I believe," said Michael. "Do they go to your room or her room — or does it make any difference?"

Joan did not raise her head.

"To my room," said Kareyev.

Joan wore her blue dress for dinner. The dark velvet clung to her body tightly, almost too tightly; but a severe military collar clasped her neck high under her chin.

One candle burned on the table in the middle of Commandant Kareyev's room. It made a little island of light in the darkness, and a bright flame in the black panes of the window. She saw the shadows of long dark drapes; she felt a soft carpet under her feet. Two big armchairs stood at the table. A white stain in the darkness by the wall was a heavy lace spread on the bed with faint glimmers of candlelight in the new satin pillows.

"It's all for your room," Kareyev hurried to explain, smiling happily, almost bashfully, before she could say a word. "It's here... just for a surprise."

Across the swaying candle flame, Joan smiled at him. His eyes did not leave her. He watched for her to notice the snow-white tablecloth, the delicate china dishes, the little red sparks dancing in the silverware and the tall cut-glass goblets.

Joan's eyes had melted into a soft, dreamy warmth. When she looked at Kareyev they sparkled with more than the candlelight's reflection. They stopped one second longer than a glance required, lingering in a caress for the two of them alone to understand.

They were not alone. A waiter stood by the wall. It was Michael's turn to wait on the Commandant's table.

He stood, hunching his shoulders, thrusting his head forward, watching solicitously Commandant Kareyev's every movement, stiff and smiling discreetly, an exaggerated picture of a correct waiter. He had thrown a white napkin over his arm — which had never been required. The maître d’hôtel of one of the fashionable restaurants which Michael Volkontzev used to visit would not have approved, however, of the look in that perfect waiter's eyes.

"This is our anniversary, Joan," said Kareyev, when they sat down. "Don't you remember? You came here three months ago."

She smiled, indicating the table:

"And such is the end of Commandant Kareyev."

"No. The beginning."

He leaned closer to her, speaking eagerly.

"I'll bring everything you want here. I'll make this island for you — what you make it for me."

“What I've made it — for us."

She did not notice Michael's eyes that seemed to gather her every syllable, tearing them, in silent, ferocious agony, off her lips.

Kareyev shook his head slowly. "I don't like that word. I've served it for such a long time. For us. We — the people, the collective, the millions. I've fought on barricades — for us. I've fought in the trenches. I've shot at men and men have shot at me. For us, for them, for those countless others somewhere around me, those for whom I've given a lifetime, my every moment, my every thought, my blood. For us. I don't want to hear the word. Because now — it's for me. You came here — for me. You're mine. I won't share that with anyone on earth. Mine. What a word that is — when you begin to understand it!"

She smiled, mocking, a little reproachful.

"Why, Comrade Kareyev!"

He smiled timidly, apologetically.

"Yes, Comrade Kareyev — tomorrow. And after tomorrow. And for many days to come. But not tonight. I can have one night for my own, can't I? Look." He pointed at the table proudly. "I ordered all this for you — by wireless. I have money in the bank at Nijni Kolimsk. My salary. Had nothing to do with it for five years... I guess it wasn't money alone that I've been missing for five years — for more than thirty-five years."

"It's never too late while one lives — if one still wants to live."

"It's strange, Joan. I've never really known what it was to want to live. I've never thought of tomorrow. I didn't care what bullet ended me — or when. But now, for the first time, I want to be spared. Am I a traitor, Joan?"

"One cannot be a traitor to anything," said Joan, "except to oneself."

"Loyalty," said Michael, "is like rubber: one can stretch it so far, and then — it snaps."

Kareyev looked at him surprised, as if noticing him for the first time.

"Where did you get these perfect waiter's manners, Volkontzev?" he asked.

"Oh, I've had a lot of experience, sir," Michael answered calmly, "from a slightly different angle, though. We had banquets in my day, too. I remember one. We had many flowers and guests. We had a wedding such as those of the old days. She held a bouquet more gracefully than any woman I've ever seen. She wore a long white veil — then."

Commandant Kareyev looked at him, looked at a convict with a shadow of sympathy — for the first time.

"Do you miss her?" he asked.

"No," said Michael. "I wish I did."

"And she?"

"She's the kind that doesn't stay lonely for a long time."

"I wouldn't say that about a woman I had loved."

"You and I, Commandant, did not love the same woman."

"After dinner," Joan said slowly, looking at Michael, "will you bring some wood to my room? I've burned the last logs. It's very cold at night."

Michael bowed silently.

Commandant Kareyev pointed to a dark bottle that stood on the table. Michael poured, filling their glasses.

The wine was dark red, and when he poured it, little ruby sparks tumbled into the glasses, as a draft waved the candle flame.

Commandant Kareyev rose holding his glass, looking at Joan. She rose, too.

"To love," he said calmly, solemnly.

He had pronounced the word for the first time.

Joan held her glass out to his. They met over the candle. It threw a trembling red glow over their faces through the dark liquid, and the shadows swayed over their cheeks, as the flame in the draft.

Her hand jerked suddenly, when she sat down. She spilled a red drop on the white tablecloth. Michael hurried to refill her glass.

"To love, madame," he said, "that is — and that was."

She drank.

Joan was alone in her room when Michael entered carrying the wood. She watched him silently, standing at the window, her arms crossed, without moving-He dropped the logs by the stove. He asked, without looking at her:

"Is that all?"

"Start the fire," she ordered.

He obeyed, kneeling by the stove. He struck a match and the crisp bark crackled, curling, twisting, bursting into little white flames. She approached him and whispered:

"Michael, please listen. I..."

"How many logs, madame?" he asked coldly.

"Michael, what were you trying to do? Do you want to ruin my plan?"

"I didn't know there was any plan left to ruin."

"Your faith doesn't last long, does it?"

"My faith? What about his? I've seen what you've done to that."

"Isn't that what I set out to do?"

"Yes, but I can see the way you look at him. I can see the way you talk to him. What am I to believe?"

"My love."

"I believe in that. Yes. Your love. But for whom?"

"Don't you know?"

"He trusts you, too. Which one of us are you deceiving?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing with the indifferent, even, enigmatic glance that no one could answer. She said slowly, with the innocence of a perfect calm:

"Maybe both."

He stepped toward her, his voice tense, his eyes pleading:

"Frances, I trust you. I wouldn't last here one day if I didn't trust you. But I can't stand it. We've tried. There's nothing we can do. You must see that now. It's hopeless. The boat leaves at dawn. It's the last one before the sea freezes. You'll go back. You'll take that boat tomorrow."

She spoke slowly, without changing her voice, her words lazy, indifferent: "I won't take that boat, Michael. Someone else is taking it." "Who's taking it?" "You."

He stared at her, speechless.

"Keep working on that fire," she ordered.

He obeyed. She bent over him, whispering quickly, eagerly:

"Listen carefully. You'll get on board. You'll hide in the hold. The Commandant won't make his inspection rounds tonight, I'll see to that."

"But..."

"Here are the keys to the outside door and the gate. There's only one guard on the wall who can see the landing. Watch him. At midnight he'll be removed."

"How?"

"Leave that to me. When you see him go — hurry to the boat."

"And you?"

"I'm staying here."

He stared at her. She added:

"I'm staying here just a little longer. To keep him from discovering your escape. Don't worry. There's no danger. He'll never know who helped you."

He took her hand. "Frances..."

"Dearest, not a word. Please! I've lived three long months for just this night. We can't weaken now. We can't retreat. It's our last battle. You understand?"

He nodded slowly. She whispered:

"I'll join you in a free country where we'll take these last two years of our lives, and seal them, and never open them again."

"But I'd like to read again about what you've done."

"There's only one thing I want you to read and remember, only one thing that I'll write over these years: I love you."

They heard Kareyev's steps outside. Michael went out as he entered. Joan stood at the open door of the stove where a bright flame whistled merrily. She said to Michael, aloud:

"Thank you, this will warm the room. I'll feel much better — tonight."

"We wander in the darkness," said the professor. "Man has lost sight of beauty. There is a great beauty on this earth of ours. A beauty one's spirit can approach only bare-headed. But how many of us ever get a glimpse of it?"

Commandant Kareyev's window was a long, thin, blue cut in the darkness of his room. The moonlight made a long, thin band across the floor, checkered into panes, pointed as the door of an ancient cathedral. In the darkness by the window, Joan's head was leaning against the back of an armchair, her face a pale white with soft blue shadows under her cheekbones, with a glowing blue patch in the triangle under her chin thrown back, her mouth dark and soft and tender, glistening with a few lost sparks of moonlight. The darkness swallowed her body and only her hands were white on her knees, and in her hands lay the face of Commandant Kareyev at her feet. He did not move. The light of a single candle on the table did not reach them. He whispered, his dark hair brushing her white wrists:

"... and then, someday, you may want to leave me..."

She shook her head slowly.

"You may be lonely here in winter. The sea freezes. The nights are so long."

"Nights like this?"

He looked at the window, smiling.

"Lovely, isn't it? I've never noticed that before. As if... as if it were a night for just the two of us."

Somewhere, far downstairs, an old clock slowly chimed twelve. She repeated softly at the last stroke:

"Yes... for just the two... of us. Let's step outside. It's lovely."

Commandant Kareyev wrapped her winter cloak around her shoulders. The huge collar of fluffy gray fox swallowed her head, rising over the tips of her blond curls.

On the gallery outside, a soft silver glow streamed from the heavy, sparkling fringe of icicles on the cornices above their heads. A guard with a lantern passed slowly on the wall before them. Beyond the wall rose the black funnel of the boat.

Commandant Kareyev looked at her. It had been his first wine in five years. It had been his first celebration. He drew her closer. His hand slipped under the fluffy fox collar. She jerked herself away.

The island was blue under the moon, blue-white, sparkling like hard clean sugar. Dark shadows cut black holes in the snow, with sharp gaping edges. The sky, a black precipice above, twinkled with a white foam of stars floating over its smooth surface, as the foam that crashed furiously against the island, leaping in silver sprays high over the top of the walls. On the black precipice of the sea below floated the white shadows of the first ice.

The lights were out in the monastery. The entrance door had been locked for the night. The gray flag fought the wind on the tower.

Michael sat on his cot in the darkness and watched the wall outside. A guard walked there slowly, back and forth. His lantern seemed a little red eye winking at Michael. His muffler flapped in the wind.

Michael's roommate, the old professor, had gone to bed. But he could not sleep. He sighed in the darkness, and made the sign of the cross.

"Aren't you going to bed, Michael?"

"Not yet."

"Why do you keep your coat on?"

"I'm cold."

"That's funny. I feel stuffy in here... Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The professor turned to the wall. Then he sighed. Then he turned to Michael again.

"Do you hear the sea? It has been beating there for centuries. It's been moaning before we came here. It will be moaning long after we're gone."

He made the sign of the cross. Michael was watching the guard's lantern.

“What's the matter?" he whispered.

"Not here."

"Why?"

Calmly, she pointed to the guard on the wall, a few steps away. Commandant Kareyev smiled- He blew his whistle. The guard turned abruptly, raised his head, saluted.

"Report to post number four at once," Kareyev shouted over the roar of the waves. "Patrol it until further orders."

The guard saluted, climbed down, hurried away across the white yard, snow crunching under his boots.

Commandant Kareyev's lips sank into Joan's. His arms crushed her body against his.

"Did you ever feel a moment when you knew why you had been living, my dearest... dearest..." he whispered. ”I'm happy... Joan."

Her head was thrown far back, so far that he could see the reflection of the stars in her eyes; so far that she could see the yard below. Her body fell backwards recklessly, limp against his arm. She was smiling triumphantly, deliriously.

"Why do you look so strange, Joan? Why do you smile like that?"

"I'm happy — tonight," she whispered at the stars.

Michael opened the entrance door noiselessly. He tried with his foot the frozen, slippery steps outside. He felt the gun in his pocket. He stepped out. It took him three minutes to pull the door closed again, slowly, gradually, without a sound. He locked it behind him.

The blue snow glared at him. But there was a narrow line of shadow under the wall of the building. He could follow it to the landing gate. He glided silently into the deep snow, pressing himself against the wall. The snow rose higher than his boots. He could feel it sliding inside. It felt hot as a burn against the holes in his old woolen socks. He moved slowly, his eyes on the empty wall where the guard had been, drawn by it as by a magnet.

He stopped across from the landing gate. He could see the boat's funnel beyond it. There was no sound on the island but the beating of waves against the wall. He could see two little red dots of lanterns far away. He had to cross to the gate in the open, in the snow. But the guards were too far. The lights were out in the building.

He threw himself down in the snow and crawled as fast as he could toward the gate. He felt the snow biting his wrists between his gloves and sleeves. Halfway across, he raised his head to look back at the building. He stopped.

High on an open gallery, he saw two figures. They were immobile in a passionate embrace. The man's back was to the yard below.

Michael rose to his feet. He stood in the open, in the glaring snow, and looked at them. One glove slid from his hand, but he didn't notice it. There was no sound as the glove fell; no sound of his breathing, not even of his heart. Then he ran through the snow, in the moonlight, back to the monastery door.

Commandant Kareyev and Joan turned when the door of his room was flung open. Joan screamed. Michael stood on the threshold, snow dripping from his clothes.

"You might need these," he said and threw the keys into Kareyev's face. "I've tried to escape. I don't care what you do to me. And I don't care what you do to her."

"Michael!" Joan screamed. "Get out of here! Keep quiet!"

"She's afraid," said Michael, "that I'll tell you that she's my wife!

"Oh, that's all right," he continued, as no answer came. "You can have her, with my compliments and permission. Only I don't think you needed the permission."

Commandant Kareyev looked at Joan. She stood straight, looking at him. The cloak with the fluffy collar had fallen to her feet.

Commandant Kareyev bent down and picked up the keys. Then he blew his whistle three times. A little drop of blood rolled from his lips where the keys had struck him.

Comrade Fedossitch and two guards appeared at the door. Comrade Fedossitch was hastily pulling his night-shirt into his trousers.

"Put Citizen Volkontzev in the tower detention cell," Commandant Kareyev ordered.

"Why don't you throw me into the pit?" asked Michael. "You'll be rid of me quicker. Then you can enjoy my wife without any trouble."

"Did you say — your wife, Citizen Volkontzev?" gasped Comrade Fedossitch.

"Put Citizen Volkontzev in the tower detention cell," repeated Commandant Kareyev.

The guards grasped Michael's arms. He walked out, head high, laughing. Comrade Fedossitch followed. The long flame of a candle on the table hissed in the silence, smoking, reaching the end of the little wax butt. Commandant Kareyev looked at Joan. She stood leaning against the table, her head bent, looking at her toe buried in the fur collar on the floor-Commandant Kareyev walked to a shelf, took a new candle, lighted it, replaced the old one. He stood waiting. She did not look at him, did not speak. He asked:

"What are you going to say?"

"Nothing."

"Is it true?"

"My name is Frances Volkontzeva."

"You love him?"

She looked at him slowly, fixedly, from under her eyelids, without raising her head.

"I didn't say that," she answered.

He waited. She was silent.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" he asked.

"No... but that's all I'm going to say."

"Why?"

"I won't explain. You won't believe me."

"That's for me to decide."

His words were an order; but his eyes were a plea.

She studied him again from under her eyelids. Then she raised her head. She looked straight at him. Her eyes were clear and haughty, as they always were when she was proud of the truth in her words or prouder of the lie.

"Well, yes, I'm his wife. Yes, I came here only to save my husband. I came here hating all Communists. But I stayed because I loved one."

He did not move. But she noticed that he made an effort not to move and she knew that she could go on.

"At first it was just a game, like my name Joan. But, you see, Joan killed Frances, and now it's Joan who lives... and loves."

"She did not forget Frances' plans, however."

"Oh, don't you understand? I wanted him out of the way. How could I remain here with that threat, that reminder always before me? I wanted his freedom to feel that I had earned mine. But you don't have to believe me."

Her eyes were defiant; but her lips trembled, soft and childish, and her body leaned against the table, suddenly frail, helpless, calling for his protection.

"I was young when I married Michael. I thought I loved him. I didn't learn what love could be until it was too late."

In his arms was all the strength of his despair, of his faith grateful to be forced to believe again.

"It's never too late," he whispered, "while one lives — if one still wants to live."

She was laughing through his kisses, laughing happily.

"Let him escape," she whispered. "You can't leave him here. And you can't kill him. He'll always stand between us."

"Don't talk about him, now, dear. Let's just keep silent, and let me hold you like this... close."

"Let him go. I'll stay here with you... forever."

"You don't know what you're asking. If I let him go, there will be an investigation. They'll learn your real name and arrest you. We'll be separated. Forever."

"I can't stay here if he does."

"And as long as I'm Commandant here, I can't betray my Party's confidence."

"Well, then, do you have to be Commandant here?"

He let her out of his arms, stepped back, and looked at her. He was not indignant, just surprised.

"Oh, don't you see?" Her voice fell to a passionate, breathless whisper. "I've betrayed my whole past when I said I loved you. Do the same. Let's kill the years behind us with one blow — and start life again from the same grave."

"What do you mean, Joan?"

"Let's escape all together — the three of us. I know that you can't leave without permission, but we'll take the emergency motorboat. We'll go to Nijni Kolimsk. I have a friend there — an English merchant. He has connections in the GPU — it's right across the street."

"And... then?"

"He'll arrange our passage on an English ship to foreign lands, far, far away. To America. There Michael will give me my freedom. It's a fair exchange. And then..."

"Joan, I've belonged to a Party for twenty-two years. A Party that fought for the revolution."

"That fought for them? The people, the collective? Look at them, your millions. They sleep, they eat, they marry, they die. Is there one among them who will shed one tear in honor of a man that gave up his desire of desires for their sake?"

"They're my brothers, Joan. You don't understand our duty, our great struggle. They're hungry. They have to be fed."

"But your own heart will die of starvation."

"They've toiled hopelessly for centuries."

"But you'll give up your own last hope."

"They've suffered so much."

"But you're going to learn what suffering means."

"There is a great duty..."

"Yes, we all have a great duty. A sacred inviolable duty, and we spend our lives trying to violate it. Our duty to ourselves. We fight it, we stifle it, we compromise. But there comes a day when it gives us an order, its last, highest order — and then we can't disobey any longer. You want to go. With me. You want it. That's the highest of all reasons. You can't question it. When you can't ask any questions — then you know you're facing your duty."

He moaned helplessly:

"Oh, Joan, Joan!"

She stood before him, solemn as a priestess looking into the future, but her words were soft, dreamy, as if her voice were smiling between her stern lips, and it seemed to him that it was not her voice, not her words, but the soft, faint movements of her mouth that drew him, tempting, irresistible, into a future it knew, but he had never known.

"Over there, far away, electric fires will blaze on dark boulevards... and they'll play the 'Song of Dancing Lights'..."

He whispered obediently:

"... and I'll carry you out of the car..."

"... and I'll teach you to dance..."

"... and I'll laugh, laugh, and will never feel guilty..."

"Are we going?"

He seemed to awaken suddenly. He stepped aside. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again she saw the look she had forgotten on the Beast's face.

"The boat is to leave at dawn," he said slowly. "I'll order it to wait till noon. You can pack your clothes. At noon, you'll go — alone."

"Is that your choice?"

"I know what I'm missing. But there are some things I can't do. I want you to go — before it is too late for me."

"Repeat it again." Her voice was calm, like his, and indifferent.

"Tomorrow — at noon — you will go — alone."

"All right, Commandant. I'll go to sleep, since I have to travel tomorrow... Goodnight... When you think of me, remember only that I... loved you."

The big trunk stood open in the middle of Joan's room. She folded her dresses slowly and put them in, one by one. She wrapped her slippers in paper. She gathered her stockings, that made a film thin as smoke over her fingers; her white powder puffs, her crystal bottles of perfume. She moved through the room quietly, without hurry. She was as calmly indifferent as on the day when she had unpacked that trunk.

She could hear, above the roar of the sea, the low droning of bells that moaned when the wind was very strong. The sea, a dirty white, turbid like dishwater, swayed furiously, ready to be slung out of the pail. The spurting sprays of foam soiled the sky to a muddy gray-Twice, Joan had stepped out into the hall and looked at the room next to hers. Its door was open. It was empty. Its new carpet was a deep blue in the daylight. The lace spread and pillows on the bed had not been disturbed. One pillow had been flung against the wall in a far corner.

The monastery was silent. The wind whistled in the old abandoned cells high on top of the towers. Below, in the long, dim halls, whispers crawled eagerly, stealthily, as hushed gusts of wind.

"... and all the time she was his wife."

"I don't envy him."

"I do. I wish I had a woman who loved me like that."

In a huddled group on a stair landing, the old professor whispered, sighing:

"How lonely this place will be without her!"

"I'm glad she's going," a weary voice answered, "for her sake."

At a window, the general leaned on the Count's shoulder. They were watching the sea.

"Well, the Beast has made people suffer," the general whispered. "It's his turn."

"He's getting the loan back," the Count remarked, "with plenty of interest."

Comrade Fedossitch leaned heavily, crouching, against a windowsill. He was not looking at the sea. He was looking, his shrewd, narrow pupils fixed tensely, up at the tower platform under the bells. The tall figure of a man stood there, at the parapet. Comrade Fedossitch had a good idea of what the Commandant was thinking.

Commandant Kareyev stood on the tower, the wind tearing his hair. He was looking far out to where the clouds, as a heavy gray curtain, had descended over the coast and all that lay beyond the coast. Commandant Kareyev had faced long city streets where barricades rose red with human flags and human blood, where, behind every corner, from every rooftop, machine guns coughed a death rattle deadlier than that of a consumptive. He had faced long trenches where behind rusted barbed wire thin, bluish blades of steel waited, silent, sure, pitiless. But his face had never looked as it did now.

Steps grated on the stairs behind him. He turned. The young engineer was coming up, carrying a stepladder and a new red flag. The old flag was gray, shivering desolately in its last convulsions, high over the cupola white with snow.

The engineer looked at him. In his young, blue eyes was a sorrow he knew they were sharing. He said slowly:

"It's a bad morning, Commandant. Gray. No sun."

"There will be no sun for a long time," said Kareyev.

"I'm cold. I'm so cold. And..." He looked straight into Kareyev's eyes. "I'm not the only one, Commandant."

"No," said Commandant Kareyev, "you're not the only one."

