by Ayn Rand
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
SCENE 2
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]
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 a flat, 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?
&nbs
p; 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]