The engineer put his stepladder against the tower wall. Then he turned again. He said, as if each word were to pierce the grim, fathomless pupils of the man he had hated until that moment:

"If I found that the climate here wasn't good for my lifeblood, I'd flee to the end of the world — if I were free."

Kareyev looked at him. Then he looked slowly up, at the old flag fighting the wind between the clouds and the snow. He said thoughtfully, irrelevantly, pointing up:

"Look at that red flag. Red against the white snow. Doesn't look well together."

"The flag has faded," the engineer said slowly. "The snow has taken its color away."

"It was of cheap material. Good stuff keeps its color — in all weather."

"It's due for a change, Commandant. It has served its time."

He climbed up the ladder. He turned again to look down at the man before him. He spoke suddenly, with an impetuous fire, with the solemn gravity of a prophet, his voice clear, vibrant in the wind:

"A thousand years from now, Commandant, whether the world is red as this flag or white as the snow, who will care that a certain Communist on a speck of an island gave up the very blood of his heart — for the glory of the world revolution?"

Joan's door was left open. Commandant Kareyev passed by. He hesitated. She saw him and called:

"Good morning.”

"Good morning," he answered.

"Won't you come in? We're not parting like enemies, are we?"

"Of course not."

"Maybe you'll help me to pack? Here, can you fold this blue velvet dress for me?"

She handed him the dress she had worn the night before, his favorite one. He folded it; he handed it back to her; he said brusquely:

"I'm sorry. I can't help you much. I'm busy."

He walked away. In the corridor, Comrade Fedossitch stopped him. Comrade Fedossitch bowed. Comrade Fedossitch said gently:

"The boat is waiting for Frances Volkontzeva, Comrade Commandant."

"Well?"

"Do I understand it correctly that she is going away free, that she is not to be arrested for her counterrevolutionary, treacherous plan?"

"She is going away free."

"I should think our duty is to send her to the GPU in Nijni Kolimsk. I should think hers is a serious offense against the State, punishable by..."

"Someday, Comrade Fedossitch, you may be Commandant of this island. Someday. Not yet."

Commandant Kareyev saw Joan again in the library. She was saying goodbye to the convicts. She was leaving the radio to them to remember her by, she said. She noticed him at the door, but did not turn.

A strange thing happened. The pale, bearded Senator, who had never looked at her, got up. He walked straight to her, took her hand, and raised it to his lips in the most courtly manner.

"I want to tell you, Citizen Volkontzeva," he said in his hoarse, dead voice, "that you are a great woman."

"Thank you, Senator," she answered. "Only, when I go away, I shall not be Citizen Volkontzeva any more. I'm going as Joan Harding."

Commandant Kareyev hurried away. Outside, on the wharf, the pockmarked, one-eyed captain was leaning on the rail of the boat, smoking his pipe. He looked at the sky and called:

"Almost noon, Comrade Commandant. The woman ready?"

"Not yet," Kareyev answered.

Soundlessly, as a shadow, Comrade Fedossitch suddenly stood at his elbow. Comrade Fedossitch saluted and said sweetly:

"Of course, Comrade Commandant, there's no question of our loyalty to you. All this will never be known. But I was just thinking that if one of us Party members here decided to go and tell the GPU about the aristocrat who got away..."

"The emergency motorboat is at the service of the first one who wants to go," said Kareyev. "Ask me for the key when you need it."

A guard came running down the hill, saluting, reporting breathlessly:

"Citizen Volkontzeva wants to see you, Comrade Commandant!"

Kareyev ran up to the monastery, through the snow, leaping two steps at once. The guard looked after him, surprised. Comrade Fedossitch nodded slowly.

Joan's trunk was closed.

"I think it's time," she said calmly when Kareyev entered. "Will you have the men take my trunk down?"

"You'll have to wait a little," he answered desperately. "The boat isn't ready."

Then he went to his room and slammed the door. She listened at the wall of her cell, but could not hear a sound.

Then she heard his steps again. She opened her door.

He fell at her feet, as if all strength had gone out of his body and spirit.

"You won't go alone... you won't go alone..." was all he could whisper.

She stroked his head, smiling, kissing his hair. She whispered:

"Dear... we'll be so happy... so happy..."

He buried his face in the folds of her dress. He did not speak. His hands clasped her legs, holding her, in a desperate panic of fear that she would vanish from his fingers, disappear forever. She whispered:

"It will be easy... Tonight. We'll take the motorboat. The three of us."

"You won't leave me... you'll never leave me."

"No, dear, never... Tell the captain to go."

"And they'll play the 'Song of Dancing Lights'... just for the two of us..."

"Get the motorboat ready."

"I'll buy you little satin slippers. Lined with soft pink feathers. I'll slip them myself on your bare feet..."

"Destroy the wireless, so they can't give an alarm."

The wind had chased the clouds. A red, shivering line panted soundlessly over the sea where the sun had drowned. Red stains died slowly in the snow of the cupolas.

The convicts had finished their supper. Commandant Kareyev could hear the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. But there was no sound of voices. He knew what they were all thinking. When he walked through the corridors, he saw all eyes turn away from him with a forced indifference; and he felt these eyes staring at him behind his back.

Passing by the guard room, he heard Comrade Fedossitch. Comrade Fedossitch was speaking to his friend, the head of the guards. He noticed Kareyev and did not lower his voice.

"... silver, carpets, wine... that's what bourgeois luxuries lead to. I never approved of the idea of bringing the bitch here. I knew she was a White."

Commandant Kareyev passed, without entering.

Comrade Fedossitch followed him.

"The Comrade Commandant inspected the motorboat today," he remarked. "Anything wrong with it?"

"No. But it's going to be used."

"Ah... when?"

"Tomorrow. Citizen Volkontzeva is under arrest. She'll be sent to the GPU in the morning. "Alone?"

"No. With a trusted escort. Maybe — you."

He turned to go.

"If Citizen Volkontzeva is under arrest" — Comrade Fedossitch hunched his shoulders more ingratiatingly than ever — "will you want me to put a guard at her door?"

"If I were you, I'd be careful, Comrade Fedossitch. Someone else here might find himself with a guard at his door."

When it had grown dark, Commandant Kareyev approached the steps of the tower that guarded the wireless. There were no candles on the stairway. There was no glass in the windows. Snow gathered on the steps, blown in by the wind. He could distinguish the windows by the twinkling stars; the walls of the tower were black as the sky.

He went up slowly, carefully, trying to muffle the sound of snow creaking under his feet.

On the first landing he saw a shadow against the stars. The shadow coughed hoarsely, heaving its shallow chest.

"Good evening, Comrade Fedossitch," said the Commandant. "What are you doing here?"

"Just taking a stroll, Comrade Commandant. Like yourself."

"Have a cigarette?"

Kareyev struck a match. Their eyes met for a second over the quivering little flame. The wind blew it out. The two red lighted dots remained in the darkness.

"There's a strong wind tonight," said Comrade Fedossitch, "and the sea is rough. Dangerous for sailing."

"The cold isn't good for your lungs, Comrade Fedossitch. You should be careful of things that aren't good for you."

"I never mind it in the line of my duty. Good Communists don't let anything stand in the way of their duty. Good Communists like you and me."

"It's a pretty late hour for any duty you may have to perform."

"True, Comrade Commandant. I don't have as many responsibilities as you have. And, speaking of responsibilities, did it ever occur to you that it's a bit careless the way we leave our wireless in a lonely tower where anyone can reach it?"

Commandant Kareyev made a step forward and ordered slowly:

"Go back to your room. And stay there."

Comrade Fedossitch barred the stairs with his body, his outstretched arms touching the walls.

"You won't go up!" he hissed.

"Get out of my way!" Commandant Kareyev whispered.

"You won't get that wireless, you traitor!"

Commandant Kareyev's hand seized the long sinewy throat; his other hand pulled the gun out of Comrade Fedossitch's belt. He kicked him, and the comrade tumbled down several steps. When he straightened himself he felt Commandant Kareyev's gun in his back.

"Go down, rat. If you open your mouth — I shoot."

Comrade Fedossitch did not make a sound. Commandant Kareyev led him down to the yard. He blew his whistle.

"Citizen Fedossitch is under arrest," he said to the guards calmly, "for insubordination. Take him into the pit."

Comrade Fedossitch did not say a word. He choked, coughing, his shoulders heaving convulsively. The guards led him away, and Commandant Kareyev followed.

In a dark, clammy, low-vaulted room, the guards opened a heavy stone trapdoor with an old brass ring. They tied a rope around Comrade Fedossitch's waist. In the light of a smoked lantern, its flame swaying in a draft, his face was the color of a shell with damp, greenish pearls on his forehead. The guards unrolled the rope, lowering him into the pit. They heard his cough growing fainter as he went down. Commandant Kareyev stood watching.

The wireless room was high up in the tower. No one could hear, in the yard below, when the wireless set cracked, breaking in Commandant Kareyev's strong hands. He made sure the parts were crushed beyond repair. He had to hold them up to the starlight to see. He did not strike a match. The wind blew the hair from his wet forehead.

Commandant Kareyev opened Joan's door soundlessly, without knocking.

"Come on," he whispered. "All's ready."

She had been waiting, wrapped in a warm coat, a fur collar tight under her chin, a fur cap over her blond curls.

"Don't make any noise," he ordered. "We'll go down and get Volkontzev."

She raised her smiling lips for a kiss. He kissed them calmly, tenderly. There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his eyes. He was the Communist Kareyev who had fought in the civil war.

Michael was sitting on his cot when the door of his cell was thrown open. He jumped up. Joan entered first. Commandant Kareyev followed. Michael stood, his dark eyes a silent question. Kareyev threw to him a fur-lined leather jacket.

"Put this on," he ordered. "And don't make any noise. And follow."

"Where?" Michael asked.

"You're escaping. And so am I. The three of us."

Michael's wide eyes did not leave Joan.

"I suppose you understand the bargain," said Commandant Kareyev. "It's your life in exchange for your woman."

"Supposing," Michael asked, "I don't accept the bargain?"

Joan stood facing him, her back to Kareyev. Her voice was calm, indifferent; but her eyes were trying silently, desperately to make Michael understand.

"There are things you don't understand, Michael. And some that you forget."

"The three of us," said Kareyev, "have an account to settle, Volkontzev. And we can settle it better on free ground. Are you afraid to go?"

Michael shrugged and put on the jacket slowly.

"But aren't you afraid of the settlement, Commandant?" he asked.

"Come on," said Joan. "We have no time to talk."

"You'd better take this," said Kareyev, slipping a gun into Michael's hand. "We may need it"

Michael looked at him for a second, in silent appreciation of his trust; then he took the gun.

The head of the guards was having a night inspection of his staff in the yard back of the monastery, according to Commandant Kareyev's orders. There were no red lanterns moving on the walls. Through the thunder of the waves, no one could hear the roar of the motorboat as it shot out into the darkness.

The waves rose high as swelling breasts heaving convulsively. The moon dropped long blotches of a cold, silver fire into the water and the sea tore it into glimmering rags. The stars drowned in the water, and knocking furiously against each other, the waves tried to throw them back in white, gleaming sprays.

The waves rose slowly and hung over the boat, motionless as walls of black, polished glass. Then a white foam burst on their crest, as if a cork had popped, and roared down the black side, throwing the boat up, out of the water, to land on the boiling crest of another mountain.

Commandant Kareyev bent over the wheel. His eyebrows made one straight line across his face and his eyes held one straight line ahead, into the darkness. He could feel every muscle of his body tensed to the will of his fingers that clutched the wheel like claws. The loops of his bent arms worked as the wings, as the nerves of the boat. He had lost his cap. His hair rose straight in the wind like a pennant.

"Volkontzev! Hold Joan!" he yelled once.

Joan looked back at the island. She saw it for the last time as a lonely black shadow, with a faint silver glow in its cupolas, that speeded away, disappearing behind the peaks of the waves.

At midnight, they saw red sparks gleaming faintly ahead. Kareyev swerved to the right, speeding away from the twinkling village. The boat crushed into the soft bottom and stopped. Kareyev carried Joan ashore.

A deserted beach ran into a forest of tall pines, silent, asleep, their branches heavy with snow. A mile to their left was the village; to their right, many miles down the white beach, the searchlight of a coast guard station revolved slowly, groping the sea.

A little lane wound itself on the outskirt of the forest. Snow had covered all tracks. Only two deep ruts left by peasants' wheels still remained like rails cut into the frozen ground.

Commandant Kareyev walked first; Joan followed. Michael came last, his hand on his gun.

They walked in silence. The wind had died. The moon beyond the forest threw long, black shadows of pine trees over the lane and far out across the beach. Farther, by the water, the snow gleamed, throwing up a hard, blue light.

A low branch bent under its white load, shuddered, powdering them with frozen dust. A white rabbit stuck its long ears from behind a shrub and darted into the forest, a leaping, soundless snowball.

They selected a lonely house on the outskirts of the village. Commandant Kareyev knocked at the door. A dog barked somewhere, choking in a long alarming howl.

A sleepy peasant opened the door fearfully, a sheepskin coat trembling on his shoulders, his eyes blinking over a candle.

"Who goes there?"

"Official business, comrade," said Kareyev. "We need two good horses and a sleigh."

"So help me God, Comrade Chief," the peasant whined, bowing, making the sign of the cross with a freckled hand, "we have no horses, so help me God. We're poor people, Comrade Chief."

One of Commandant Kareyev's hands crumpled significantly a wad of paper money; the other one closed over the butt of his gun.

"I said we needed two good horses and a sleigh," he repeated slowly. "And we need them quickly."

"Yes, Comrade Chief, yes, sir, as you wish."

Bowing, chewing nervously his long, reddish beard, the peasant led them to the stables behind his house, the candle dripping wax on his trembling hand.

Commandant Kareyev selected the horses. Michael gathered straw from the stable floor and filled the bottom of the sleigh around Joan's feet, wrapping them in an old fur blanket. Commandant Kareyev jumped to the driver's seat. He threw the wad of bills into the red beard. He warned:

"This is confidential official business, comrade. If you breathe a word about it — it's the Revolutionary Tribunal for you. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, Comrade Chief, the Lord bless you, yes, sir..." the peasant muttered, bowing.

He was still bowing when the sleigh flashed out of his yard in a cloud of snow.

At midnight, the head of the guards sneaked noiselessly to the door of the pit. He listened cautiously; he heard no sound in the monastery. He pulled the trapdoor open and called down, raising his lantern over the pit:

"Are you there, Grisha?"

"Is it..." came from far below, in a gust of coughing,"... you, Makar?"

"It is. Wanted to know how you were getting along, pal."

At the bottom of a deep well with icicles sparkling in the crevices of its stone walls,

Comrade Fedossitch huddled in the straw, his thin fingers at his throat, his eyes like two black puddles in his livid face. He hissed, a growl that ended in a moan:

"It took you long enough to get curious."

"His orders. Said not to come near you."

"Seen him around in the last few hours?"

"No."

"Let me out!"

"Are you in your right mind, Grisha? Against his orders?"

"You blind fool! See if you can find him. Or the woman. Or the motorboat."

"Lord help us, Grisha! Do you think..."

"Hurry! Go and see! Then let me out!"

Comrade Fedossitch laughed when Makar came running back, blubbering crazily, incredulously:

"He's gone! He's gone! They're gone! The boat's gone!"

"I'm the head of this island, now," said Comrade Fedossitch, his teeth chattering, when the rope jerked him out of the pit. "And it's my boot into the teeth of the first one who doesn't obey orders!"

"Bring Citizen Volkontzev here!" was the first order.

Makar departed obediently and returned wide-eyed, reporting that Citizen Volkontzev had gone, too.

"Well," laughed Comrade Fedossitch, "the Comrade Commandant was a bigger fool than I thought."

Up the old tower stairs to the wireless room Comrade Fedossitch ran, stumbling, stopping to cough, shadows dancing crazily around the shaking lantern in his hand. Makar followed, bewildered. Comrade Fedossitch's boot kicked the door open. The light of the lantern shuddered in a red circle over the crushed remains of the wireless set.

"I'll get him," Comrade Fedossitch choked. "I'll get him! That great red hero! That arrogant Beast!"

Then he raised his lantern, and waved it triumphantly, and yelled, pointing to a dark object in a corner:

"The spotlight, Makar! The spotlight! We'll signal the coast! We'll get him! Connect it and bring it up! To the bell tower!"

Comrade Fedossitch's woolen scarf slapped him furiously in the face when he emerged upon the platform of the bell tower. He threw himself forward against the wind, as if pushing aside an unseen, gigantic hand that tried to hurl him back down the stairs; his long shadow leaped dizzily over the parapet and into space.

He put his lantern down and seized the rope of the bells. It burned his bare hand. He tore the scarf off his neck and wound it around his fingers. Then he pulled the rope.

In clear weather the bells could be heard on the mainland. The sky was clear. The wind was blowing towards the coast.

The bells gave a long, moaning cry. Frozen snow showered Comrade Fedossitch's shoulders. A shudder ran through the old monastery, from the tower down to the pit.

The bells roared in agony, the brass ringing in long, clamorous sobs. Furious blows hammered like a huge metal whip, and the droning thunder rose heavily, floating slowly away, high over the sea.

Comrade Fedossitch swung the rope ferociously. He dropped his scarf. He did not feel his bare hands freezing to the rope. He laughed deliriously, coughing. He ran across the platform and swung back, his legs and arms twisted around the rope, flying, swaying over the tower like a monstrous pendulum.

Makar came up the stairs with the spotlight, dragging, like a snake rustling against the steps, a long wire that connected it with a dynamo in the room below. He stood still, terrified. Comrade Fedossitch yelled, swinging, twisting the rope:

"They've got to hear! They've got to hear!"

Across the sea, at the coast guard station, the moving searchlight stopped suddenly.

"Do you hear?" asked a soldier who wore a peaked khaki cap with a red star.

"Funny," said his assistant. "Sounds like a bell."

"Can't be coming from anywhere but hell, perhaps."

"It's from Strastnoy Island."

And as they stood, listening, peering into the darkness, a bright tongue of light flashed far out on the horizon, like a lance slashing the black sky, and the wound quickly closed again.

"Trouble," said the soldier in the peaked cap...

Comrade Fedossitch was signaling his message to the mainland. He crouched by the spotlight, on his knees, pressing it feverishly to his chest, as a precious child which he had to shield from the wind, which he could not let go, clasping it with fingers stiff as pliers. He clawed his chest, trying to warm his fingers, tearing his shirt, without feeling the wind on his naked throat. He laughed. His laughter rolled a long howl of moans and coughs and triumph into the wind, following the streaks of light that flashed as darts shooting straight into the breast of an unseen enemy far away in the darkness.

Makar stood, paralyzed, but for one hand that made quickly, fearfully, the sign of the cross.

The soldiers at the coast guard station knew the code. The white streaks beyond the sea panted slowly, letter by letter:

"C-O-M-M-A-N-D-A-N-T C-O-N-V-I-C-T W-I-F-E E-S-C-A-P-E."

From under eight hoofs eight spurts of snow dust flew up like coils of steam; out of the horses' nostrils steam flew up like spurts of snow dust. The whip in Commandant Kareyev's hand whirled over their heads and sank into the horses' heaving ribs.

Under them the white earth rolled backwards as if streaming like a waterfall down into a precipice under the sleigh. By their side snow and tree stumps melted into a long white belt. Above them huge pines slowly swam past, carried immobile on a speeding ground.

The horses bent into arcs; their fore and hind legs met under their bodies; then they sprang into straight lines, flying over the ground, their legs stretched out, immobile.

Joan's eyes were fixed on the whip that whistled as if in the hand of the executioner on Strastnoy Island; as if beating the darkness ahead. She could feel the speed with her lips, the wind pounding against her teeth. Michael's arm held her tightly, his fingers sinking into her coat.

Through miles of forest, where the pines seemed to close, meeting across the road ahead, and the road, like a white knife cut them apart in its flight; through clearings and plains where the black sky swallowed the white snow into one ball of darkness and the road seemed a gray cloud carrying them over an abyss; over ruts, and snow heaps, and fallen logs they flew through the night, every mile and every hour a victory.

"Are you cold, Joan?"

"Button your collar, Frances. It's open."

When the lights of a village sparkled ahead through the fog of snow dust, Commandant Kareyev turned abruptly and sent the sleigh bumping through narrow side roads. As they flew past they could see, at a distance, the gleaming cross of the church over the low roofs, and the dark flag — red in the daytime — over the house of the village Soviet. Commandant Kareyev did not look at the flag; only his whip bit ferociously into the horses' ribs.

Down the dark village streets, dots of lanterns were hurrying, gathering in twinkling groups, rushing away. A bell was ringing, as a long, tremulous, alarming call.

"Hold on to Joan, Volkontzev! Sharp turn!"

The moon had set and clouds, like a black fog, swam slowly up, swallowing the stars. A light down of snow fluttered lazily.

“Look at that snow, Frances," said Michael. "We won't see any for a long, long time. This is our farewell to Russia."

"This is a farewell," said Kareyev, "for two of us."

"Yes," said Michael, "for two of us."

Ahead of them, a faint white thread, whiter than the snow, cut the sky from the darkness of the earth.

"Tomorrow, at dawn, we'll be far away at sea," said Kareyev, "and the boat will be flying towards a new country for Joan."

"... where she can forget all about Strastnoy Island."

"... and all that brought her to it."

"No matter what the future," said Joan, "I'll never forget some of the past. One of us will need this. I want him to remember it."

"One of us," said Kareyev, "will not need it. The other one may not want it."

Joan's head dropped back. The snow down caught on her eyelashes.

She started with a cry; she jumped up, but the speed of the sleigh threw her down again.

"There... there... look!"

They turned. The snow plain stretched like a gray fog behind them. Through the fog, far down the road they had passed, a black spot rolled toward them. It looked like a beetle with two long legs clawing the snow. But it moved too fast for a beetle.

Commandant Kareyev's whip rose straight up in the air, and the sleigh jerked as it fell.

"That's nothing," he said. "Some peasant going to town."

"He's going pretty fast for a peasant," said Michael.

Kareyev's eyes met his over Joan's head, and Michael understood.

"Nothing to worry about," said Kareyev.

The horses were exhausted. But the reins tensed like wires in Kareyev's hands. They flew faster.

As they flew, two things grew slowly, ominously, running a silent race: the white line ahead and the black spot behind them.

"Don't look at it, Joan!" The whip swished down in Kareyev's hand. "You're making yourself nervous." The whip swished down. "It's nothing. We're faster than they are." The whip swished down. "They can't..."

A shot rang through the silence where hoofbeats drummed like a heart.

Michael seized Joan and threw her brutally down on her knees in the straw on the bottom of the sleigh, bending over her, covering her with his body, holding her down.

"Michael! Let me get up! Let me get up!"

She struggled frantically. He pressed her down roughly.

"That's it!" shouted Commandant Kareyev. "Keep her down, Volkontzev! Keep her down!"

Commandant Kareyev had jumped to his feet. His tall body swayed, bent forward, his arm one with the tense reins. His whip flashed like a circle. Red streaks tore the horses' ribs.

"Stop!" came the distant cry. "Stop in the name of the law!"

Michael drew his gun.

"Don't, Volkontzev!" cried Kareyev. "Save your bullets! They're too far away! We'll escape!"

Two more shots ripped the darkness behind them. Joan heaved up convulsively against her living armor. Standing, Kareyev pressed one knee into her back to keep her down.

The road shot straight into a growth of pines and made a sharp turn. They whirled around the corner, Kareyev's body swaying perilously and straightening again. They lost the white thread in the forest; and the black spot lost them.

A winding side lane branched off the road, disappearing into the wilderness of pines; not even a lane, but a forgotten clearing barely wide enough for a sleigh, leading nowhere. With a quick movement of his whole body, Kareyev pulled the reins and sent the sleigh straight into the side lane, swiftly, as if his body, more than the worn-out horses, had thrown it forward.

They raced blindly through the snow and the pines. They soon lost all trace of a lane. They wound their way between tall, red trunks, tearing through bushes, knocking against trees, their slides cutting into the bark; diving into hollows, crashing and whirling off tree stumps. Low branches flogged them. Joan's fur cap was torn off. A branch hit Kareyev across the eyes; he shook the snow and pine needles out of his hair, red drops rolling down his temple.

The horses snorted; their ribs heaved; their nostrils quivered in terror. The whip, tearing their flesh, forced them forward; the whip was in the merciless hand of the Beast from Strastnoy Island.

One horse stumbled and fell. For a moment, they heard the silence of the forest, a silence of deep snow and trackless wilderness.

Commandant Kareyev jumped into the snow. His feet were not steady on the ground. He staggered to the horse. He brushed the hair out of his eyes. He looked at the red on his hand, felt his temple; he took a handful of snow and washed the temple; he flung the pink snow away.

Michael waded to him. They pulled the horse to its feet. The whip whistled again.

"Don't be afraid, Joan. They won't get us." Commandant Kareyev's voice rang clear, vibrant. "One night, many years ago, I was carrying priceless documents for the Red Army. Three horses were shot under me. I delivered the documents. My charge is more precious — tonight."

When they stumbled out into a clearing, the horses could barely move. Commandant Kareyev's whip was broken. A bare, wide plain stretched to the black line of another forest. Beyond, the clouds were torn off a broad band of glowing pink.

An old, crumbling shack leaned against the last pines of the forest, its unpainted boards black from age and weather, its roof caved in, one window staring like an empty socket — without glass.

Commandant Kareyev knocked at the door. No answer came. He kicked the door. It was not locked. He went in, then called:

"It's all right. Come in."

Michael followed, carrying Joan in his arms.

There was an empty stone hearth, and an old wooden table, and snow under the broken roof, and pine needles on the floor.

"We're safe here — for a while," said Kareyev.

The two men looked at each other. Commandant Kareyev's leather jacket hung in strips. He had lost his muffler. His shirt was torn at the throat. Michael's head was a tangle of black hair and pine needles. He smiled, flashing sparkling teeth, young and vibrant, a trim, healthy animal in the joy of his first real battle.

"Great work, Commandant," said Michael.

"Well, we've done it," said Kareyev, " … together."

It was only a second, but their eyes held each other in the silent understanding of their common danger, with the first, faint, hidden spark of admiration in their understanding. Then they looked at the woman who stood leaning against the open door, her blond hair hanging over one eye, the soft blond hair golden as ripe wheat in the sun, against the white desolation of snow and black pines raw in the frost. They did not look at each other again.

Commandant Kareyev closed the door and pulled an old wooden latch, locking it. He said:

"We'll let the horses rest. Then we'll go. The town isn't far. Just a few more hours."

Michael spread the fur blanket on the floor. They sat silently. Joan's head leaned on Kareyev's shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair, tenderly, removing pine needles from her tangled curls. She noticed anxiously Michael's dark eyes that were watching Kareyev fixedly. Michael removed her boots, rubbed her feet in woolen socks damp with snow. She watched Kareyev's eyes following Michael's movements silently, his eyebrows drawn tightly in a dark frown.

"Let's go now," she said suddenly.

"We can't, Joan. We have plenty of time."

"I hate it here."

"You've gone through many things you've hated, Frances," said Michael. "You've been brave. It's the end, now. Think of what's awaiting us."

"What's awaiting us," said Kareyev slowly, "is for two — only."

“Yes," said Michael. "Only. And I hope the third one steps aside as bravely as he has been behaving."

"I hope he does," said Kareyev.

"It's too cold here," Joan complained.

"I'll make a fire, Frances."

"Don't. They may notice the smoke."

"Let me hold you close, Joan. You'll be warmer."

Commandant Kareyev drew her into his arms.

"Take your hands off her," said Michael slowly.

"What?"

"I said, take your hands off her."

Commandant Kareyev did. He put Joan aside gently and rose to his feet. So did Michael.

Joan stood between them, her eyes dark, scornful.

"Keep quiet!" she ordered. "Both of you seem to forget where we are — and when."

"We may as well settle this now, once and for all," said Kareyev. "He forgets that he has no more rights to you."

"And you, Commandant," said Michael, "forget that you never had any."

"I bought her from you in exchange for the next fifty years of your life."

"She wasn't for sale."

"I wouldn't stand in a woman's way after she had asked me to get out."

"I wish you would remember that."

Commandant Kareyev turned to Joan. He said very gently:

"It's been a game, Joan, and a bad one. I know the truth, but you must tell it to him. You've been too cruel with him."

"Oh, please! please..." she begged, backing away from him. "Don't. Not now. Not here."

"Right here, Frances," said Michael. "Now."

She stood straight, facing them. She raised her head high. Her eyes and her voice were clear. It was not her apology. It was the proud, defiant verdict of her sublime right.

"I love — one of you. No matter what I've done, don't you understand that there is a love beyond all justice?"

"Which one?" asked Michael.

"We want a proof, Joan," said Kareyev. "One beyond doubt."

A hand knocked at the door.

"In the name of the law... open this door!"

Michael leaped to the window. His gun flashed. He fired.

Shots answered from outside, the bark of several rifles.

Michael dropped his gun. His hand grasped the edge of the window. He pulled himself up to his full height, shuddered, and fell backwards, his arms swinging in a wide circle over his head.

Joan's cry did not sound like a woman's voice. She threw herself over his body, tearing his jacket, fumbling for his heart, blood running over her fingers.

"Come here!" she screamed to Kareyev. "Help him!"

Kareyev was pressed to the door, trying to hold it against furious blows, his gun in a crack of the wall, shooting blindly at those outside.

"Come here!" she cried. "Help him! Come here!"

He obeyed. Michael's head fell limply over his arm. He tore the jacket, felt a faint beating under his fingers, looked at the little hole in the chest that spurted a dark stream with each beat.

"He's all right, Joan. Just fainted. The wound isn't serious."

She looked at the sticky red that thickened into a web between her fingers. She pulled her collar open, tore a piece of her dress, pressed it to the wound.

She did not hear the door crash into splinters under the butts of rifles. She did not see the two soldiers who jumped in through the window, nor the two others who stood at the door.

“Hands up!" said the soldier who entered first. "You're under arrest."

Commandant Kareyev rose slowly and raised his arms. Joan looked up indifferently.

The soldiers wore shaggy sheepskin coats that smelled of sweat; the long fur of their big caps stuck to their wet foreheads; their boots left tracks of snow on the floor.

"And that, citizens," said their leader, "is how all counterrevolutionaries get their white necks twisted."

His stomach bulged over his cartridge belt. He spread his heavy, square boots wide apart. He pushed his fur cap at the back of his head, scratched his neck, and laughed. He had a wide grin and short teeth.

"Pretty smart, aren't you, citizens?" The cartridge belt shook under his stomach. "But the hand of the proletarian republic is long, and has good sharp claws."

"What are the orders from those who sent you?" Commandant Kareyev asked slowly.

"Not so fast, citizen. Why the hurry? You'll have plenty of time to find out."

"Let's go," said Joan, rising. "This man here is wounded. Take him to a doctor."

"He won't need one."

"Their horses are here, behind the house," a soldier reported, entering.

"Bring them out... Such is the end, citizens, of all who dare to raise a hand against the great will of the proletariat."

"What are your orders?" repeated Commandant Kareyev.

"The orders are to save your valuable chests for better bullets than ours. The convict, the woman's husband, is to be taken right back to Strastnoy Island, to be executed. The woman and the traitor Commandant are to be taken for trial to Nijni Kolimsk, to the GPU. Nice place, your ladyship, right across the street from a rich English merchant."

Joan's eyes met Kareyev's. In the house across the street from the rich English merchant, doors could be left unlocked, guards could be absent, prisoners could disappear without trace: for execution — or for freedom.

There were three of them. Two were saved — if they reached that house. One was doomed.

"And, by the way," asked the soldier, "which one is your husband?"

Joan stood by the table. She leaned far back against it, her tense arms propped against the edge, her head in her shoulders. Her hands grasping the table seemed to hold her body from falling backwards. But her eyes looked straight at the soldier; there was no fear in them, there was the last, desperate resolution of a cornered animal.

"This is my husband," she answered and pointed at Kareyev.

Commandant Kareyev looked at her. His eyes were calm and grew calmer as they studied hers. Hers were not pleading; they were proud with a defiant hopelessness.

He had asked for a proof of the truth; one beyond doubt. He had it.

Commandant Kareyev looked at the sky where dawn, like a child, smiled its first hope to the beginning of life. Then, he turned to the soldier.

"Yes," he said calmly, "I am her husband."

Joan's body slid from the edge of the table. Her arms pulled it up again. Her eyes widened looking at that for which she had not dared to hope.

"Let's go," said the soldier. "You must be crazy, Citizen Convict. I don't see anything to be smiling about."

The soldiers bent over Michael. He stirred faintly.

"The traitor's all right," said the leader. "He can make the journey to Nijni Kolimsk. Put him into our sleigh, and the woman, too, and take them to town. I'll take the convict back to the coast. Send an order to have a boat for Strastnoy waiting there."

Joan did not look at the men lifting Michael and carrying him out to the sleigh. She did not notice the figures passing before her. Her eyes were frozen, staring at Kareyev.

There was a great calm in Commandant Kareyev's face; a calm that seemed to erase softly the wrinkles of many years on the Beast's face. He was not looking at Joan. He was staring, wondering, at something he seemed to understand for the first time. He was not smiling; but his face looked as if it were.

"Well, come on," said the soldier. "What's the matter, citizen woman? Stop staring at him like that."

"May I," asked Kareyev, "say goodbye... to my wife?"

"Go ahead. But make it quick."

Commandant Kareyev turned and met her eyes. Then, he smiled softly and took her hands. "Goodbye, Joan."

She did not answer. She was staring at him.

"There is a love beyond all justice, Joan. I understand."

She did not seem to hear. He added:

"And also there is a love beyond all sorrow. So don't worry about me."

"I can't let you go," her lips said almost without sound.

"You have been mine. You gave me life. You have a right to take it."

"I'd rather..."

"You'd rather keep quiet... You have a duty to me, now. You must be happy — for my sake."

"I'll be... happy," she whispered.

"You're not crying, are you, Joan? It's not as bad as all that. I don't want to be a ghost who will ruin the life awaiting you. Are you strong enough to promise that you will always smile when you think of me?"

"I'm... smiling... dear..."

"Remember me only when — in the countries where you'll be sent by... the house across the street from the English merchant — you see the lights... dancing."

She raised her head. She stood straight as a soldier at attention. She said slowly, each word steady and solemn as a step to the scaffold:

"I can't thank you. I only want you to know that of all the things I've done, the one I'm doing now is the hardest."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a long kiss. He wanted to sum up his life in it.

They walked out together, her hand in his. The sun greeted them, rising over the forest. It rose slowly, and its rays were like arms outstretched in a solemn blessing. Far away in the forest, snow glistened on the branches like tears that had dropped from the flaming sunrise and rolled, overfilling the forest, over the wide plain. But the tall, old trees raised their dark heads straight into the sky, above the snow, triumphant, greeting life that was starting again for the first time. And over the white plain little sparks burned in the snow, little twinkling, dancing lights of all colors, like a rainbow.

"To the glory of the world revolution!" said the soldier and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Two sleighs were waiting, their horses turned in opposite directions. Two soldiers sat in one sleigh, waiting for their prisoner. In the other, Michael was propped against the seat. He moaned feebly, still unconscious. A soldier sat next to him, holding the reins.

Joan stopped. She had no strength to go on. Commandant Kareyev smiled calmly. He noticed that her fur collar was open and fastened it. The soldiers' leader pulled her towards the sleigh.

She stopped and turned, facing Kareyev. She stood straight, leaning against the sunrise, her golden hair in the wind. She smiled proudly, gallantly, in sublime sanction of life.

Kareyev walked to the other sleigh, without an order, stepped in calmly, and sat down between the two soldiers.

A rough hand pulled Joan into the sleigh. She put her arm around Michael and held him, his head on her shoulder.

The soldier clicked his whip. The horses jerked forward, into the sunrise. Their harness creaked. Snow spurted up.

Joan turned to look at the other sleigh. Commandant Kareyev did not turn back when the horses tore forward. She saw his hair waving in the wind and above it the white line of his forehead: Commandant Kareyev's head was held high.

We the Living (unpublished excerpts)

Ayn Rand returned to We the Living in 1932, but interrupted it again the next year to write her first stage play, Night of January 16th, produced in Hollywood in 1934, then on Broadway in 1935- (This play has been separately published by New American Library.) The novel was completed in March 1934, but could find no publisher until 1936. After issuing a first edition of 3,000 copies, the publisher, despite indications of rising sales, destroyed the type, and the book was not to reach its audience for a quarter of a century. In 1959, it was reissued by Random House, and in 1960 in paperback by New American Library. Since that time, more than three million copies of We the Living have been sold.

Ayn Rand's view of the theme and current relevance of We the Living, and of its place in her work, can be found in her foreword to the reissued edition.

In looking through the manuscript of the novel, I found several passages or "outtakes" that had been cut from the final version. Ayn Rand was a champion of literary economy; she was ruthless in cutting passages she considered inessential. There should not, she held, be an unnecessary scene or word in a piece of writing; in judging any element, the standard is not its interest on its own terms, but its contribution to the total.

Several of the cut passages, however, are of some interest. They can be enjoyed as separate pieces, even while one agrees with Miss Rand that they are not parts of the novel, and must not be viewed as such. I have selected for this anthology two such pieces from the early part of We the Living, both probably written in 1931. Neither has received Ayn Rand's customary editing and polishing. The titles are my own invention.

"No" is an eloquent montage of life in Soviet Russia after the Revolution. It offers a glimpse of the kind of daily existence Ayn Rand herself had to endure before she could leave for America. Some elements of this montage were retained in the novel, in the form of brief paragraphs integrated with the development of the story. Evidently, Miss Rand judged that a separate extended treatment would be too static. Perhaps she thought also that it would repeat what was already clear elsewhere in the book.

The "month to wait" mentioned in the opening lines is the month Kira, the heroine, must wait between meetings with Leo, the man she loves and is not to see again until October 28.

In the novel, there is one paragraph describing a story about a Viking that the young Kira had read; the Viking became her private symbol of man the hero. I had always loved this brief reference and was delighted to find that the story had originally been given a fuller treatment.

"Kira's Viking" may be read as a lushly Romantic fairy tale for adults, as well as for children. The language is simple, evocative, Biblical in its cadence and power. Miss Rand's admirers will recognize the similarity in this regard to her later novelette Anthem— and also to the legends about John Galt in Atlas Shrugged. Ayn Rand was expert in creating the mood and reality of this kind of haunting, timeless legend, and I could not let this small example of her talent stay buried. (Besides, it is the only fairy tale I know with a viewpoint on the relationship between statism and religion.)

The story was cut, presumably, because it was not necessary for the purpose of the novel at this point — that is, to establish Kira's character.

The last paragraph of "Kira's Viking," which I have placed after a sequence break, originally appeared much later, near the end of the book, in Kira's death scene; it was cut when the story was cut.

"No" is the world Ayn Rand escaped from. "Kira's Viking" is why she escaped — what she wanted to find in the world instead.

L. P.

A month to wait is a fortnight in Paris, a week in New York, a year in Soviet Russia.

"No," said the saleslady in the bookstore, "we have no foreign magazines, citizen.

Foreign magazines? You must be new in Petrograd. We have no more publications from abroad than from Mars, citizen. Unsuitable ideology, you know. What can one expect of bourgeois countries?... Here's a nice selection, citizen: The Young Communist, Red Weekdays, Red Harvest... No?... We have splendid novels, citizen. Naked Year— all about the civil war. Sickle and Hammer — it's the class awakening of the village — futuristic, you know — but very profound."

The shelves were bright with white covers and red letters, white letters and red covers — on cheap, brownish paper and with laughing, defiant broken lines and circles cutting triangles, and triangles splitting squares, the new art coming through some crack in the impenetrable barrier, from the new world beyond the borders, whose words could not reach the little store where a picture of Lenin winked slyly at Kira, from above a sign: "State Publishing House."

"No," said Galina Petrovna, "we have no money to waste on theater tickets. You ought to be glad we have enough for tramway tickets."

In the streets, there were big posters with little blue letters announcing the opening season of the "State Academic Theaters" — the three theatrical giants of Petrograd that were called "the Imperial Theaters" five years ago: the Alexandrinsky, with a chariot high on its roof, stone horses' hoofs suspended over the city, with five balconies of red and gold inside, watching Russia's best dramas; the Marinsky — blue and silver, solemn and majestic, a temple to operas and the fluttering skirts of ballet; the Michailovsky — orange and silver, friendly and impudent, winking at its two serious brothers with the newest daring plays and the gayest light operas.

"No," said the cashier, "no tickets under three hundred and fifty rubles. Then we have profunion nights — free tickets from your union... If you're not a union member, citizen, who cares if you don't get to see a show?"

"No," said Irina Dunaeva, "I get no new dresses this winter either. So you don't have to worry, Kira. We'll look alike... Yes, I have powder. Soviet powder. Doesn't stay on very well. But do you know Vava Miloslavsky, Victor's girl — for the time being? Her father's a doctor — a Free Profession, they call it — you see, he doesn't 'exploit labor' so they leave him alone — and he makes money — and Vava — now don't talk about it — she has a box of Coty's powder... yes, French. Yes, real. From abroad. Smuggled. Ten thousand rubles a box... I think Vava uses lipstick. You know, I think it's going to be a fashion. Daring, isn't it? But they say they use it — abroad... Vava, she has a pair of silk stockings. Don't say I told you. She likes to show them off — and I don't want to give her the satisfaction."

"No!" said the red letters on a poster. "The Proletarian Consciousness is not Contaminated by Paltry Bourgeois Ideology. Comrades! Tighten our Class Welding!"

The poster showed a milling crowd of workers, the size of ants, in the shadow of a huge wheel.

"No," said the student in the red bandanna, "you gotta stand in line for the bread, same as us all, citizen. Sure, it might take two hours. And it might take three hours. What's the hurry, citizen? You ain't got anything better to do with your time. Expecting privileges, perhaps? Too good to stand in line with us proletarians? Don't wiggle your feet, citizen. Certainly, I'm cold, too... Sure, you'll miss the lecture. And I'll miss a meeting of the Cell. But this is Bread Day."

Every student had a provision card. The floor of the University shop was covered with sawdust. The clerk at the counter briskly shoved hunks of dried bread at the line moving slowly past him, and dipped his hand into a barrel to fish out the pickles, and wiped his hand on the bread. The bread and pickles disappeared, unwrapped, into briefcases filled with books.

"No," said the article in Pravda, "the New Economic Policy is not a surrender of our revolutionary ideology. It is a temporary compromise with a historical necessity. The fight isn't over. Come on, comrades, let's show the fat-bellied foreign imperialists, our new, united ranks on the front of economic recovery! This is the day of the factory and the tractor instead of the bayonet! This is the day to demonstrate our red discipline in the slow, monotonous routine of proletarian State Construction! This is the time of heroic Red weekdays!"

"No," said Galina Petrovna, "I didn't break the kerosene stove. There's no kerosene. If you mix the coarse flour with cold water, it'll taste like gruel."

"No," said the militia man, "you can't cross the street, citizen. What's the hurry? Don'tcha see there's a demonstration of the toilers?"

A string of women waddled down Nevsky, spreading to fill its broad expanse, stopping the trucks and tramways, mud flying in little spurts from under heavy shoes. The red banner at the head of the demonstration said:

"The Women of the First Factory of the Red Food-trust Protest Against the Imperialistic Greed of England and Lord Chamberlain!"

The women hid their hands in their armpits, to warm them, and sang:

"We are the young red guard

and our aim is set. We're told: don't hang your guns

and bravely march ahead..."

"No," said the drunken sailor in the darkness under the window, on the street far below, "I ain't gonna stop. I'm a free citizen. To hell with your sleep."

And he pulled the harmonica as if he were going to tear it apart, and it squealed in terror, and he sang, leaning against a lamp post, throwing his raucous words at the moon over the dark roofs above:

"Vanka 'nd Mashka fell in love

and he swore by stars above

1 will treat you good

and I'll buy you wood

and the wood is pure birch-tree

lots of heat for you and me'...

La mtsa -d ritsa -tsa -tsa!"

"No," said the Upravdom, "you can't be no exception, citizen. Even if you are a student. Social duty comes above all. Every tenant gotta attend the meeting."

So Kira sat in the long, bare room, the largest in the house, in the apartment of a tramway conductor. Behind her sat Galina Petrovna in her oldest dress, and Alexander Dimitrievitch stretching out his run-down boots, and Lydia shivering in a torn shawl. Every tenant in the house was present. The apartment had electrical connections and one bulb burned in the center of the ceiling. The tenants chewed sunflower seeds.

"Seeing as how I'm the Upravdom," said the Upravdom, "I declare this meeting of the tenants of the house... on Moika open. On the order of the day is the question as regards the chimneys. Now, comrades citizens, seeing as how we are all responsible citizens and conscious of the proper class consciousness, we gotta understand that this ain't the old days when we had landlords and didn't care what happened to the house we lived in. Now this is different, comrades. Owing to the new regime and the dictatorship of the proletariat, and seeing as how the chimneys are clogged we gotta do something about it, seeing as how we're the owners of the house. Now if the chimneys are clogged, the stoves won't burn, and if the stoves won't burn we'll have the house full of smoke, and if we have the house full of smoke — it's sloppy, and if we're sloppy — that's not true proletarian discipline. And so, comrades citizens..."

The smell of food burning came from the hall and a housewife fidgeted nervously, glancing anxiously at the clock. A fat man in a red shirt was twiddling his thumbs. A young man, with a pale mouth hanging open, was scratching his head, occasionally producing something which he rolled in his fingers and dropped on the floor.

"... and the special assessment will be divided in proportion as to the... Is that you, Comrade Argounova, trying to sneak out? Well, you better don't. You know what we think of people what sabotage their social duties. You better teach your young one the proper consciousness, Citizen Argounova... And the special assessment will be divided in proportion as to the social standing of the tenants. The workers pay three percent, and the free professions, ten, and the private traders the rest... Who's for — raise your hands... Comrade Secretary, count the citizens' hands... Who's against — raise your hands... Comrade Michliuk, you can't raise your hand for and against on the one and same proposition..."

In the mornings — there was millet and the smell of kerosene when there was no wood, and smoke when there was no kerosene.

In the evenings — there was millet, and Lydia rocking back and forth on a rickety chair, moaning:

"The pagans! The sacrilegious apostates! They're taking the ikons, and the gold crosses from the churches. To feed their damn famine somewhere. No respect for anything

sacred. What're we coming to?"

And Galina Petrovna wailed:

"What's Europe waiting for? How far do we have to go?"

And Alexander Dimitrievitch asked timidly:

"May I, Galina? Just a spoonful more?"

And Maria Petrovna came to visit, trembling by the stove, coughing as if her chest were torn into shreds, fighting with words and coughs:

"... and Vassia had another fight with Victor... over politics... and Irina got nothing but dried fish at the University... this week... no bread... and I made a nightgown out of the old blanket... old... rips if you breathe on it... and Acia needs galoshes... and Vassia won't take a Soviet job, won't hear of it... Yes, I take cough medicine... Did you hear about Boris Koulikov? In a hurry, tried to jump on a crowded tramway — at full speed — both legs cut off... Acia's learning to spell at school and what words do they teach it with? Marxism and Proletariat and Electrification..."

On the floor crumbled sheets of Pravda rustled underfoot:

"Comrades! True Proletarians have no will but that of the collective. The iron will of the Proletariat, the victorious class, will lead humanity into..."

And Kira stood by a window, her hand on the dark, cold glass, and her body felt young, cold and hard as the glass, and she thought that one could stand a lot, and forget a lot, if one kept clear and firm one final aim and cause. She did not know what the aim was; but she did not ask herself the question, for the aim was beyond questions and doubts; she knew only that she was awaiting it. Perhaps, it was the twenty-eighth of October.

There was only one book Kira remembered. She was ten years old when she read it. It was the story of a Viking. It was written in English. Her governess gave it to her. She heard later that the author had died very young. She had not remembered his name; in later years, she had never been able to find it.

She did not remember the books she read before it; she did not want to remember the ones she read after.

The Viking had a body against which the winds broke like a caress. The Viking's step was like the beating of waves upon the rocks: steady and irrevocable. The Viking's eyes never looked farther than the point of his sword; but there was no boundary for the point of his sword.

The Viking's ship had patched sails and blade-scarred flanks; and a banner that had never been lowered. There was on the ship a crew of men whose hearts froze at a home-fire; whose heads never bowed but to the Viking's voice. Among the northern rocks of his homeland, the ship lay hidden in a harbor no one dared to enter.

The ship had to be hidden, for high in the mountains was a city surrounded by gray walls, where, at night, a smoked lantern burned by the locked gates and a lonely cat walked down the old stone wall. In the city there was a King, and when he passed in the street, the people bowed so low that wrinkled foreheads left marks in the soft dust. The King hated the Viking.

The King hated him, for when peaceful lights twinkled in his subjects' homes and smoke rose over houses where mothers cooked the evening meal, the Viking watched the city from a high cliff, and the wind carried the smoke high into the mountains, but not high enough to reach the Viking's feet. The King hated him, for walls fell at a motion of the Viking's hand, and when he walked in their ruins, the sun made a crown over his head, but he walked, light and straight, without noticing its weight.

So the King had promised a reward for the Viking's head. And in the narrow streets, on the doorsteps slippery with onion peelings, the people waited and hoped for the reward, so that they could have a big supper.

Far down in a deep valley was a temple that the sun-rays reached but one hour each day; and where the rays struck the temple was a tall window of dark painted glass. When the sun pierced the window, the huge shadow of a tortured saint spread over the backs of those who knelt in prayer, and the gold of the sun turned red as the blood of suffering. The Priest of the temple hated the Viking. The Priest hated him, for the Viking laughed under the cold, black vaults and his laugh sounded as if the painted window had been broken. The Priest hated him, for the Viking looked at heaven only when he bent for a drink over a mountain brook, and there, overshadowing the sky, he saw his own picture-So the Priest had promised forgiveness of all sins for the Viking's head. And skinning their knees on the temple steps, the people waited and hoped for the forgiveness, so that they could sleep safely with their neighbor's wife-Far away in the polar seas, where the bridges of northern lights connected the waves and the clouds, and no ship dared to break the connection, stood the sacred city. From a long distance, sailors had seen its white walls rising to the snows of the mountains. But they did not look at the city in spring, for when the spring sun struck the white walls, their blaze sent many a sailor home — blind.

At dawn, from a long distance, sailors could see the queen-priestess rise to the tall white tower. Her white robe and golden hair fell to the ground, but her slender body swaying back in a tense effort, her arms were raised, high and straight, to a pale, young sky. And in the still mirror of the sea, from the bottom of a tall white tower, a slender, white figure stretched her arms down into the depth.

It was spring when the Viking said he was leaving to conquer the sacred city.

People ran into their houses and closed the shutters over their windows. But the King smiled, and offered him forgiveness and the royal banner for his enterprise.

"For your King," he said.

The Priest smiled, and offered him forgiveness, and the banner of the temple.

"For your Faith," he said.

But the Viking took neither. When his ship cut the waves towards the blazing white spot, on the tall mast, lashing the wind, was his own banner, that had never been lowered.

There were many days and many storms. When the waves rose high, fighting the wind for his dark cape and light hair, the Viking stood on the prow and looked ahead.

It was night when the Viking's ship approached the sacred city, and its walls were blue under the stars.

When the stars had gone and the sky glowed, transparent with the coming light, white stones crumbled to meet the waves where the walls had been; over the gates flung wide open to the sea the Viking's banner was nailed.

Alone over the city, his clothes torn, the Viking stood on top of the tall white tower. There was a wound across his breast and red drops rolled slowly down to his feet.

From the ravaged streets below, conquerors and conquered alike looked up at him. There was much wonder in their eyes, but little hatred. They raised their heads, but did not rise from their knees.

On the tower stairs the slender queen-priestess of the sacred city lay at the Viking's feet. Her head bent so low that her golden hair swept the steps and he could see her breasts as, breathing tremulously, they touched the ground. Her hands lay still and helpless on the steps, the palms turned up, hungry in silent entreaty. But it was not mercy they were begging of him.

The sun had not risen. A pale sky looked into a pale, still sea, both misty green and transparent, touched by the first faint promise of color. Behind the city, a red glow mounted in the sky, rising slowly, ominously, like a victorious banner unrolling into the sky from the heart of the earth. The Viking's body stood alone, cutting the fire.

Faint waves beat at the foot of the ruins. The waves had seen unknown shores and lost, faraway cities; beyond the line where they melt into the sky, was a great earth alive with a promise of so much that was possible. And the earth lay still, tense in reverent waiting, as if its very heart and meaning were rising to the morning sky; and the morning was like a slow, triumphant overture for the song to come.

The Viking smiled as men smile when they look up, at heaven; but he was looking down. His right arm was one straight line with his lowered sword; his left arm, straight as the sword, raised a goblet of wine to the sky. The first rays of a coming sun, still unseen to the earth, struck the crystal goblet. It sparkled like a white torch. Its rays lighted the faces of those below.

"To a life," said the Viking, "which is a reason unto itself."

A Viking had lived, who had laughed at Kings, who had laughed at Priests, who had laughed at Men, who had held, sacred and inviolable, high over all temples, over all to which men knew how to kneel, his one banner — the sanctity of life. He had known and she knew. He had fought and she was fighting. He had shown her the way. To the banner of life, all could be given, even life itself.

Ideal

Ideal was written in 1934, at a time when Ayn Rand had cause to be unhappy with the world. We the Living was being rejected by a succession of publishers for being "too intellectual" and too opposed to Soviet Russia (this was the time of America's Red Decade); Night of January 16th had not yet found a producer; and Miss Rand's meager savings were running out. The story was written originally as a novelette and then, probably within a year or two, was extensively revised and turned into a stage play. It has never been produced.

After the political themes of her first professional work, Ayn Rand now returns to the subject matter of her early stories: the role of values in men's lives. The focus in this case, as in "Her Second Career," is negative, but this time the treatment is not jovial; dominantly, it is sober and heartfelt. The issue now is men's lack of integrity, their failure to act according to the ideals they espouse. The theme is the evil of divorcing ideals from life.

An acquaintance of Miss Rand's, a conventional middle-aged woman, told her once that she worshiped a certain famous actress and would give her life to meet her. Miss Rand was dubious about the authenticity of the woman's emotion, and this suggested a dramatic idea: a story in which a famous actress, so beautiful that she comes to represent to men the embodiment of their deepest ideals, actually enters the lives of her admirers. She comes in a context suggesting that she is in grave danger. Until this point, her worshipers have professed their reverence for her — in words, which cost them nothing. Now, however, she is no longer a distant dream, but a reality demanding action on their part, or betrayal.

"What do you dream of?" Kay Gonda, the actress, asks one of the characters, in the play's thematic statement.

"Nothing," he answers. "Of what account are dreams?"

"Of what account is life?"

"None. But who made it so?"

"Those who cannot dream."

"No. Those who can only dream."

In a journal entry written at the time (dated April 9, 1934), Miss Rand elaborates this viewpoint:

I believe — and I want to gather all the facts to illustrate this — that the worst curse on mankind is the ability to consider ideals as something quite abstract and detached from one's everyday life. The ability of living and thinking quite differently, in other words eliminating thinking from your actual life. This applied not to deliberate and conscious hypocrites, but to those more dangerous and hopeless ones who, alone with themselves and to themselves, tolerate a complete break between their convictions and their lives, and still believe that they have convictions. To them — either their ideals or their lives are worthless — and usually both.

Such "dangerous and hopeless ones" may betray their ideal in the name of "social respectability" (the small businessman in this story) or in the name of the welfare of the masses (the Communist) or the will of God (the evangelist) or the pleasure of the moment (the playboy Count) — or they may do it for the license of claiming that the good is impossible and therefore the struggle for it unnecessary (the painter). Ideal captures eloquently the essence of each of these diverse types and demonstrates their common denominator. In this regard, it is an intellectual tour de force. It is a philosophical guide to hypocrisy, a dramatized inventory of the kinds of ideas and attitudes that lead to the impotence of ideals — that is, to their detachment from life.

(The inventory, however, is not offered in the form of a developed plot structure. In the body of the play, there is no progression of events, no necessary connection between one encounter and the next. It is a series of evocative vignettes, often illuminating and ingenious, but as theater, I think, unavoidably somewhat static.)

Dwight Langley, the painter, is the pure exponent of the evil the play is attacking; he is, in effect, the spokesman for Platonism, who explicitly preaches that beauty is unreachable in this world and perfection unattainable. Since he insists that ideals are impossible on earth, he cannot, logically enough, believe in the reality of any ideal, even when it actually confronts him. Thus, although he knows every facet of Kay Gonda's face, he (alone among the characters) does not recognize her when she appears in his life. This philosophically induced blindness, which motivates his betrayal of her, is a particularly brilliant concretization of the play's theme, and makes a dramatic Act I curtain-In her journal of the period, Miss Rand singles out religion as the main cause of men's lack of integrity- The worst of the characters, accordingly, the one who evokes her greatest indignation, is Hix, the evangelist, who preaches earthly suffering as a means to heavenly happiness. In an excellently worked-out scene, we see that it is not his vices, but his religion, including his definition of virtue, that brings him to demand the betrayal of Kay Gonda, her deliberate sacrifice to the lowest of creatures. By gaining a stranglehold on ethics, then preaching sacrifice as an ideal, religion, no matter what its intentions, systematically inculcates hypocrisy: it teaches men that achieving values is low ("selfish"), but that giving them up is noble. "Giving them up," in practice, means betraying them.

"None of us," one of the characters complains, "ever chooses the bleak, hopeless life he is forced to lead." Yet, as the play demonstrates, all these men do choose the lives they lead. When confronted by the ideal they profess to desire, they do not want it. Their vaunted "idealism" is largely a form of self-deception, enabling them to pretend to themselves and others that they aspire to something higher. In fact and in reality, however, they don't.

Kay Gonda, by contrast, is a passionate valuer; like Irene in "The Husband I Bought," she cannot accept anything less than the ideal. Her exalted sense of life cannot accept the ugliness, the pain, the "dismal little pleasures" that she sees all around her, and she feels a desperate need to know that she is not alone in this regard. There is no doubt that Ayn Rand herself shared Kay Gonda's sense of life, and often her loneliness, too — and that Kay's cry in the play is her own:

I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion! I want it real! I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too! Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry.

Emotionally, Ideal is unique among Ayn Rand's works. It is the polar opposite of "Good Copy." "Good Copy" was based on the premise of the impotence and insignificance of evil. But Ideal focuses almost exclusively on evil or mediocrity (in a way that even We the Living does not); it is pervaded by Kay Gonda's feeling of alienation from mankind, the feeling, tinged by bitterness, that the true idealist is in a minuscule minority amid an earthful of value-betrayers with whom no communication is possible. In accordance with this perspective, the hero, Johnnie Dawes, is not a characteristic Ayn Rand figure, but a misfit utterly estranged from the world, a man whose virtue is that he does not know how to live today (and has often wanted to die). If Leo feels this in Soviet Russia, the explanation is political, not metaphysical. But Johnnie feels it in the United States.

In her other works, Ayn Rand herself gave the answer to such a "malevolent universe" viewpoint, as she called it. Dominique Francon in The Fountainhead, for instance, strikingly, resembles Kay and Johnnie in her idealistic alienation from the world, yet she eventually discovers how to reconcile evil with the "benevolent universe" approach. "You must learn," Roark tells her, "not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom." Dominique does learn it; but Kay and Johnnie do not, or at least not fully. The effect is untypical Ayn Rand: a story written approvingly from Dominique's initial viewpoint.

Undoubtedly, the intensity of Miss Rand's personal struggle at the time — her intellectual and professional struggle against a seemingly deaf, even hostile culture — helps to account for the play's approach. Dominique, Miss Rand has said, is "myself in a bad mood." The same may be said of this aspect of Ideal.

Despite its somber essence, however, Ideal is not entirely a malevolent story. The play does have its lighter, even humorous side, such as its witty satire of Chuck Fink, the "selfless" radical, and of the Elmer Gantry-like Sister Essie Twomey, with her Service Station of the Spirit. The ending, moreover, however unhappy, is certainly not intended as tragedy or defeat. Johnnie's final action is action— that is the whole point — action to protect the ideal, as against empty words or dreams. His idealism, therefore, is genuine, and Kay Gonda's search ends on a positive note. In this respect, even Ideal may be regarded as an affirmation (albeit in an unusual form) of the benevolent universe.

L.P.

CHARACTERS:

BILL McNITT, screen director

CLAIRE PEEMOLLER, scenario writer

SOL SALZER, associate producer

ANTHONY FARROW, president of the Farrow Film Studios

FREDERICA SAYERS

MICK WATTS, press agent

MISS TERRENCE, Kay Gonda's secretary

GEORGE S. PERKINS, assistant manager of the Daffodil Canning Co.

MRS. PERKINS, his wife

MRS. SHLY, her mother

KAY GONDA

CHUCK FINK, sociologist

JIMMY, Chuck's friend

FANNY FINK, Chuck's wife

DWIGHT LANGLEY, artist

EUNICE HAMMOND

CLAUDE IGNATIUS HIX, evangelist

SISTER ESSIE TWOMEY, evangelist

EZRY

COUNT DIETRICH VON ESTERHAZY

LALO JANS

MRS. MONAGHAN

JOHNNIE DAWES

SECRETARIES, LANGLEY'S GUESTS, POLICEMEN

Place Los Angeles, California

Time Present; from afternoon to early evening of the following day

Prologue — Office of Anthony Farrow in the Farrow Film Studios

Act I, Scene 1 — Living room of George S. Perkins

Scene 2 — Living room of Chuck Fink

Scene 3 — Studio of Dwight Langley

Act II, Scene 1 — Temple of Claude Ignatius Hix

Scene 2 — Drawing room of Dietrich von Esterhazy

Scene 3 — Garret of Johnnie Dawes

Scene 4 — Entrance hall in the residence of Kay Gonda

Late afternoon. Office of ANTHONY FARROW in the Farrow Film Studios. A spacious, luxurious room in an overdone modernistic style, which looks like the dream of a second-rate interior decorator with no limits set to the bill

Entrance door is set diagonally in the upstage Right corner. Small private door downstage in wall Right. Window in wall Left. A poster of KAY GONDA, on wall Center; she stands erect, full figure, her arms at her sides, palms up, a strange woman, tall, very slender, very pale; her whole body is stretched up in such a line of reverent, desperate aspiration that the poster gives a strange air to the room, an air that does not belong in it. The words "KAY GONDA IN FORBIDDEN ECSTASY" stand out on the poster.

The curtain rises to disclose CLAIRE PEEMOLLER, SOL SALZER, and BILL McNITT. SALZER, forty, short, stocky, stands with his back to the room, looking hopelessly out of the window, his fingers beating nervously, monotonously, against the glass pane. CLAIRE PEEMOLLER, in her early forties, tall, slender, with a sleek masculine haircut and an exotically tailored outfit, reclines in her chair, smoking a cigarette in a lengthy holder. McNITT, who looks like a brute of a man and acts it, lies rather than sits in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, picking his teeth with a match. No one moves. No one speaks. No one looks at the others. The silence is tense, anxious, broken only by the sound of SALZER's fingers on the glass.

McNITT: [Exploding suddenly] Stop it, for Christ's sake!

[SALZER turns slowly to look at him and turns away again, but stops the beating. Silence]

CLAIRE: [Shrugging] Well? [No one answers] Hasn't anyone here a suggestion to offer?

SALZER: [Wearily] Aw, shut up!

CLAIRE: I see absolutely no sense in behaving like this. We can talk about something else, can't we?

McNITT: Well, talk about something else.

CLAIRE: [With unconvincing lightness] I saw the rushes of Love Nest yesterday. It's a smash, but a smash! You should see Eric in that scene where he kills the old man and... [A sudden jerk from the others. She stops short] Oh, I see. I beg your pardon. [Silence. She resumes uneasily] Well, I'll tell you about my new car. The gorgeous thing is so chic! It's simply dripping, but dripping with chromium! I was doing eighty yesterday and not a bump! They say this new Sayers Gas is... [There is a stunned, involuntary gasp from the others. She looks at two tense faces] Well, what on earth is the matter?

SALZER: Listen, Peemoller, for God's sake, Peemoller, don't mention it!

CLAIRE: What?

McNITT: The name!

CLAIRE: What name?

SALZER: Sayers, for God's sake!

CLAIRE: Oh! [Shrugs with resignation] I'm sorry.

[Silence. McNITT breaks the match in his teeth, spits it out, produces a match folder, tears off another match, and continues with his dental work. A man's voice is heard in the next room. They all whirl toward the entrance door]

SALZER: [Eagerly] There's Tony! He'll tell us! He must know something!

[ANTHONY FARROW opens the door, but turns to speak to someone offstage before entering. He is tall, stately, middle-aged, handsomely tailored and offensively distinguished]

FARROW: [Speaking into the next room] Try Santa Barbara again. Don't hang up until you get her personally. [Enters, closing the door. The three look at him anxiously, expectantly] My friends, has any of you seen Kay Gonda today? [A great sigh, a moan of disappointment, rises from the others]

SALZER: Well, that's that. You, too. And I thought you knew something!

FARROW: Discipline, my friends. Let us keep our heads. The Farrow Studios expect each man to do his duty.

SALZER: Skip it, Tony! What's the latest?

CLAIRE: It's preposterous! But preposterous!

McNITT: I've always expected something like this from Gonda!

FARROW: No panic, please. There is no occasion for panic. I have called you here in order to formulate our policy in this emergency, coolly and calmly and... [The interoffice communicator on his desk buzzes sharply. He leaps forward, his great calm forgotten, clicks the switch, speaks anxiously] Yes?... You did? Santa Barbara?... Give it to me!... What?! Miss Sayers won't speak to me?!... She can't be out, it's an evasion! Did you tell them it was Anthony Farrow? Of the Farrow Films?... Are you sure you made it clear? President of the Farrow Films?... [His voice falling dejectedly] I see... When did Miss Sayers leave?... It's an evasion. Try again in half-an-hour... And try again to get the chief of police.

SALZER: [Desperately] That I could have told you! The Sayers dame won't talk. If the papers could get nothing out of her — we can't!

FARROW: Let us be systematic. We cannot face a crisis without a system. Let us have discipline, calm. Am I understood?... [Breaks in two a pencil he has been playing with nervously]... Calm!

SALZER: Calm he wants at a time like this!

FARROW: Let us... [The intercom buzzes. He leaps to it] Yes?... Fine! Put him on!... [Very jovially] Hello, Chief! How are you? I... [Sharply] What do you mean you have nothing to say? This is Anthony Farrow speaking!... Well, it usually does make a a difference. Hel ... I mean, Chief, there's only one question I have to ask you, and I think I'm entitled to an answer. Have there or have there not been any charges filed in Santa Barbara? [Through his teeth] Very well... Thank you. [Switches off, trying to control himself]

SALZER: [Anxiously] Well?

FARROW: [Hopelessly] He won't talk. No one will talk. [Turns to the intercom again] Miss Drake? ... Have you tried Miss Gonda's home once more? ... Have you tried all her friends? ... I know she hasn't any, but try them anyway! [Is about to switch off, then adds] And get Mick Watts, if you can find the bast—if you can find him. If anyone knows, he knows!

McNITT: That one won't talk either.

FARROW: And that is precisely the thing for us to do. Silence. Am I understood? Silence. Do not answer any questions on the lot or outside. Avoid all references to this morning's papers.

FARROW: They haven't said much so far. It's only rumors. Idle gossip.

CLAIRE: But it's all over town! Hints, whispers, questions. If I could see any point in it, I'd say someone was spreading it intentionally.

FARROW: Personally, I do not believe the story for a minute. However, I want all the information you can give me. I take it that none of you has seen Miss Gonda since yesterday?

[The others shrug hopelessly, shaking their heads]

SALZER: If the papers couldn't find her—we can't.

FARROW: Had she mentioned to any of you that she was going to have dinner with Granton Sayers last night?

CLAIRE: When has she ever told anyone anything?

FARROW: Did you notice anything suspicious in her behavior when you saw her last?

CLAIRE: I...

McNITT: I should say I did! I thought at the time it was damn funny. Yesterday morning, it was. I drove up to her beach home and there she was, out at sea, tearing through the rocks in a motorboat till I thought I'd have heart failure watching it.

SALZER: My God! That's against our contracts!

McNITT: What? My having heart failure?

SALZER: To hell with you! Gonda driving her motorboat!

McNITT: Try and stop her! So she climbs up to the road, finally, wet all over. "You'll get killed someday," I say to her, and she looks straight at me and she says, "That won't make any difference to me," she says, "nor to anyone else anywhere."

FARROW: She said that?

McNITT: She did. "Listen," I said, "I don't give a damn if you break your neck, but you'll get pneumonia in the middle of my next picture!" She looks at me in that damnable way of hers and she says, "Maybe there won't be any next picture." And she walks straight back to the house and her damn flunkey wouldn't let me in!

FARROW: She actually said that? Yesterday?

McNITT: She did — damn the slut! I never wanted to direct her anyway. I ...

[Intercom buzzes]

FARROW: [Clicking the switch] Yes? ... Who? Who is Goldstein and Goldstein? ... [Exploding] Tell them to go to hell! ... Wait! Tell them Miss Gonda does not need any attorneys! Tell them you don't know what on earth made them think she did! [Switches off furiously]

SALZER: God! I wish we'd never signed her! A headache we should have ever since she came on the lot!

FARROW: Sol! You're forgetting yourself! After all! Our greatest star!

SALZER: Where did we find her? In the gutter we found her! In the gutter in Vienna! What do we get for our pains? Gratitude we get?

CLAIRE: Down-to-earthiness, that's what she lacks. You know. No finer feelings. But none! No sense of human brotherhood. Honestly, I don't understand what they all see in her, anyway!

SALZER: Five million bucks net per each picture—that's what I see!

CLAIRE: I don't know why she draws them like that. She's completely heartless. I went down to her house yesterday afternoon—to discuss her next script. And what's the use? She wouldn't let me put in a baby or a dog, as I wanted to. Dogs have such human appeal. You know, we're all brothers under the skin, and...

SALZER: Peemoller's right. She's got something there.

CLAIRE: And furthermore... [Stops suddenly] Wait! That's funny! I haven't thought of this before. She did mention the dinner.

FARROW: [Eagerly] What did she say?

CLAIRE: She got up and left me flat, saying she had to dress. "I'm going to Santa Barbara tonight," she said. Then she added, "I do not like missions of charity."

SALZER: My God, what did she mean by that?

CLAIRE: What does she mean by anything? So then I just couldn't resist it, but couldn't! I said, "Miss Gonda, do you really think you're so much better than everybody else?" And what did she have the nerve to answer? "Yes," she said, "I do. I wish I didn't have to."

FARROW: Why didn't you tell me this sooner?

CLAIRE: I had forgotten. I really didn't know there was anything between Gonda and Granton Sayers.

McNITT: An old story. I thought she was through with him long ago.

CLAIRE: What did he want with her?

FARROW: Well, Granton Sayers — you know Granton Sayers. A reckless fool. Fifty million dollars, three years ago. Today — who knows? Perhaps, fifty thousand. Perhaps, fifty cents. But cut-crystal swimming pools and Greek temples in his garden, and...

CLAIRE:... And Kay Gonda.

FARROW: Ah, yes, and Kay Gonda. An expensive little plaything or art work, depending on how you want to look at it. Kay Gonda, that is, two years ago. Not today. I know that she had not seen Sayers for over a year, previous to that dinner in Santa Barbara last night.

CLAIRE: Had there been any quarrel between them?

FARROW: None. Never. That fool had proposed to her three times, to my knowledge. She could have had him, Greek temples and oil wells and all, anytime she winked an eyelash.

CLAIRE: Has she had any trouble of any kind lately?

FARROW: None. None whatever. In fact, you know, she was to sign her new contract with us today. She promised me faithfully to be here at five, and...

SALZER: [Clutching his head suddenly] Tony! It's the contract!

FARROW: What about the contract?

SALZER: Maybe she's changed her mind again, and quit for good.

CLAIRE: A pose, Mr. Salzer, just a pose. She's said that after every picture.

SALZER: Yeah? You should laugh if you had to crawl after her on your knees like we've done for two months. "I'm through," she says. "Does it really mean anything?" Five million net per each picture — does it mean anything! "Is it really worth doing?" Ha! Twenty thousand a week we offer her and she asks is it worth doing!

FARROW: Now, now, Sol. Control your subconscious. You know, I have an idea that she will come here at five. It would be just like her. She is so utterly unpredictable. We cannot judge her actions by the usual standards. With her — anything is possible.

SALZER: Say, Tony, how about the contract? Did she insist again... is there anything in it again about Mick Watts?

FARROW: [Sighing] There is, unfortunately. We had to write it in again. So long as she is with us, Mick Watts will be her personal press agent. Most unfortunate.

CLAIRE: That's the kind of trash she gathers around her. But the rest of us aren't good enough for her! Well, if she's got herself into a mess now — I'm glad. Yes, glad! I don't see why we should all worry ourselves sick over it.

McNITT: I don't give a damn myself! I'd much rather direct Joan Tudor anyway.

CLAIRE: And I'd just as soon write for Sally Sweeney. She's such a sweet kid. And...

[The entrance door flies open. MISS DRAKE rushes in, slamming it behind her, as if holding the door against someone]

MISS DRAKE: She's here!

FARROW: [Leaping to his feet] Who? Gonda?!

MISS DRAKE: No! Miss Sayers! Miss Frederica Sayers!

[They all gasp]

FARROW: What?! Here?!

MISS DRAKE: [Pointing at the door foolishly] In there! Right in there!

FARROW: Good Lord!

MISS DRAKE: She wants to see you, Mr. Farrow. She demands to see you!

FARROW: Well, let her in! Let her right in, for God's sake! [As MISS DRAKE is about to rush out] Wait! [To the others] You'd better get out of here! It may be confidential. [Rushes them to private door Right]

SALZER: [On his way out] Make her talk, Tony! For God's sake, make her talk!

FARROW: Don't worry!

[SALZER, CLAIRE, and McNITT exit Right. FARROW whirls on MISS DRAKE]

FARROW: Don't stand there shaking! Bring her right in!

[MISS DRAKE exits hurriedly. FARROW flops down behind his desk and attempts a nonchalant attitude. The entrance door is thrown open as FREDERICA SAYERS enters. She is a tall, sparse, stern lady of middle age, gray-haired, erect in her black clothes of mourning. MISS DRAKE hovers anxiously behind her. FARROW jumps to his feet]

MISS DRAKE: Miss Frederica Sayers, Mr. Far —

MISS SAYERS: [Brushing her aside] Abominable discipline in your studio, Farrow! That's no way to run the place. [MISS DRAKE slips out, closing the door] Five reporters pounced on me at the gate and trailed me to your office. I suppose it will all appear in the evening papers, the color of my underwear included.

FARROW: My dear Miss Sayers! How do you do? So kind of you to come here! Rest assured that I...

MISS SAYERS: Where's Kay Gonda? I must see her. At once.

FARROW: [Looks at her, startled. Then:] Do sit down, Miss Sayers. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy for your grief at the untimely loss of your brother, who...

MISS SAYERS: My brother was a fool. [Sits down] I've always known he'd end up like this.

FARROW: [Cautiously] I must admit I have not been able to learn all the unfortunate details. How did Mr. Sayers meet his death?

MISS SAYERS: [Glancing at him sharply] Mr. Farrow, your time is valuable. So is mine. I did not come here to answer questions. In fact, I did not come here to speak to you at all. I came to find Miss Gonda. It is most urgent.

FARROW: Miss Sayers, let us get this clear. I have been trying to get in touch with you since early this morning. You must know who started these rumors. And you must realize how utterly preposterous it is. Miss Gonda happens to have dinner with your brother last night. He is found dead, this morning, with a bullet through him... Most unfortunate and I do sympathize, believe me, but is this ground enough for a suspicion of murder against a lady of Miss Gonda's standing? Merely the fact that she happened to be the last one seen with him?

MISS SAYERS: And the fact that nobody has seen her since.

FARROW: Did she... did she really do it?

MISS SAYERS: I have nothing to say about that.

FARROW: Was there anyone else at your house last night?

MISS SAYERS: I have nothing to say about that.

FARROW: But good God! [Controlling himself] Look here, Miss Sayers, I can well understand that you may not wish to give it out to the press, but you can tell me, in strict confidence, can't you? What were the exact circumstances of your brother's death?

MISS SAYERS: I have given my statement to the police.

FARROW: The police refuse to disclose anything!

MISS SAYERS: They must have their reasons.

FARROW: Miss Sayers! Please try to understand the position I'm in! I'm entitled to know. What actually happened at that dinner?

MISS SAYERS: I have never spied on Granton and his mistresses.

FARROW: But...

MISS SAYERS: Have you asked Miss Gonda? What did she say?

FARROW: Look here, if you don't talk — I don't talk, either.

MISS SAYERS: I have not asked you to talk. In fact, I haven't the slightest interest in anything you may say. I want to see Miss Gonda. It is to her own advantage. To yours also, I suppose.

FARROW: May I give her the message?

MISS SAYERS: Your technique is childish, my good man.

FARROW: But in heaven's name, what is it all about? If you've accused her of murder, you have no right to come here demanding to see her! If she's hiding, wouldn't she be hiding from you above all people?

MISS SAYERS: Most unfortunate, if she is. Highly ill advised. Highly.

FARROW: Look here, I'll offer you a bargain. You tell me everything and I'll take you to Miss Gonda. Not otherwise.

MISS SAYERS: [Rising] I have always been told that picture people had abominable manners. Most regrettable. Please tell Miss Gonda that I have tried. I shall not be responsible for the consequences now.

FARROW: [Rushing after her] Wait! Miss Sayers! Wait a moment! [She turns to him] I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm... I'm quite upset, as you can well understand. I beg of you, Miss Sayers, consider what it means! The greatest star of the screen! The dream woman of the world! They worship her, millions of them. It's practically a cult.

MISS SAYERS: I have never approved of motion pictures. Never saw one. The pastime of morons.

FARROW: You wouldn't say that if you read her fan mail. Do you think it comes from shopgirls and school kids, like the usual kind of trash? No. Not Kay Gonda's mail. From college professors and authors and judges and ministers! Everybody! Dirt farmers and international names! It's extraordinary! I've never seen anything like it in my whole career.

MISS SAYERS: Indeed?

FARROW: I don't know what she does to them all — but she does something. She's not a movie star to them — she's a goddess. [Correcting himself hastily] Oh, forgive me. I understand how you must feel about her. Of course, you and I know that Miss Gonda is not exactly above reproach. She is, in fact, a very objectionable person who...

MISS SAYERS: I thought she was a rather charming young woman. A bit anemic. A vitamin deficiency in her diet, no doubt. [Turning to him suddenly] Was she happy?

FARROW: [Looking at her] Why do you ask that?

MISS SAYERS: I don't think she was.

FARROW: That, Miss Sayers, is a question I've been asking myself for years. She's a strange woman.

MISS SAYERS: She is.

FARROW: But surely you can't hate her so much as to want to ruin her!

MISS SAYERS: I do not hate her at all.

FARROW: Then for heaven's sake, help me to save her name! Tell me what happened. One way or the other, only let's stop these rumors! Let's stop these rumors!

MISS SAYERS: This is getting tiresome, my good man. For the last time, will you let me see Miss Gonda or won't you? FARROW: I'm so sorry, but it is impossible, and...

MISS SAYERS: Either you are a fool or you don't know where she is yourself. Regrettable, in either case. I wish you a good day.

[She is at the entrance door when the private door Right is thrown open violently. SALZER and McNITT enter, dragging and pushing MICK WATTS between them. MICK WATTS is tall, about thirty-five, with disheveled platinum-blond hair, the ferocious face of a thug, and the blue eyes of a baby. He is obviously, unquestionably drunk]

McNITT: There's your precious Mick Watts for you!

SALZER: Where do you think we found him? He was... [Stops short seeing MISS SAYERS] Oh, I beg your pardon! We thought Miss Sayers had left!

MICK WATTS: [Tearing himself loose from them] Miss Sayers?!. [Reels ferociously toward her] What did you tell them?

MISS SAYERS: [Looking at him coolly] And who are you, young man?

MICK WATTS: What did you tell them?

MISS SAYERS: [Haughtily] I have told them nothing.

MICK WATTS: Well, keep your mouth shut! Keep your mouth shut! MISS SAYERS: That, young man, is precisely what I am doing. [Exits] McNITT: [Lurching furiously at MICK WATTS] Why, you drunken fool!

FARROW: [Interfering] Wait a moment! What happened? Where did you find him?

SALZER: Down in the publicity department! Just think of that! He walked right in and there's a mob of reporters pounced on him and started filling him up with liquor and —

FARROW: Oh, my Lord!

SALZER: — and here's what he was handing out for a press release! [Straightens out a slip of paper he has crumpled in his hand, reads:] "Kay Gonda does not cook her own meals or knit her own underwear. She does not play golf, adopt babies, or endow hospitals for homeless horses. She is not kind to her dear old mother — she has no dear old mother. She is not just like you and me. She never was like you and me. She's like nothing you bastards ever dreamed of!"

FARROW: [Clutching his head] Did they get it?

SALZER: A fool you should think I am? We dragged him out of there just in time!

FARROW: [Approaching MICK WATTS, ingratiatingly] Sit down, Mick, do sit down. There's a good boy.

[MICK WATTS flops down on a chair and sits motionless, staring into space]

McNITT: If you let me punch the bastard just once, he'll talk all right.

[SALZER nudges him frantically to keep quiet. FARROW hurries to a cabinet, produces a glass and a decanter, pours]

FARROW: [Bending over MICK WATTS, solicitously, offering him the glass] A drink, Mick? [MICK WATTS does not move or answer] Nice weather we're having, Mick. Nice, but hot. Awfully hot. Supposing you and I have a drink together?

MICK WATTS: [In a dull monotone] I don't know a thing. Save your liquor. Go to hell.

FARROW: What are you talking about?

MICK WATTS: I'm talking about nothing — and that goes for everything.

FARROW: You could stand a drink once in a while, couldn't you? You look thirsty to me.

MICK WATTS: I don't know a thing about Kay Gonda. Never heard of her... Kay Gonda. It's a funny name, isn't it? I went to confession once, long ago — and they talked about the redemption of all sins. It's useless to yell "Kay Gonda" and to think that all your sins are washed away. Just pay two bits in the balcony — and come out pure as snow.

[The others exchange glances and shrug hopelessly]

FARROW: On second thought, Mick, I won't offer you another drink. You'd better have something to eat.

MICK WATTS: I'm not hungry. I stopped being hungry many years ago. But she is.

FARROW: Who?

MICK WATTS: Kay Gonda.

FARROW: [Eagerly] Any idea where she's having her next meal?

MICK WATTS: In heaven. [FARROW shakes his head helplessly] In a blue heaven with white lilies. Very white lilies. Only she'll never find it.

FARROW: I don't understand you, Mick.

MICK WATTS: [Looking at him slowly for the first time] You don't understand? She doesn't either. Only it's no use. It's no use trying to unravel, because if you try, you end up with more dirt on your hands than you care to wipe off. There are not enough towels in the world to wipe it off. Not enough towels. That's the trouble.

SALZER: [Impatiently] Look here, Watts, you must know something. You'd better play ball with us. Remember, you've been fired from every newspaper on both coasts —

MICK WATTS: — and from many others in between.

SALZER: — so that if anything should happen to Gonda, you won't have a job here unless you help us now and...

MICK WATTS: [His voice emotionless] Do you think I'd want to stay with the lousy bunch of you if it weren't for her?

McNITT: Jesus, it beats me what they all see in that bitch!

[MICK WATTS turns and looks at McNITT fixedly, ominously]

SALZER: [Placatingly] Now, now, Mick, he doesn't mean it, he's kidding, he's —

[MICK WATTS rises slowly, deliberately, walks up to McNITT without hurry,

then strikes him flat on the face, a blow that sends him sprawling on the floor. FARROW rushes to help the stunned McNITT. MICK WATTS stands motionless, with perfect indifference, his arms limp]

McNITT: [Raising his head slowly] The damn...

FARROW: [Restraining him] Discipline, Bill, discipline, control your...

[The door is flung open as CLAIRE PEEMOLLER rushes in breathlessly]

CLAIRE: She's coming! She's coming!

FARROW: Who?!

CLAIRE: Kay Gonda! I just saw her car turning the corner!

SALZER: [Looking at his wristwatch] By God! It's five o'clock! Can you beat that!

FARROW: I knew she would! I knew it! [Rushes to intercom, shouts:] Miss Drake! Bring in the contract!

CLAIRE: [Tugging at FARROW's sleeve] Tony, you won't tell her what I said, will you, Tony? I've always been her best friend! I'll do anything to please her! I've always...

SALZER: [Grabbing a telephone] Get the publicity department! Quick!

McNITT: [Rushing to MICK WATTS] I was only kidding, Mick! You know I was only kidding- No hard feelings, eh, pal?

[MICK WATTS does not move or look at him. WATTS is the only one motionless amid the frantic activity]

SALZER: [Shouting into the phone] Hello, Meagley?... Call all the papers! Reserve the front pages! Tell you later! [Hangs up]

[MISS DRAKE enters, carrying a batch of legal documents]

FARROW: [At his desk] Put it right here, Miss Drake! Thank you! [Steps are heard approaching] Smile, all of you! Smile! Don't let her think that we thought for a minute that she...

[Everyone obeys, save MICK WATTS, all eyes turned to the door. The door opens. MISS TERRENCE enters and steps on the threshold. She is a prim, ugly little shrimp of a woman]

MISS TERRENCE: Is Miss Gonda here?

[A moan rises from the others]

SALZER: Oh, God!

MISS TERRENCE: [Looking at the stunned group] Well, what is the matter?

CLAIRE: [Choking] Did you... did you drive up in Miss Gonda's car?

MISS TERRENCE: [With hurt dignity] Why, certainly. Miss Gonda had an appointment

here at five o'clock, and I thought it a secretary's duty to come and tell Mr. Farrow that it looks as if Miss Gonda will not be able to keep it.

FARROW: [Dully] So it does.

MISS TERRENCE: There is also something rather peculiar I wanted to check on. Has anyone from the studio been at Miss Gonda's home last night?

FARROW: [Perking up] No. Why, Miss Terrence?

MISS TERRENCE: This is most peculiar.

SALZER: What is?

MISS TERRENCE: I'm sure I can't understand it. I've questioned the servants, but they have not taken them.

FARROW: Taken what?

MISS TERRENCE: If no one else took them, then Miss Gonda must have been back at home late last night.

FARROW: [Eagerly] Why, Miss Terrence?

MISS TERRENCE: Because I saw them on her desk yesterday after she left for Santa Barbara. And when I entered her room this morning, they were gone.

FARROW: What was gone?

MISS TERRENCE: Six letters from among Miss Gonda's fan mail.

[A great sigh of disappointment rises from all] SALZER: Aw, nuts! McNITT: And I thought it was something!

[MICK WATTS bursts out laughing suddenly, for no apparent reason] FARROW: [Angrily] What are you laughing at? MICK WATTS: [Quietly] Kay Gonda. McNITT: Oh. throw the drunken fool out!

MICK WATTS: [Without looking at anyone] A great quest. The quest of the hopeless. Why do we hope? Why do we seek it, when we'd be luckier if we didn't think that it could exist? Why does she? Why does she have to be hurt? [Whirls suddenly upon the others with ferocious hatred] God damn you all! [Rushes out, slamming the door]

CURTAIN

When the curtain rises, a motion-picture screen is disclosed and a letter is flashed on the screen, unrolling slowly. It is written in a neat, precise, respectable handwriting:

Dear Miss Gonda,

I am not a regular movie fan, but I have never missed a picture of yours. There is something about you which I can't give a name to, something I had and lost, but I feel as if you're keeping it for me, for all of us. I had it long ago, when I was very young. You know how it is: when you're very young, there's something ahead of you, so big that you're afraid of it, but you wait for it and you're so happy waiting. Then the years pass and it never comes. And then you find, one day, that you're not waiting any longer. It seems foolish, because you didn't even know what it was you were waiting for. I look at myself and I don't know. But when I look at you — I do.

And if ever, by some miracle, you were to enter my life, I'd drop everything, and follow you, and gladly lay down my life for you, because, you see, I'm still a human being.

Very truly yours, George S. Perkins...

S. Hoover Street Los Angeles, California

When the letter ends, all lights go out, and when they come on again, the screen has disappeared and the stage reveals the living room of GEORGE S. PERKINS.

It is a room such as thousands of other rooms in thousands of other homes whose owners have a respectable little income and a respectable little character.

Center back, a wide glass door opening on the street. Door into the rest of the house in wall Left.

When the curtain rises, it is evening. The street outside is dark. MRS. PERKINS stands in the middle of the room, tense, erect, indignant, watching with smoldering emotion the entrance door where GEORGE S. PERKINS is seen outside turning the key in the lock. MRS. PERKINS looks like a dried-out bird of prey that has never been young. GEORGE S. PERKINS is short, blond, heavy, helpless, and over forty. He is whistling a gay tune as he enters. He is in a very cheerful mood.

MRS. PERKINS: [Without moving, ominously] You're late.

PERKINS: [Cheerfully] Well, dovey, I have a good excuse for being late.

MRS. PERKINS: [Speaking very fast] I have no doubt about that. But listen to me, George Perkins, you'll have to do something about Junior. That boy of yours got D again in arithmetic. If a father don't take the proper interest in his children, what can you expect from a boy who...

PERKINS: Aw, honeybunch, we'll excuse the kid for once — just to celebrate.

MRS. PERKINS: Celebrate what?

PERKINS: How would you like to be Mrs. Assistant Manager of the Daffodil Canning Company?

MRS. PERKINS: I would like it very much. Not that I have any hopes of ever being.

PERKINS: Well, dovey, you are. As of today.

MRS. PERKINS: [Noncommittally] Oh. [Calls into house] Mama! Come here!

[MRS. SHLY waddles in from door Left. She is fat and looks chronically dissatisfied with the whole world. MRS. PERKINS speaks, half-boasting, half-bitter]

Mama, Georgie's got a promotion.

MRS. SHLY: [Dryly] Well, we've waited for it long enough.

PERKINS: But you don't understand- I've been made Assistant Manager— [Looks for the effect on her face, finds none, adds lamely]— of the Daffodil Canning Company.

MRS. SHLY: Well?

PERKINS: [Spreading his hands helplessly] Well...

MRS. SHLY: All I gotta say is it's a fine way to start off on your promotion, coming home at such an hour, keeping us waiting with dinner and...

PERKINS: Oh, I...

MRS. SHLY: Oh, we ate all right, don't you worry! Never seen a man that cared two hoops about his family, not two hoops!

PERKINS: I'm sorry. I had dinner with the boss. I should've phoned, only I couldn't keep him waiting, you know, the boss asking me to dinner, in person.

MRS. PERKINS: And here I was waiting for you, I had something to tell you, a nice surprise for you, and...

MRS. SHLY: Don't you tell him, Rosie. Don't you tell him now. Serves him right.

PERKINS: But I figured you'd understand- I figured you'd be happy — [Corrects his presumption hastily] — well, glad that I've been made —

MRS. PERKINS: — Assistant Manager! Lord, do we have to hear it for the rest of our lives?

PERKINS: [Softly] Rosie, it's twenty years I've waited for it.

MRS. SHLY: That, my boy, is nothing to brag about!

PERKINS: It's a long time, twenty years. One gets sort of tired. But now we can take it easy... light... [With sudden eagerness]... you know, light... [Coming down to earth, apologetically]... easy, I mean.

MRS. SHLY: Listen to him! How much you got, Mr. Rockafeller?

PERKINS: [With quiet pride] One hundred and sixty-five dollars.

MRS. PERKINS: A week?

PERKINS: Yes, dovey, a week. Every single week.

MRS. SHLY: [Impressed] Well! [Gruffly] Well, what're you standing there for? Sit down.

You must be all tired out.

PERKINS: [Removing his coat] Mind if I slip my coat off? Sort of stuffy tonight.

MRS. PERKINS: I'll fetch your bathrobe. Don't you go catching a cold. [Exits Left]

MRS. SHLY: We gotta think it over careful. There's lots a man can do with one-sixty-five a week. Not that there ain't some men what get around two hundred. Still, one-sixty-five ain't to be sneezed at.

PERKINS: I've been thinking...

MRS. PERKINS: [Returning with a flashy striped flannel bathrobe] Now put it on like a good boy, nice and comfy.

PERKINS: [Obeying] Thanks... Dovey, I was sort of planning... I've been thinking of it for a long time, nights, you know... making plans...

MRS. PERKINS: Plans? But your wife's not let in on it?

PERKINS: Oh, it was only sort of like dreaming... I wanted to...

[There is a thunderous crash upstairs, the violent scuffle of a battle and a child's shrill scream]

BOY'S VOICE: [Offstage] No, ya don't! No, ya don't! Ya dirty snot!

GIRL'S VOICE: Ma-a-a!

BOY'S VOICE: I'll learn ya! I'll...

GIRL'S VOICE: Ma-a! He bit me on the pratt!

MRS. PERKINS: [Throws the door Left open, yells upstairs] Keep quiet up there and march straight to bed, or I'll beat the living Jesus out of the both of you! [Slams the door. The noise upstairs subsides to thin whimpers] For the life of me, I don't see why of all the children in the world I had to get these!

PERKINS: Please, dovey, not tonight. I'm tired. I wanted to talk about... the plans.

MRS. PERKINS: What plans?

PERKINS: I was thinking... if we're very careful, we could take a vacation maybe... in a year or two... and go to Europe, you know, like Switzerland or Italy... [Looks at her hopefully, sees no reaction, adds]... It's where they have mountains, you know.

MRS. PERKINS: Well?

PERKINS: Well, and lakes. And snow high up on the peaks. And sunsets.

MRS. PERKINS: And what would we do?

PERKINS: Oh... well... just rest, I guess. And look around, sort of. You know, at the swans and the sail-boats. Just the two of us.

MRS. SHLY: Uh-huh. Just the two of you.

MRS. PERKINS: Yes, you were always a great one for making up ways of wasting good money, George Perkins. And me slaving and skimping and saving every little penny. Swans, indeed! Well, before you go thinking of any swans, you'd better get us a new Frigidaire, that's all I've got to say.

MRS. SHLY: And a mayonnaise mixer. And a 'lectric washing machine. And it's about time to be thinking of a new car, too. The old one's a sight. And...

PERKINS: Look, you don't understand. I don't want anything that we need.

MRS. PERKINS: What?

PERKINS: I want something I don't need at all.

MRS. PERKINS: George Perkins! Have you been drinking?

PERKINS: Rosie, I...

MRS. SHLY: [Resolutely] Now I've had just about enough of this nonsense! Now you come down to earth, George Perkins. There's something bigger to think about. Rosie has a surprise for you. A pretty surprise. Tell him, Rosie.

MRS. PERKINS: I just found it out today, Georgie. You'll be glad to hear it.

MRS. SHLY: He'll be tickled pink. Go on.

MRS. PERKINS: Well, I... I've been to the doctor's this morning. We have a baby coming.

[Silence. The two women look, with bright smiles, at PERKINS 'face, a face that distorts slowly before their eyes into an expression of stunned horror]

PERKINS: [In a choked voice] Another one?

MRS. PERKINS: [Brightly] Uh-huh. A brand-new little baby. [He stares at her silently] Well? [He stares without moving] Well, what's the matter with you? [He does not move] Aren't you glad?

PERKINS: [In a slow, heavy voice] You're not going to have it.

MRS. PERKINS: Mama! What's he saying?

PERKINS: [In a dull, persistent monotone] You know what I'm saying. You can't have it. You won't.

MRS. SHLY: Have you gone plumb outta your mind? Are you thinking of... of...

PERKINS: [Dully] Yes.

MRS. PERKINS: Mama!!

MRS. SHLY: [Ferociously] D'you know who you're talking to? It's my daughter you're talking to, not a street woman! To come right out with a thing like that... to his own wife... to his own...

MRS. PERKINS: What's happened to you?

PERKINS: Rosie, I didn't mean to insult you. It's not even dangerous nowadays and...

MRS. PERKINS: Make him stop, Mama!

MRS. SHLY: Where did you pick that up? Decent people don't even know about such things! You hear about it maybe with gangsters and actresses. But in a respectable married home!

MRS. PERKINS: What's happened to you today?

PERKINS: It's not today, Rosie. It's for a long, long time back... But I'm set with the firm now. I can take good care of you and the children. But the rest — Rosie, I can't throw it away for good.

MRS. PERKINS: What are you talking about? What better use can you find for your extra money than to take care of a baby?

PERKINS: That's just it. Take care of it. The hospital and the doctors. The strained vegetables — at two bits the can. The school and the measles. All over again. And nothing else.

MRS. PERKINS: So that's how you feel about your duties! There's nothing holier than to raise a family. There's no better blessing. Haven't I spent my life making a home for you? Don't you have everything every decent man struggles for? What else do you want?

PERKINS: Rosie, it's not that I don't like what I've got. I like it fine. Only... Well, it's like this bathrobe of mine. I'm glad I have it, it's warm and comfortable, and I like it, just the same as I like the rest of it. Just like that. And no more. There should be more.

MRS. PERKINS: Well, I like that! The swell bathrobe I picked out for your birthday! Well, if you didn't like it, why didn't you exchange it?

PERKINS: Oh, Rosie, it's not that! It's only that a man can't live his whole life for a bathrobe. Or for things that he feels the same way about. Things that do nothing to him — inside, I mean. There should be something that he's afraid of — afraid and happy. Like going to church — only not in a church. Something he can look up to. Something — high, Rosie... that's it, high.

MRS. PERKINS: Well, if it's culture you want, didn't I subscribe to the Book-of-the-Month Club?

PERKINS: Oh, I know I can't explain it! All I ask is, don't let's have that baby, Rosie. That would be the end of it all for me. I'll be an old man, if I give those things up. I don't want to be old. Not yet. God, not yet! Just leave me a few years, Rosie!

MRS. PERKINS: [Breaking down into tears] Never, never, never did I think I'd live to hear this!

MRS. SHLY: [Rushing to her] Rosie, sweetheart! Don't cry like that, baby! [Whirling upon PERKINS] See what you've done? Now don't let me hear another word out of that filthy mouth of yours! Do you want to kill your wife? Take the Chinese, for instance. They go in for abortions, that's why all the Chinks have rickets. PERKINS: Now, Mother, who ever told you that?

MRS. SHLY: Well, I suppose I don't know what I'm talking about? I suppose the big businessman is the only one to tell us what's what?

PERKINS: I didn't mean... I only meant that...

MRS. PERKINS: [Through her sobs] You leave Mama alone, George.

PERKINS: [Desperately] But I didn't...

MRS. SHLY: I understand. I understand perfectly, George Perkins. An old mother, these days, is no good for anything but to shut up and wait for the graveyard!

PERKINS: [Resolutely] Mother, I wish you'd stop trying to... [Bravely]... to make trouble.

MRS. SHLY: So? So that's it? So I'm making trouble? So I'm a burden to you, am I? Well, I'm glad you came out with it, Mr. Perkins! And here I've been, poor fool that I am, slaving in this house like if it was my own! That's the gratitude I get. Well, I won't stand for it another minute. Not one minute. [Rushes out Left, slamming the door]

MRS. PERKINS: [With consternation] George!... George, if you don't apologize, Mama will leave us!

PERKINS: [With sudden, desperate courage] Well, let her go.

MRS. PERKINS: [Stares at him incredulously, then:] So it's come to that? So that's what it does to you, your big promotion? Coming home, picking a fight with everybody, throwing his wife's old mother out into the gutter! If you think I'm going to stand for...

PERKINS: Listen, I've stood about as much of her as I'm going to stand. She'd better go. It was coming to this, sooner or later.

MRS. PERKINS: You just listen to me, George Perkins! If you don't apologize to Mama, if you don't apologize to her before tomorrow morning, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!

PERKINS: [Wearily] How many times have I heard that before?

[MRS. PERKINS runs to door Left and exits, slamming the door. PERKINS sits wearily, without moving. An old-fashioned clock strikes nine. He rises slowly, turns out the lights, pulls the shade down over the glass entrance door. The room is dim but for one lamp burning by the fireplace. He leans against the mantelpiece, his head on his arm, slumped wearily. The doorbell rings. It is a quick, nervous, somehow furtive sound. PERKINS starts, looks at the entrance door, surprised, hesitates, then crosses to door and opens it. Before we can see the visitor, his voice a stunned explosion:] Oh, my God!! [PERKINS steps aside. KAY GONDA stands on the threshold. She wears an exquisitely plain black suit, very modem, austerely severe; a black hat, black shoes, stockings, bag, and gloves. The sole and startling contrast to her clothes is the pale, luminous gold of her hair and the whiteness of her face. It is a strange face with eyes that make one uncomfortable. She is tall and very slender. Her movements are slow, her steps light, soundless. There is a feeling of unreality about her, the feeling of a being that does not belong on this earth. She looks more like a ghost than a woman]

KAY GONDA: Please keep quiet. And let me in.

PERKINS: [Stuttering foolishly] You... you are...

KAY GONDA: Kay Gonda. [She enters and closes the door behind her]

PERKINS: W-why...

KAY GONDA: Are you George Perkins?

PERKINS: [Foolishly] Yes, ma'am. George Perkins. George S. Perkins... Only how...

KAY GONDA: I am in trouble. Have you heard about it?

PERKINS: Y-yes... oh my God!... Yes...

KAY GONDA: I have to hide. For the night. It is dangerous. Can you let me stay here?

PERKINS: Here?

KAY GONDA: Yes. For one night

PERKINS: But how... that is... why did you...

KAY GONDA: [Opens her bag and shows him. the letter] I read your letter. And I thought that no one would look for me here. And I thought you would want to help me.

PERKINS: I... Miss Gonda, you'll excuse me, please, you know it's enough to make a fellow... I mean, if I don't seem to make sense or... I mean, if you need help, you can stay here the rest of your life, Miss Gonda.

KAY GONDA: [Calmly] Thank you. [She throws her bag on a table, takes off her hat and gloves, indifferently, as if she were quite at home. He keeps staring at her]

PERKINS: You mean... they're really after you?

KAY GONDA: The police. [Adds] For murder.

PERKINS: I won't let them get you. If there's anything I can... [He stops short. Steps are heard approaching, behind the door Left]

MRS. PERKINS' VOICE: [Offstage] George!

PERKINS: Yes... dovey?

MRS. PERKINS' VOICE: Who was that who rang the bell?

PERKINS: No... no one, dovey. Somebody had the wrong address. [He listens to the steps moving away, then whispers:] That was my wife. We'd better keep quiet. She's all right. Only... she wouldn't understand.

KAY GONDA: It will be dangerous for you, if they find me here.

PERKINS: I don't care. [She smiles slowly. He points to the room helplessly] Just make yourself at home. You can sleep right here, on the davenport, and I'll stay outside and watch to see that no one...

KAY GONDA: No. I don't want to sleep. Stay here. You and I, we have so much to talk about.

PERKINS: Oh, yes. Sure... that is... about what, Miss Gonda?

[She sits down without answering. He sits down on the edge of a chair, gathering his bathrobe, miserably uncomfortable. She looks at him expectantly, a silent question in her eyes. He blinks, clears his throat, says resolutely:]

Pretty cold night, this is.

KAY GONDA: Yes.

PERKINS: That's California for you... the Golden West... Sunshine all day, but cold as the... but very cold at night.

KAY GONDA: Give me a cigarette.

[He leaps to his feet, produces a package of cigarettes, strikes three matches before he can light one. She leans back, the lighted cigarette between her fingers]

PERKINS: [He mutters helplessly] I... I smoke this kind. Easier on your throat, they are. [He looks at her miserably. He has so much to tell her. He fumbles for words. He ends with:] Now Joe Tucker — that's a friend of mine — Joe Tucker, he smokes cigars. But I never took to them, never did.

KAY GONDA: You have many friends?

PERKINS: Yes, sure. Sure I have. Can't complain.

KAY GONDA: You like them?

PERKINS: Yes, I like them fine.

KAY GONDA: And they like you? They approve of you, and they bow to you on the street? PERKINS: Why... I guess so.

KAY GONDA: How old are you, George Perkins?

PERKINS: I'll be forty-three this coming June.

KAY GONDA: It will be hard to lose your job and to find yourself in the street. In a dark, lonely street, where you'll see your friends passing by and looking past you, as if you did not exist. Where you will want to scream and tell them of the great things you know, but no one will hear and no one will answer. It will be hard, won't it?

PERKINS: [Bewildered] Why... When should that happen?

KAY GONDA: [Calmly] When they find me here.

PERKINS: [Resolutely] Don't worry about that. No one will find you here. Not that I'm afraid for myself. Suppose they learn I helped you? Who wouldn't? Who'd hold that against me? Why should they?

KAY GONDA: Because they hate me. And they hate all those who take my side.

PERKINS: Why should they hate you?

KAY GONDA: [Calmly] I am a murderess, George Perkins.

PERKINS: Well, if you ask me, I don't believe it. I don't even want to ask you whether you've done it. I just don't believe it.

KAY GONDA: If you mean Granton Sayers... no, I do not want to speak about Granton Sayers. Forget that. But I am still a murderess. You see, I came here and, perhaps, I will destroy your life — everything that has been your life for forty-three years.

PERKINS: [In a low voice] That's not much, Miss Gonda.

KAY GONDA: Do you always go to see my pictures?

PERKINS: Always.

KAY GONDA: Are you happy when you come out of the theater?

PERKINS: Yes. Sure... No, I guess I'm not. That's funny, I never thought of it that way... Miss Gonda, you won't laugh at me if I tell you something?

KAY GONDA: Of course not.

PERKINS: Miss Gonda, I... I cry when I come home after seeing a picture of yours. I just lock myself in the bathroom and I cry, every time. I don't know why.

KAY GONDA: I knew that.

PERKINS: How?

KAY GONDA: I told you I am a murderess. I kill so many things in people. I kill the things they live by. But they come to see me because I am the only one who makes them realize that they want those things to be killed. Or they think they do. And it's their whole pride, that they think and say they do.

PERKINS: I'm afraid I don't follow you, Miss Gonda.

KAY GONDA: You'll understand someday.

PERKINS: Did you really do it?

KAY GONDA: What?

PERKINS: Did you kill Granton Sayers? [She looks at him, smiles slowly, shrugs] I was only wondering why you could have done it.

KAY GONDA: Because I could not stand it any longer. There are times when one can't stand it any longer.

PERKINS: Yes. There are.

KAY GONDA: [Looking straight at him] Why do you want to help me?

PERKINS: I don't know... only that...

KAY GONDA: Your letter, it said...

PERKINS: Oh! I never thought you'd read the silly thing.

KAY GONDA: It was not silly.

PERKINS: I bet you have plenty of them, fans, I mean, and letters.

KAY GONDA: I like to think that I mean something to people.

PERKINS: You must forgive me if I said anything fresh, you know, or personal.

KAY GONDA: You said you were not happy.

PERKINS: I... I didn't mean to complain, Miss Gonda, only... I guess I've missed something along the way. I don't know what it is, but I know I've missed it. Only I don't know why.

KAY GONDA: Perhaps it is because you wanted to miss it.

PERKINS: No. [His voice is suddenly firm] No. [He rises and stands looking straight at her] You see, I'm not unhappy at all. In fact, I'm a very happy man — as happiness goes-Only there's something in me that knows of a life I've never lived, the kind of life no one has ever lived, but should.

KAY GONDA: You know it? Why don't you live it?

PERKINS: Who does? Who can? Who ever gets a chance at the... the very best possible to him? We all bargain. We take the second best. That's all there is to be had. But the... the God in us, it knows the other... the very best... which never comes.

KAY GONDA: And... if it came?

PERKINS: We'd grab it — because there is a God in us.

KAY GONDA: And... the God in you, you really want it?

PERKINS: [Fiercely] Look, I know this: let them come, the cops, let them come now and try to get you. Let them tear this house down. I built it — took me fifteen years to pay for it. Let them tear it down, before I let them take you. Let them come, whoever it is that's after you... [The door Left is flung open. MRS. PERKINS stands on the threshold; she wears a faded corduroy bathrobe and a long nightgown of grayish-pink cotton]

MRS. PERKINS: [Gasping] George!...

[KAY GONDA rises and stands looking at them]

PERKINS: Dovey, keep quiet! For God's sake, keep quiet... come in... close the door!

MRS. PERKINS: I thought I heard voices... I... [She chokes, unable to continue]

PERKINS: Dovey... this... Miss Gonda, may I present — my wife? Dovey, this is Miss Gonda, Miss Kay Gonda! [KAY GONDA inclines her head, but MRS. PERKINS remains motionless, staring at her. PERKINS says desperately:] Don't you understand? Miss Gonda's in trouble, you know, you've heard about it, the papers said... [He stops. MRS. PERKINS shows no reaction. Silence. Then:]

MRS. PERKINS: [To KAY GONDA, her voice unnaturally emotionless] Why did you come here?

KAY GONDA: [Calmly] Mr. Perkins will have to explain that.

PERKINS: Rosie, I... [Stops]

MRS. PERKINS: Well?

PERKINS: Rosie, there's nothing to get excited about, only that Miss Gonda is wanted by the police and —

MRS. PERKINS: Oh.

PERKINS: — and it's for murder and —

MRS. PERKINS: Oh!

PERKINS: — and she just has to stay here overnight. That's all.

MRS. PERKINS: [Slowly] Listen to me, George Perkins: either she goes out of the house this minute, or else I go.

PERKINS: But let me explain...

MRS. PERKINS: I don't need any explanations. I'll pack my things, and I'll take the children, too. And I'll pray to God we never see you again. [She waits. He does not answer] Tell her to get out.

PERKINS: Rosie... I can't.

MRS. PERKINS: We've struggled together pretty hard, haven't we, George? Together. For fifteen years.

PERKINS: Rosie, it's just one night... If you knew...

MRS. PERKINS: I don't want to know. I don't want to know why my husband should bring such a thing upon me. A fancy woman or a murderess, or both. I've been a faithful wife to you, George. I've given you the best years of my life. I've borne your children.

PERKINS: Yes, Rosie...

MRS. PERKINS: It's not just for me. Think of what will happen to you. Shielding a murderess. Think of the children. [He doesn't answer] And your job, too. You just got that promotion. We were going to get new drapes for the living room. The green ones. You always wanted them.

PERKINS: Yes...

MRS. PERKINS: And that golf club you wanted to join. They have the best of members, solid, respectable members, not men with their fingerprints in the police files.

PERKINS: [His voice barely audible] No...

MRS. PERKINS: Have you thought of what will happen when people learn about this?

PERKINS: [Looks desperately for a word, a glance from KAY GONDA. He wants her to decide. But KAY GONDA stands motionless, as if the scene did not concern her at all Only her eyes are watching him. He speaks to her, his voice a desperate plea] What will happen when people learn about this?

[KAY GONDA does not answer]

MRS. PERKINS: I'll tell you what will happen. No decent person will ever want to speak to you again. They'll fire you, down at the Daffodil Company, they'll throw you right out in the street!

PERKINS: [Repeats softly, dazedly, as if from far away]... in a dark, lonely street where your friends will be passing by and looking straight past you... and you'll want to scream... [He stares at KAY GONDA_; his eyes wide. She does not move]

MRS. PERKINS: That will be the end of everything you've ever held dear. And in exchange for what? Back roads and dark alleys, fleeing by night, hunted and cornered, and forsaken by the whole wide world!... [He does not answer or turn to her. He is staring at KAY GONDA with a new kind of understanding] Think of the children, George... [He does not move] We've been pretty happy together, haven't we, George? Fifteen years...

[Her voice trails off. There is a long silence. Then PERKINS turns slowly away from KAY GONDA to look at his wife. His shoulders droop, he is suddenly old]

PERKINS: [Looking at his wife] I'm sorry, Miss Gonda, but under the circumstances...

KAY GONDA: [Calmly] I understand.

[She puts on her hat, picks up her bag and gloves. Her movements are light, unhurried. She walks to the door Center. When she passes MRS. PERKINS, she stops to say calmly:]

I'm sorry. I had the wrong address.

[She walks out. PERKINS and his wife stand at the open door and watch her go]

PERKINS: [Putting his arm around his wife's waist] Is mother asleep?

MRS. PERKINS: I don't know. Why?

PERKINS: I thought I'd go in and talk to her. Make up, sort of. She knows all about raising babies.

CURTAIN

When the curtain rises, another letter is projected on the screen. This one is written in a small uneven, temperamental handwriting:

Dear Miss Gonda,

The determinism of duty has conditioned me to pursue the relief of my fellow men's suffering. I see daily before me the wrecks and victims of an outrageous social system. But I gain courage for my cause when I look at you on the screen and realize of what greatness the human race is capable. Your art is a symbol of the hidden potentiality which I see in my derelict brothers. None of them chose to be what he is. None of us ever chooses the bleak, hopeless life he is forced to lead. But in our ability to recognize you and bow to you lies the hope of mankind.

Sincerely yours,

Chuck Fink

... Spring Street

Los Angeles, California

Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals living room in the home of CHUCK FINK It is a miserable room in a run-down furnished bungalow. Entrance door upstage in wall Right; large open window next to it, downstage; door to bedroom in wall Center. Late evening. Although there are electric fixtures in the room, it is lighted by a single kerosene lamp smoking in a corner. The tenants are moving out; two battered trunks and a number of grocery cartons stand in the middle of the room; closets and chests gape open, half emptied; clothes, books, dishes, every conceivable piece of household junk are piled indiscriminately into great heaps on the floor.

At curtain rise, CHUCK FINK is leaning anxiously out of the window; he is a young man of about thirty, slight, anemic, with a rich mane of dark hair, a cadaverous face, and a neat little mustache. He is watching the people seen hurrying past the window in great agitation; there is a dim confusion of voices outside. He sees someone outside and calls:

FINK: Hey, Jimmy!

JIMMY'S VOICE: [Offstage] Yeah?

FINK: Come here a minute!

[JIMMY appears at the window outside; he is a haggard-looking youth, his clothes torn, his eyes swollen, blood running down the side of his face from a gash on his forehead]

JIMMY: Oh, that you, Chuck? Thought it was a cop. What d'you want?

FINK: Have you seen Fanny down there?

JIMMY: Huh! Fanny!

FINK: Have you seen her?

JIMMY: Not since it started.

FINK: Is she hurt?

JIMMY: Might be. I seen her when it started. She threw a brick plumb through their window.

FINK: What's happened out there?

JIMMY: Tear gas. They've arrested a bunch of the pickets. So we beat it.

FINK: But hasn't anyone seen Fanny?

JIMMY: Oh, to hell with your Fanny! There's people battered all over the place. Jesus, that was one swell free-for-all!

[JIMMY disappears down the street. FINK leaves the window. Paces nervously, glancing at his watch. The noise subsides in the street. FINK tries to continue his packing, throws a few things into cartons halfheartedly. The entrance door flies open. FANNY FINK enters. She is a tall, gaunt, angular girl in her late twenties, with a sloppy masculine haircut, flat shoes, a man's coat thrown over her shoulders. Her hair is disheveled, her face white. She leans against the doorjamb for support]

FINK: Fanny! [She does not move] Are you all right? What happened? Where have you been?

FANNY: [In aflat, husky voice] Got any Mercurochrome?

FINK: What?

FANNY: Mercurochrome. [Throws her coat off. Her clothes are torn, her bare arms bruised; there is a bleeding cut on one forearm]

FINK: Jesus!

FANNY: Oh, don't stand there like an idiot! [Walks resolutely to a cabinet, rummages through the shelves, produces a tiny bottle] Stop staring at me! Nothing to get hysterical over!

FINK: Here, let me help.

FANNY: Never mind. I'm all right. [Dabs her arm with Mercurochrome]

FINK: Where have you been so late?

FANNY: In jail.

FINK: Huh?!

FANNY: All of us. Pinky Thomlinson, Bud Miller, Mary Phelps, and all the rest. Twelve of us.

FINK: What happened?

FANNY: We tried to stop the night shift from going in.

FINK: And?

FANNY: Bud Miller started it by cracking a scab's skull. But the damn Cossacks were prepared. Biff just sprung us out on bail. Got a cigarette? [She finds one and lights it; she smokes nervously, continuously throughout the scene] Trial next week. They don't think the scab will recover. It looks like a long vacation in the cooler for yours truly. [Bitterly] You don't mind, do you, sweetheart? It will be a nice, quiet rest for you here without me.

FINK: But it's outrageous! I won't allow it! We have some rights...

FANNY: Sure. Rights. C.O.D. rights. Not worth a damn without cash. And where will you get that?

FINK: [Sinking wearily into a chair] But it's unthinkable!

FANNY: Well, don't think of it, then... [Looks around] You don't seem to have done much packing, have you? How are we going to finish with all this damn junk tonight?

FINK: What's the hurry? I'm too upset.

FANNY: What's the hurry! If we're not out of here by morning, they'll dump it all, right out on the sidewalk.

FINK: If that wasn't enough! And now this trial! Now you had to get into this! What are we going to do?

FANNY: I'm going to pack. [Starts gathering things, hardly looking at them, and flinging them into the cartons with ferocious hatred] Shall we move to the Ambassador or the Beverly-Sunset, darling? [He does not answer. She flings a book into the carton] The Beverly-Sunset would be nice, I think... We shall need a suite of seven rooms — do you think we could manage in seven rooms? [He does not move. She flings a pile of underwear into the carton] Oh, yes, and a private swimming pool. [Flings a coffee pot into carton viciously] And a two-car garage! For the Rolls-Royce! [Flings a vase down; it misses the carton and shatters against a chair leg. She screams suddenly hysterically] Goddamn them! Why do some people have all of that!

FINK: [Languidly, without moving] Childish escapism, my dear.

FANNY: The heroics is all very well, but I'm so damn sick of standing up to make speeches about global problems and worrying all the time whether the comrades can see the runs in my stockings!

FINK: Why don't you mend them?

FANNY: Save it, sweetheart! Save the brilliant sarcasm for the magazine editors — maybe it will sell an article for you someday.

FINK: That was uncalled for, Fanny.

FANNY: Well, it's no use fooling yourself. There's a name for people like us. At least, for one of us, I'm sure. Know it? Does your brilliant vocabulary include it? Failure's the word.

FINK: A relative conception, my love.

FANNY: Sure. What's rent money compared to infinity? [Flings a pile of clothing into a carton] Do you know it's number five, by the way?

FINK: Number five what?

FANNY: Eviction number five for us, Socrates! I've counted them. Five times in three years. All we've ever done is paid the first month and waited for the sheriff.

FINK: That's the way most people live in Hollywood.

FANNY: You might pretend to be worried — just out of decency.

FINK: My dear, why waste one's emotional reserves in blaming oneself for what is the irrevocable result of an inadequate social system?

FANNY: You could at least refrain from plagiarism.

FINK: Plagiarism?

FANNY: You lifted that out of my article.

FINK: Oh, yes. The article. I beg your pardon.

FANNY: Well, at least it was published.

FINK: So it was. Six years ago.

FANNY: [Carrying an armful of old shoes] Got any acceptance checks to show since then? [Dumps her load into a carton] Now what? Where in hell are we going to go tomorrow?

FINK: With thousands homeless and jobless — why worry about an individual case?

FANNY: [Is about to answer angrily, then shrugs, and turning away stumbles over some boxes in the semidarkness] Goddamn it! It's enough that they're throwing us out. They didn't have to turn off the electricity!

FINK: [Shrugging] Private ownership of utilities.

FANNY: I wish there was a kerosene that didn't stink.

FINK: Kerosene is the commodity of the poor. But I understand they've invented a new, odorless kind in Russia.

FANNY: Sure. Nothing stinks in Russia. [Takes from a shelf a box full of large brown envelopes] What do you want to do with these?

FINK: What's in there?

FANNY: [Reading from the envelopes] Your files as trustee of the Clark Institute of Social Research... Correspondence as Consultant to the Vocational School for Subnormal Children... Secretary to the Free Night Classes of Dialectic Materialism... Adviser to the Workers' Theater...

FINK: Throw the Workers' Theater out. I'm through with them. They wouldn't put my name on their letter-heads.

FANNY: [Flings one envelope aside} What do you want me to do with the rest? Pack it or will you carry it yourself?

FINK: Certainly I'll carry it myself. It might get lost. Wrap them up for me, will you?

FANNY: [Picks up some newspapers, starts wrapping the files, stops, attracted by an item, in a paper, glances at it] You know, it's funny, this business about Kay Gonda.

FINK: What business?

FANNY: In this morning's paper. About the murder.

FINK: Oh, that? Rubbish. She had nothing to do with it. Yellow press gossip.

FANNY: [Wrapping up the files] That Sayers guy sure had the dough.

FINK: Used to have. Not anymore. I know from that time when I helped to picket Sayers Oil last year that the big shot was going by the board even then.

FANNY: It says here that Sayers Oil was beginning to pick up.

FINK: Oh, well, one plutocrat less. So much the better for the heirs.

FANNY: [Picks up a pile of books] Twenty-five copies of Oppress the Oppressors— [Adds with a bow] — by Chuck Fink!... What the hell are we going to do with them?

FINK: [Sharply] What do you think we're going to do with them?

FANNY: God! Lugging all that extra weight around! Do you think there are twenty-five people in the United States who bought one copy each of your great masterpiece?

FINK: The number of sales is no proof of a book's merit.

FANNY: No, but it sure does help!

FINK: Would you like to see me pandering to the middle-class rabble, like the scribbling lackeys of capitalism? You're weakening, Fanny. You're turning petty bourgeois.

FANNY: [Furiously] Who's turning petty bourgeois? I've done more than you'll ever hope

to do! I don't go running with manuscripts to third-rate publishers. I've had an article printed in The Nation!. Yes, in The Nation! If I didn't bury myself with you in this mudhole of a...

FINK: It's in the mudholes of the slums that the vanguard trenches of social reform are dug, Fanny.

FANNY: Oh, Lord, Chuck, what's the use? Look at the others. Look at Miranda Lumkin. A column in the Courier and a villa at Palm Springs! And she couldn't hold a candle to me in college! Everybody always said I was an advanced thinker. [Points at the room] This is what one gets for being an advanced thinker.

FINK: [Softly] I know, dear. You're tired. You're frightened. I can't blame you. But, you see, in our work one must give up everything. All thought of personal gain or comfort. I've done it. I have no private ego left. All I want is that millions of men hear the name of Chuck Fink and come to regard it as that of their leader!

FANNY: [Softening] I know. You mean it all right. You're real, Chuck. There aren't many unselfish men in the world.

FINK: [Dreamily] Perhaps, five hundred years from now, someone will write my

biography and call it Chuck Fink the Selfless.

FANNY: And it will seem so silly, then, that here we were worried about some piddling California landlord! FINK: Precisely. One must know how to take a long view on things. And...

FANNY: [Listening to some sound outside, suddenly] Sh-sh! I think there's someone at the door.

FINK: Who? No one'll come here. They've deserted us. They've left us to... [There is a knock at the door. They look at each other. FINK walks to the door] Who's there? [There is no answer. The knock is repeated. He throws the door open angrily] What do you... [He stops short as KAY GONDA enters; she is dressed as in the preceding scene. He gasps] Oh!... [He stares at her, half frightened, half incredulous. FANNY makes a step forward and stops. They can't make a sound]

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 whisper] 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

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, fall 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 you 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.

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 oft 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

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 unpointed 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 — [Looks 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!

HIX: You mustn't say that. Sister Twomey is an evil woman.

EZRY: Yes, sir... Gee, but she's got such pretty curls!

HIX: Ezry, do you believe in me? Do you like to come here for the services?

EZRY: Yes, sir... The Crump twins, they said Sister Twomey had a airyplane in her temple, honest to goodness!

HIX: [Desperately] My boy, listen to me, for the sake of your immortal soul... [He stops short. KAY GONDA enters]

KAY GONDA: Mr. Hix?

HIX: [Without taking his eyes from her, in a choked voice] Ezry. Run along.

EZRY: [Frightened] Yes, sir. [Exits hurriedly]

HIX: You're not...

KAY GONDA: Yes. I am.

HIX: To what do I owe the great honor of...

KAY GONDA: To a murder.

HIX: Do you mean that those rumors are true?

KAY GONDA: You can throw me out, if you wish. You can call the police, if you prefer. Only do so now.

HIX: You are seeking shelter?

KAY GONDA: For one night.

HIX: [Walks to the open door, closes it, and locks it] This door has not been closed for twenty years. It shall be closed tonight. [He returns to her and silently hands her the key]

KAY GONDA: [Astonished] Why are you giving it to me?

HIX: The door will not be opened, until you wish to open it.

KAY GONDA: [She smiles, takes the key and slips it into her bag. Then:] Thank you.

HIX: [Sternly] No. Do not thank me. I do not want you to stay here.

KAY GONDA: [Without understanding] You… don't?

HIX: But you are safe — if this is the safety you want. I have turned the place over to you. You may stay here as long as you like. The decision will be yours.

KAY GONDA: You do not want me to hide here?

HIX: I do not want you to hide.

KAY GONDA: [She looks at him thoughtfully, then walks to a bench and sits down, watching him. She asks slowly:] What would you have me do?

HIX: [He stands before her, austerely erect and solemn] You have taken a heavy burden upon your shoulders.

KAY GONDA: Yes. A heavy burden. And I wonder how much longer I will be able to carry it.

HIX: You may hide from the men who threaten you. But of what importance is that?

KAY GONDA: Then you do not want to save me?

HIX: Oh, yes. I want to save you. But not from the police.

KAY GONDA: From whom?

HIX: From yourself. [She looks at him for a long moment, a fixed, steady glance, and does not answer] You have committed a mortal sin. You have killed a human being. [Points to the room] Can this place — or any place — give you protection from that?

KAY GONDA: No.

HIX: You cannot escape from your crime. Then do not try to run from it. Give up. Surrender. Confess.

KAY GONDA: [Slowly] If I confess, they will take my life.

HIX: If you don't, you will lose your life — the eternal life of your soul.

KAY GONDA: Is it a choice, then? Must it be one or the other?

HIX: It has always been a choice. For all of us.

KAY GONDA: Why?

HIX: Because the joys of this earth are paid for by damnation in the Kingdom of Heaven. But if we choose to suffer, we are rewarded with eternal happiness.

KAY GONDA: Then we are on earth only in order to suffer?

HIX: And the greater the suffering, the greater our virtue. [Her head drops slowly] You have a sublime chance before you. Accept, of your own will, the worst that can be done to you. The infamy, the degradation, the prison cell, the scaffold. Then your punishment will become your glory.

KAY GONDA: How?

HIX: It will let you enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

KAY GONDA: Why should I want to enter it?

HIX: If you know that a life of supreme beauty is possible — how can you help but want to enter it?

KAY GONDA: How can I help but want it here, on earth?

HIX: Ours is a dark, imperfect world.

KAY GONDA: Why is it not perfect? Because it cannot be? Or because we do not want it to be?

HIX: This world is of no consequence. Whatever beauty it offers us is here only that we may sacrifice it — for the greater beauty beyond. [She is not looking at him. He stands watching her for a moment; then, his voice low with emotion:] You don't know how lovely you are at this moment. [She raises her head] You don't know the hours I've spent watching you across the infinite distance of a screen. I would give my life to keep you here in safety. I would let myself be torn to shreds, rather than see you hurt. Yet I am asking you to open this door and walk out to martyrdom. That is my chance of sacrifice. I am giving up the greatest thing that ever came to me.

KAY GONDA: [Her voice soft and low] And after you and I have made our sacrifice, what will be left on this earth?

HIX: Our example. It will light the way for all the miserable souls who flounder in helpless depravity. They, too, will learn to renounce. Your fame is great. The story of your conversion will be heard the world over. You will redeem the scrubby wretches who come to this temple and all the wretches in all the slums.

KAY GONDA: Such as that boy who was here?

HIX: Such as that boy. Let him be the symbol, not a nobler figure. That, too, is part of the sacrifice.

KAY GONDA: [Slowly] What do you want me to do?

HIX: Confess your crime. Confess it publicly, to a crowd, to the hearing of all!

KAY GONDA: Tonight?

HIX: Tonight!

KAY GONDA: But there is no crowd anywhere at this hour.

HIX: At this hour... [With sudden inspiration] Listen. At this hour, a large crowd is gathered in a temple of error, six blocks away. It is a dreadful place, run by the most contemptible woman I've ever known. I'll take you there. I'll let you offer that woman the greatest gift — the kind of sensation she's never dared to imagine for her audience. You will confess to her crowd. Let her take the credit and the praise for your conversion. Let her take the fame. She is the one least worthy of it.

KAY GONDA: That, too, is part of the sacrifice?

HIX: Yes.

[KAY GONDA rises. She walks to the door, unlocks it, and flings it open. Then she turns to HIX and throws the key in his face. It strikes him as she goes out. He stands motionless, only his head dropping and his shoulders sagging]

CURTAIN

The letter projected on the screen is written in a sharp, precise, cultured handwriting:

Dear Miss Gonda,

I have had everything men ask of life. I have seen it all, and I feel as if I were leaving a third-rate show on a disreputable side street. If I do not bother to die, it is only because my life has all the emptiness of the grave and my death would have no change to offer me. It may happen, any day now, and nobody — not even the one writing these lines — will know the difference.

But before it happens, I want to raise what is left of my soul in a last salute to you, you who are that which the world should have been. Morituri te salutamus.

Dietrich von Esterhazy Beverly-Sunset Hotel

Beverly Hills, California

Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals drawing room in the hotel suite of DIETRICH von ESTERHAZY. It is a large, luxurious room, modern, exquisitely simple. Wide entrance door in center wall Left. Smaller door to bedroom in wall Right, upstage. Large window in wall Left, showing the dark view of a park far below. Downstage Right a fireplace. One single lamp burning.

As the curtain rises the entrance door opens to admit DIETRICH VON ESTERHAZY and LALO JANS. DIETRICH von ESTERHAZY is a tall, slender man in his early forties, whose air of patrician distinction seems created for the trim. elegance of his full dress suit. LALO JANS is an exquisite female, hidden in the soft folds of an ermine wrap over a magnificent evening gown. She walks in first and falls, exhausted, on a sofa downstage, stretching out her legs with a gesture of charming lassitude. DIETRICH VON ESTERHAZY follows her silently. She makes a little gesture, expecting him to take her wrap. But he does not approach her or look at her, and she shrugs, throwing her wrap back, letting it slide halfway down her bare arms.

LALO: [Looking at a clock on the table beside her, lazily] Only two o'clock... Really, we didn't have to leave so early, darling... [ESTERHAZY does not answer. He does not seem to hear. There is no hostility in his attitude, but a profound indifference and a strange tension. He walks to the window and stands looking out thoughtfully, unconscious of LALO's presence. She yawns, lighting a cigarette] I think I'll go home... [No answer] I said, I think I'll go home... [Coquettishly] Unless, of course, you insist... [No answer. She shrugs and settles down more comfortably. She speaks lazily, watching the smoke of her cigarette] You know, Rikki, we'll just have to go to Agua Caliente. And this time I'll put it all on Black Rajah. It's a cinch... [No answer] By the way, Rikki, my chauffeur's wages were due yesterday... [Turns to him. Slightly impatient:] Rikki?

ESTERHAZY: [Startled, turning to her abruptly, polite and completely indifferent] What were you saying, my dear?

LALO: [Impatiently] I said my chauffeur's wages were due yesterday.

ESTERHAZY: [His thoughts miles away] Yes, of course. I shall take care of it.

LALO: What's the matter, Rikki? Just because I lost that money?

ESTERHAZY: Not at all, my dear. Glad you enjoyed the evening.

LALO: But then you know I've always had the damnedest luck at roulette. And if we hadn't left so early, I'm sure I'd have won it back.

ESTERHAZY: I'm sorry. I was a little tired.

LALO: And anyway, what's one thousand and seventy something?

ESTERHAZY: [Stands looking at her silently. Then, with a faint smile of something like sudden decision, he reaches into his pocket and calmly hands her a checkbook] I think you might as well see it.

LALO: [Taking the book indifferently] What's that? Some bank book?

ESTERHAZY: See what's left... at some bank.

LALO: [Reading] Three hundred and sixteen dollars... [Looks quickly through the check stubs] Rikki! You wrote that thousand-dollar check on this bank! [He nods silently, with the same smile] You'll have to transfer the money from another bank, first thing in the morning.

ESTERHAZY: [Slowly] I have no other bank.

LALO: Huh?

ESTERHAZY: I have no other money. You're holding there all that's left.

LALO: [Her lazy nonchalance gone] Rikki! You're kidding me!

ESTERHAZY: Far be it from me, my dear.

LALO: But... but you're crazy! Things like that don't happen like... like that! One sees... in advance... one knows.

ESTERHAZY: [Calmly] I've known it. For the last two years. But a fortune does not vanish without a few last convulsions. There has always been something to sell, to pawn, to borrow on. Always someone to borrow from. But not this time. This time, it's done.

LALO: [Aghast] But... but where did it go?

ESTERHAZY: [Shrugging] How do I know? Where did all the rest of it go, those other things, inside, that you start life with? Fifteen years is a long time. When they threw me out of Austria, I had millions in my pocket, but the rest — the rest, I think, was gone already.

LALO: That's all very beautiful, but what are you going to do?

ESTERHAZY: Nothing.

LALO: But tomorrow...

ESTERHAZY: Tomorrow, Count Dietrich von Esterhazy will be called upon to explain the matter of a bad check. May be called upon.

LALO: Stop grinning like that! Do you think it's funny?

ESTERHAZY: I think it's curious... The first Count Dietrich von Esterhazy died fighting under the walls of Jerusalem. The second died on the ramparts of his castle, defying a nation. The last one wrote a bad check in a gambling casino with chromium and poor ventilation... It's curious.

LALO: What are you talking about?

ESTERHAZY: About what a peculiar thing it is — a leaking soul. You go through your days and it slips away from you, drop by drop. With each step. Like a hole in your pocket and coins dropping out, bright little coins, bright and shining, never to be found again.

LALO: To hell with that! What's to become of me?

ESTERHAZY: I've done all I could, Lalo. I've warned you before the others.

LALO: You're not going to stand there like a damn fool and let things...

ESTERHAZY: [Softly] You know, I think I'm glad it happened like this. A few hours ago I had problems, a thick web of problems I was much too weary to untangle. Now I'm free. Free at one useless stroke I did not intend striking.

LALO: Don't you care at all?

ESTERHAZY: I would not be frightened if I still cared.

LALO: Then you are frightened?

ESTERHAZY: I should like to be.

LALO: Why don't you do something? Call your friends!

ESTERHAZY: Their reaction, my dear, would be precisely the same as yours.

LALO: You're blaming me, now!

ESTERHAZY: Not at all. I appreciate you. You make my prospect so simple — and so easy.

LALO: But good God! What about the payments on my new Cadillac? And those pearls I charged to you? And...

ESTERHAZY: And my hotel bill. And my florist's bill. And that last party I gave. And the mink coat for Colette Dorsay.

LALO: [Jumping up] What?!

ESTERHAZY: My dear, you really didn't think you were... the only one?

LALO: [Looks at him, her eyes blazing. Is on the point of screaming something. Laughs suddenly instead, a dry insulting laughter] Do you think I care — now? Do you think I'm going to cry over a worthless...

ESTERHAZY: [Quietly] Don't you think you'd better go home now?

LALO: [Tightens her wrap furiously, rushes to the door, turns abruptly] Call me up when you come to your senses. I'll answer — if I feel like it tomorrow.

ESTERHAZY: And if I'm here to call — tomorrow.

LALO: Huh?

ESTERHAZY: I said, if I'm here to call — tomorrow.

LALO: Just what do you mean? Do you intend to run away or...

ESTERHAZY: [With quiet affirmation] Or.

LALO: Oh, don't be a melodramatic fool! [Exits, slamming the door]

[ESTERHAZY stands motionless, lost in thought. Then he shudders slightly, as if recovering himself. Shrugs. Walks into bedroom Right, leaving the door open. The telephone rings. He returns, his evening coat replaced by a trim, lounging jacket]

ESTERHAZY: [Picking up receiver] Hello?... [Astonished] At this hour? What's her name?... She won't?... All right, have her come up. [Hangs up. Lights a cigarette. There is a knock at the door. He smiles] Come in!

[KAY GONDA enters. His smile vanishes. He does not move. He stands looking at her for a moment, two motionless fingers holding the cigarette at his mouth. Then he flings the cigarette aside with a violent jerk of his wrist— his only reaction — and bows calmly, formally]

Good evening, Miss Gonda.

KAY GONDA: Good evening.

ESTERHAZY: A veil or black glasses?

KAY GONDA: What?

ESTERHAZY: I hope you didn't let the clerk downstairs recognize you.

KAY GONDA: [Smiles suddenly, pulling her glasses out of her pocket] Black glasses.

ESTERHAZY: It was a brilliant idea.

KAY GONDA: What?

ESTERHAZY: Your coming here to hide.

KAY GONDA: How did you know that?

ESTERHAZY: Because it could have occurred only to you. Because you're the only one capable of the exquisite sensitiveness to recognize the only sincere letter I've ever written in my life.

KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] Was it?

ESTERHAZY: [Studying her openly, speaking casually, matter-of-factly] You look taller than you do on the screen — and less real. Your hair is blonder than I thought. Your voice about a tone higher. It is a pity that the camera does not photograph the shade of your lipstick. [In a different voice, warm and natural] And now that I've done my duty as a fan reacting, sit down and let's forget the unusual circumstances.

KAY GONDA: Do you really want me to stay here?

ESTERHAZY: [Looking at the room] The place is not too uncomfortable. There's a slight draft from the window at times, and the people upstairs become noisy occasionally, but not often. [Looking at her] No, I won't tell you how glad I am to see you here. I never speak of the things that mean much to me. The occasions have been too rare. I've lost the habit.

KAY GONDA: [Sitting down] Thank you.

ESTERHAZY: For what?

KAY GONDA: For what you didn't say.

ESTERHAZY: Do you know that it is really I who must thank you? Not only for coming, but for coming tonight of all nights.

KAY GONDA: Why?

ESTERHAZY: Perhaps you have taken a life in order to save another. [Pause] A longtime ago — no, isn't that strange? — it was only a few minutes ago — I was ready to kill myself. Don't look at me like that. It isn't frightening. But what did become frightening was that feeling of utter indifference, even to death, even to my own indifference. And then you came... I think I could hate you for coming.

KAY GONDA: I think you will.

ESTERHAZY: [With sudden fire, the first, unexpected emotion] I don't want to be proud of myself again. I had given it up. Yet now I am. Just because I see you here. Just because a thing has happened which is like nothing I thought possible on earth.

KAY GONDA: You said you would not tell me how glad you were to see me. Don't tell me. I do not want to hear it. I have heard it too often. I have never believed it. And I do not think I shall come to believe it tonight.

ESTERHAZY: Which means that you have always believed it. It's an incurable disease, you know — to have faith in the better spirit of man. I'd like to tell you to renounce it. To destroy in yourself all hunger for anything above the dry rot that others live by. But I can't. Because you will never be able to do it. It's your curse. And mine.

KAY GONDA: [Angry and imploring at once] I do not want to hear it!

ESTERHAZY: [Sitting down on the arm of a chair, speaking softly, lightly] You know, when I was a boy — a very young boy — I thought my life would be a thing immense and shining. I wanted to kneel to my own future... [Shrugs] One gets over that.

KAY GONDA: Does one?

ESTERHAZY: Always. But never completely.

KAY GONDA: [Breaking down, suddenly eager and trusting] I saw a man once, when I was very young. He stood on a rock, high in the mountains. His arms were spread out and his body bent backward, and I could see him as an arc against the sky. He stood still and tense, like a string trembling to a note of ecstasy no man had ever heard... I have never known who he was. I knew only that this was what life should be... [Her voice trails off]

ESTERHAZY: [Eagerly] And?

KAY GONDA: [In a changed voice] And I came home, and my mother was serving supper, and she was happy because the roast had a thick gravy. And she gave a prayer of thanks to God for it... [Jumps up, whirls to him suddenly, angrily] Don't listen to me! Don't look at me like that!... I've tried to renounce it. I thought I must close my eyes and bear anything and learn to live like the others. To make me as they were. To make me forget. I bore it. All of it. But I can't forget the man on the rock. I can't!

ESTERHAZY: We never can.

KAY GONDA: [Eagerly] You understand? I'm not alone?... Oh, God! I can't be alone! [Suddenly quiet] Why did you give it up?

ESTERHAZY: [Shrugging] Why does anyone give it up? Because it never comes. What did I get instead? Racing boats, and horses, and cards, and women — all those blind alleys — the pleasures of the moment. All the things I never wanted.

KAY GONDA: [Softly] Are you certain?

ESTERHAZY: There was nothing else to take. But if it came, if one had a chance, a last chance...

KAY GONDA: Are you certain?

ESTERHAZY: [Looks at her, then walks resolutely to the telephone and picks up the receiver] Gladstone 2- 1018... Hello, Carl?... Those two staterooms on the Empress of Panama that you told me about — do you still want to get rid of them? Yes... yes, I do... At seven thirty a.m.?... I'll meet you there... I understand... Thank you. [Hangs up. KAY GONDA looks at him questioningly. He turns to her, his manner calm, matter-of-fact] The Empress of Panama leaves San Pedro at seven thirty in the morning. For Brazil. No extradition laws there.

KAY GONDA: What are you attempting?

ESTERHAZY: We're escaping together. We're outside the law — both of us. I have something worth fighting for now. My ancestors would envy me if they could see me. For my Holy Grail is of this earth, it is real, alive, possible. Only they would not understand. It is our secret. Yours and mine.

KAY GONDA: You have not asked me whether I want to go.

ESTERHAZY: I don't have to. If I did — I would have no right to go with you.

KAY GONDA: [Smiles softly; then:] I want to tell you.

ESTERHAZY: [Stops, faces her, earnestly] Tell me.

KAY GONDA: [Looking straight at him, her eyes trusting, her voice a whisper] Yes, I want to go.

ESTERHAZY: [Holds her glance for an instant; then, as if deliberately refusing to underscore the earnestness of the moment, glances at his wristwatch and speaks casually again] We have just a few hours to wait. I'll make a fire. We'll be more comfortable- [He speaks gaily as he proceeds to light the fire] I'll pack a few things... You can get what you need aboard ship... I haven't much money, but I'll raise a few thousands before morning-... I don't know where, as yet, but I'll raise it... [She sits down in an armchair by the fire. He sits down on the floor at her feet, facing her] The sun is terrible down in Brazil. I hope your face doesn't get sunburnt.

KAY GONDA: [Happily, almost girlishly] It always does.

ESTERHAZY: We'll build a house somewhere in the jungle. It will be curious to start chopping trees down — that's another experience I've missed. I'll learn it. And you'll have to learn to cook.

KAY GONDA: I will. I'll learn everything we'll need. We'll start from scratch, from the beginning of the world — our world.

ESTERHAZY: You're not afraid?

KAY GONDA: [Smiling softly] I'm terribly afraid. I have never been happy before.

ESTERHAZY: The work will ruin your hands... your lovely hands... [He takes her hand, then drops it hurriedly. Speaks with a little effort, suddenly serious:] I'll be only your architect, your valet, and your watchdog. And nothing else — until I deserve it.

KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] What were you thinking?

ESTERHAZY: [Absently] I was thinking about tomorrow and all the days thereafter... They seem such a long way off...

KAY GONDA: [Gaily] I'll want a house by the seashore. Or by a great river.

ESTERHAZY: With a balcony off your room, over the water, facing the sunrise... [Involuntarily] And the moonlight streaming in at night...

KAY GONDA: We'll have no neighbors... nowhere... not for miles around... No one will look at me... no one will pay to look at me...

ESTERHAZY: [His voice low] I shall allow no one to look at you... In the morning, you will swim in the sea... alone... in the green water... with the first sun rays on your body... [He rises, bends over her, whispers] And then I'll carry you up to the house... up the rocks... in my arms... [He seizes her and kisses her violently. She responds. He raises his head and chuckles with a sound of cynical intimacy] That's all we're really after, you and I, aren't we? Why pretend?

KAY GONDA: [Not understanding] What?

ESTERHAZY: Why pretend that we're important? We're no better than the others. [Tries to kiss her again]

KAY GONDA: Let me go! [She tears herself away]

ESTERHAZY: [Laughing harshly] Where? You have no place to go! [She stares at him, wide-eyed, incredulous] After all, what difference does it make, whether it's now or later? Why should we take it so seriously? [She whirls toward the door. He seizes her. She screams, a muffled scream, stopped by his hand on her mouth] Keep still! You can't call for help!... It's a death sentence — or this... [She starts laughing hysterically] Keep still!... Why should I care what you'll think of me afterwards?... Why should I care about tomorrow?

[She tears herself away, runs to the door, and escapes. He stands still. He hears her laughter, loud, reckless, moving away]

CURTAIN

The letter projected on the screen is written in a sharp, uneven handwriting:

Dear Miss Gonda,

This letter is addressed to you, but I am writing it to myself.

I am writing and thinking that I am speaking to a woman who is the only justification for the existence of this earth, and who has the courage to want to be. A woman who does not assume a glory of greatness for a few hours, then return to the children-dinner-friends-football-and-God reality. A woman who seeks that glory in her every minute and her every step. A woman in whom life is not a curse, nor a bargain, but a hymn. I want nothing except to know that such a woman exists. So I have written this, even though you may not bother to read it, or reading it, may not understand- I do not know what you are. I am writing to what you could have been.

Johnnie Dawes...

Main Street Los Angeles, California

Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals garret of JOHNNIE DAWES. It is a squalid, miserable room with a low, slanting ceiling, with dark walls showing beams under cracked plaster. The room is so bare that it gives the impression of being uninhabited, a strange, intangible impression of unreality. A narrow iron cot, at wall Right; a broken table, a few boxes for chairs. A narrow door opens diagonally in the Left upstage corner. The entire wall Center is a long window checkered into small panes. It opens high over the skyline of Los Angeles. Behind the black shadows of skyscrapers, there is a first hint of pink in the dark sky. When the curtain rises, the stage is empty, dark. One barely distinguishes the room and sees only the faintly luminous panorama of the window. It dominates the stage, so that one forgets the room, and it seems as if the setting is only the city and the sky. (Throughout the scene, the sky lightens slowly, the pink band of dawn grows, rising)

Steps are heard coming up the stairs. A quivering light shows in the cracks of the door. The door opens to admit KAY GONDA. Behind her, MRS. MONAGHAN, an old landlady, shuffles in, with a lighted candle in hand. She puts the candle down on the table, and stands panting as after a long climb, studying KAY GONDA with a suspicious curiosity.

MRS. MONAGHAN: Here ye are. This is it.

KAY GONDA: [Looking slowly over the room] Thank you. MRS. MONAGHAN: And ye're a relative of him, ye are?

KAY GONDA: No.

MRS. MONAGHAN: [Maliciously] Sure, and I was thinking that.

KAY GONDA: I have never seen him before.

MRS. MONAGHAN: Well, I'm after tellin' ye he's no good, that's what he is, no good. It's a born bum he is. No rent never. He can't keep a job more'n two weeks.

KAY GONDA: When will he be back?

MRS. MONAGHAN: Any minute at all — or never, for all I know. He runs around all night, the good Lord only knows where. Just walks the streets like the bum he is, just walks. Comes back drunk like, only he's not drunk, 'cause I know he don't drink.

KAY GONDA: I will wait for him.

MRS. MONAGHAN: Suit yerself [Looks at her shrewdly] Maybe ye got a job for him?

KAY GONDA: No. I have no job for him.

MRS. MONAGHAN: He's got himself kicked out again, three days ago it was. He had a swell job bellhoppin'. Did it last? It did not. Same as the soda counter. Same as the waitin' at Hamburger Looey's. He's no good, I'm tellin' ye. I know him. Better'n ye do.

KAY GONDA: I do not know him at all.

MRS. MONAGHAN: And I can't say I blame his bosses, either. He's a strange one. Never a laugh, never a joke out of him. [Confidentially] Ye know what Hamburger Looey said to me? He said, "Stuck up little snot," said Hamburger Looey, "makes a regular guy feel creepy."

KAY GONDA: So Hamburger Looey said that?

MRS. MONAGHAN: Faith and he did. [Confidentially] And d'ye know? He's been to college, that boy. Ye'd never believe it from the kind of jobs he can't keep, but he has. What he learned there the good Lord only knows. It's no good it done him. And... [Stops, listening. Steps are heard rising up the stairs] That's him now! Nobody else'd be shameless enough to come home at this hour of the night. [At the door] Ye think it over. Maybe ye could do somethin' for him. [Exits]

[JOHNNIE DAWES enters. He is a tall, slender boy in his late twenties; a gaunt face, prominent cheekbones, a hard mouth, clear, steady eyes. He sees KAY GONDA and stands still. They look at each other for a long moment]

JOHNNIE: [Slowly, calmly, no astonishment and no question in his voice] Good evening, Miss Gonda.

KAY GONDA: [She cannot take her eyes from him, and it is her voice that sounds astonished] Good evening.

JOHNNIE: Please sit down.

KAY GONDA: You do not want me to stay here.

JOHNNIE: You're staying.

KAY GONDA: You have not asked me why I came.

JOHNNIE: You're here. [He sits down]

KAY GONDA: [She approaches him suddenly, takes his face in her hands and raises it] What's the matter, Johnnie?

JOHNNIE: Nothing — now.

KAY GONDA: You must not be so glad to see me.

JOHNNIE: I knew you'd come.

KAY GONDA: [She walks away from, him, falls wearily down on the cot. She looks at him and smiles; a smile that is not gay, not friendly] People say I am a great star, Johnnie.

JOHNNIE: Yes.

KAY GONDA: They say I have everything one can wish for.

JOHNNIE: Have you?

KAY GONDA: No. But how do you know it?

JOHNNIE: How do you know that I know it?

KAY GONDA: You are never afraid when you speak to people, are you, Johnnie?

JOHNNIE: Yes. I am very much afraid. Always. I don't know what to say to them. But I'm not afraid — now.

KAY GONDA: I am a very bad woman, Johnnie. Everything you've heard about me is true. Everything — and more. I came to tell you that you must not think of me what you said in your letter.

JOHNNIE: You came to tell me that everything I said in my letter was true. Everything — and more.

KAY GONDA: [With a harsh little laugh] You're a fool! I'm not afraid of you... Do you know that I get twenty thousand dollars a week?

JOHNNIE: Yes.

KAY GONDA: Do you know that I have fifty pairs of shoes and three butlers?

JOHNNIE: I suppose so.

KAY GONDA: Do you know that my pictures are shown in every town on earth?

JOHNNIE: Yes.

KAY GONDA: [Furiously] Stop looking at me like that!... Do you know that people pay millions to see me? I don't need your approval! I have plenty of worshipers! I mean a great deal to them!

JOHNNIE: You mean nothing at all to them. You know it.

KAY GONDA: [Looking at him almost with hatred] I thought I knew it — an hour ago. [Whirling upon him] Oh, why don't you ask me for something?

JOHNNIE: What do you want me to ask you?

KAY GONDA: Why don't you ask me to get you a job in the movies, for instance?

JOHNNIE: The only thing I could ask you, you have given to me already.

KAY GONDA: [She looks at him, laughs harshly, speaks in a new voice, strange to her, an unnaturally common voice] Look, Johnnie, let's stop kidding each other. I'll tell you something. I've killed a man. It's dangerous, hiding a murderess. Why don't you throw me out? [He sits looking at her silently] No? That one won't work? Well, then, look at me. I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. Don't you want to sleep with me? Why don't you? Right now. I won't struggle. [He does not move] Not that? But listen: do you know that there's a reward on my head? Why don't you call the police and turn me over to them? You'd be set for life.

JOHNNIE: [Softly] Are you as unhappy as that?

KAY GONDA: [Walks to him, then falls on her knees at his feet] Help me, Johnnie!

JOHNNIE: [Bends down to her, his hands on her shoulders, asks softly:] Why did you come here?

KAY GONDA: [Raising her head] Johnnie. If all of you who look at me on the screen hear the things I say and worship me for them — where do I hear them? Where can I hear them, so that I might go on? I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion! I want it real! I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too! Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry.

JOHNNIE: [He rises, leads her to the cot, makes her sit down, stands before her] I want to tell you only this: there are a few on earth who see you and understand. These few give life its meaning. The rest — well, the rest are what you see they are. You have a duty. To live. Just to remain on earth. To let them know you do and can exist. To fight, even a fight without hope. We can't give up the earth to all those others.

KAY GONDA: [Looking at him, softly] Who are you, Johnnie?

JOHNNIE: [Astonished] I?... I'm — nothing.

KAY GONDA: Where do you come from?

JOHNNIE: I've had a home and parents somewhere. I don't remember much about them... I don't remember much about anything that's ever happened to me. There's not a day worth remembering.

KAY GONDA: You have no friends?

JOHNNIE: No.

KAY GONDA: You have no work?

JOHNNIE: Yes... no, I was fired three days ago. I forgot.

KAY GONDA: Where have you lived before?

JOHNNIE: Many places. I've lost count.

KAY GONDA: Do you hate people, Johnnie?

JOHNNIE: No. I never notice them.

KAY GONDA: What do you dream of?

JOHNNIE: Nothing. Of what account are dreams?

KAY GONDA: Of what account is life?

JOHNNIE: None. But who made it so?

KAY GONDA: Those who cannot dream.

JOHNNIE: No. Those who can only dream.

KAY GONDA: Are you very unhappy?

JOHNNIE: No... I don't think you should ask me these questions. You won't get a decent answer from me to anything.

KAY GONDA: There was a great man once who said: "I love those that know not how to live today."

JOHNNIE: [Quietly] I think I am a person who should never have been born. This is not a complaint. I am not afraid and I am not sorry. But I have often wanted to die. I have no desire to change the world — nor to take any part in it, as it is. I've never had the weapons which you have. I've never even found the desire to find weapons. I'd like to go, calmly and willingly.

KAY GONDA: I don't want to hear you say that.

JOHNNIE: There has always been something holding me here. Something that had to come to me before I went. I want to know one living moment of that which is mine, not theirs. Not their dismal little pleasures. One moment of ecstasy, utter and absolute, a moment that must not be survived... They've never given me a life. I've always hoped I would choose my death.

KAY GONDA: Don't say that. I need you. I'm here. I'll never let you go.

JOHNNIE: [After a pause, looking at her in a strange new way, his voice dry, flat] You? You're a murderess who'll get caught someday and die on the gallows.

[She looks at him, astonished. He walks to the window, stands looking out. Beyond the window it is now full daylight. The sun is about to rise. Rays of light spread like halos from behind the dark silhouettes of skyscrapers. He asks suddenly, without turning to her:]

You killed him?

KAY GONDA: We don't have to talk about that, do we?

JOHNNIE: [Without turning] I knew Granton Sayers. I worked for him once, as a caddy, at a golf club in Santa Barbara. A hard kind of man.

KAY GONDA: He was a very unhappy man, Johnnie.

JOHNNIE: [Turning to her] Was anyone present?

KAY GONDA: Where?

JOHNNIE: When you killed him?

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

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... ever... 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?

MICKWATTS: 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, have 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 post him] That, Mick, was the kindest thing I have ever done.

CURTAIN