MRS. PARTRIDGE PRESENTS
Comedy in 3 acts. By Mary Kennedy and Ruth Hawthorne. 6 males, 6
females. Modern costumes. 2 interiors. Plays 2½ hours.
The characters, scenes and situations are thoroughly
up-to-date in this altogether delightful American comedy.
The heroine is a woman of tremendous energy, who manages a
business--as she manages everything--with great success, and
at home presides over the destinies of a growing son and
daughter. Her struggle to give the children the opportunities
she herself had missed, and the children’s ultimate revolt
against her well-meant management--that is the basis of
the plot. The son who is cast for the part of artist and
the daughter who is to go on the stage offer numerous
opportunities for the development of the comic possibilities
in the theme.
The play is one of the most delightful, yet thought-provoking
American comedies of recent years, and is warmly recommended
to all amateur groups, (Royalty on application.)
Price, 75 Cents.
IN THE NEXT ROOM
Melodrama in 3 acts. By Eleanor Robson and Harriet Ford. 8 males, 3
females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours.
“Philip Vantine has bought a rare copy of an original Boule
cabinet and ordered it shipped to his New York home from
Paris. When it arrives it is found to be the original itself,
the possession of which is desired by many strange people.
Before the mystery concerned with the cabinet’s shipment can
be cleared up, two persons meet mysterious death fooling
with it and the happiness of many otherwise happy actors
is threatened” (Burns Mantle). A first-rate mystery play,
comprising all the elements of suspense, curiosity, comedy
and drama. “In the Next Room” is quite easy to stage. It can
be unreservedly recommended to high schools and colleges.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request
MASKS
With
JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS,
THE REASON, THE HOUSE
_One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_
BY
GEORGE MIDDLETON
“_We all wear many masks_”
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY GEORGE MIDDLETON
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
CAUTION.--Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that
“Masks,” “Jim’s Beast,” “Tides,” “Among the Lions,” “The
Reason,” and “The House,” being fully protected under the
copyright laws of the United States of America, the British
Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and the other
countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, and
anyone presenting the play without the consent of the owner
or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties of the
law provided. Applications for the professional and amateur acting
rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New
York, N. Y.
NEW YORK | LONDON
SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD.
PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND
=MASKS=
with
=Jim’s Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, The House=
_One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_
=ALL RIGHTS RESERVED=
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| |
| Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book |
| without a valid contract for production first having been |
| obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to |
| professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in |
| private for gain or charity. |
| |
| In their present form these plays are dedicated to the reading |
| public only, and no performance, representation, production, |
| recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting may be |
| given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 25 West |
| 45th Street, New York. |
| |
| These plays may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a |
| royalty of Ten Dollars per performance, payable to Samuel |
| French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, one week before the date |
| when the play is given. |
| |
| Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel French, 25 |
| West 45th Street, New York, N. Y. |
| |
| Whenever the play is produced the following notice must appear |
| on all programs, printing and advertising for the play: |
| “Produced by special arrangement with Samuel French of New |
| York.” |
| |
| Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for any |
| infringement of the author’s rights, as follows: |
| |
| “SECTION 4966:--Any person publicly performing or representing |
| any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has |
| been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said |
| dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, |
| shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all |
| cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred |
| dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent |
| performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If |
| the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and |
| for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a |
| misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a |
| period not exceeding one year.”--U. S. Revised Statutes: Title |
| 60, Chap. 3. |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
=To=
GARDNER and MARICE
SOUVENIR OF HAPPY DAYS IN THE FOREST
WHERE MUCH OF THIS WAS WRITTEN
In the prefaces to my five previous volumes I have sufficiently
explained my reason for play publication--not as a substitute
for production but as an alternative sometimes compelled by the
exigencies of a highly commercialized theater. Further, I have
stated in other places why I have so frequently turned to the
one-act form.
The present volume is dedicated to no thesis, though perhaps the
title may offer some hint of the underlying motive which has
prompted this series.
G. M.
_December 23, 1919._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
MASKS 3
JIM’S BEAST 67
TIDES 113
AMONG THE LIONS 149
THE REASON 181
THE HOUSE 211
MASKS
THE PEOPLE
GRANT WILLIAMS, _a dramatist_.
JERRY, _his wife_.
{_Characters_
{_in his_
TOM ROBINSON, _a great painter_. {_unproduced_
MARIE CASE, _formerly Tom’s wife_. {_drama “The_
{_Lonely Way.”_
SCENE
_In the_ WILLIAMS’ _flat, New York City, after the second
performance of_ GRANT WILLIAMS’ _first great success_, THE SAND
BAR, _produced at the National Theater_.
MASKS[A]
_The doorway from the public stairs opens immediately upon the
living-room without the intervening privacy of a small hallway. The
room was, no doubt, more formally pretentious in the early days
of the_ WILLIAMS’ _marriage; but the relics of that time--some
rigid mahogany chairs and stray pieces of staid furniture--have
been ruthlessly pushed against the walls, so that one perceives
a “parlor” transformed into a miscellaneous room upon which the
flat’s overflow has gradually crept. And with this has come_
GRANT WILLIAMS’ _plain wooden work-table, bearing now a writer’s
accessories, a desk lamp, and a mass of manuscripts; one of
which is his unproduced drama_, THE LONELY WAY, _bound in the
conventional blue linen cover. His well-worn typewriter is perched
on the end of the table, in easy reach of his work-chair with its
sofa cushions crushed and shaped to his form. Another chair is near
by, so that it also may catch the flood of light which comes from
the conventional electric bunch-light above. There is a small black
kerosene heater to be used in those emergencies of temperature
which landlords create. Not far from it, a child’s collapsible
go-cart is propped. On the walls, above some over-flowing
bookshelves, are several tastefully selected etchings. A window
in back, which hides an airshaft, is partly concealed by heavy
curtains that hang tired and limp. There is another doorway,
directly opposite the entrance, which leads to the other rooms of a
characteristically compressed city flat._
_Yet the room is not forbidding: it merely suggests forced
economies that have not quite fringed poverty: continual
adaptation, as it were, to the financial contingencies of a
marriage that has just managed to make both ends meet._
_When the curtain rises_ JERRY WILLIAMS _is seated in the cozy
chair reading a number of newspaper clippings_.
JERRY _is an attractive woman in her thirties. Externally, there
is nothing particularly striking about her: if there be such a
thing as an average wife_ JERRY _personifies it. She has loved her
husband and kept house for him without a spoken protest; for she
has had no advanced ideas or theories. Yet she has had her fears
and little concealments and dreams--like any married woman. She has
been sustained through the ten years of hard sledding by the belief
in her husband’s ultimate financial success. And as she reads the
criticisms of his play_, THE SAND BAR, _produced the night before,
she realizes it has come at last. She is now completely happy and
calm in the thought of her rewards._
_She looks at the cheap watch lying on the desk and indicates it
is late. She closes the window, walks over to the doorway and
looks in, apparently to see if the child is still asleep. Then
she closes the door and stands there, with just a suspicion of
impatience._
_Several minutes pass. Then she gives a little cry of joy as she
hears the key turn in the lock and she sees the hall door open
slowly--admitting her husband._
GRANT WILLIAMS _is a more striking personality than his wife; about
forty, with a tinge of iron gray on his temples, he has a strong
virile face not without traces of idealism. His whole appearance
is normal and devoid of any conscious affectation of dress. But a
very close inspection might reveal that his suit, though carefully
pressed, is well worn--as is the overcoat which covers it._ GRANT
_happens to be a man of cultivation and breeding, with a spark of
genius, who has strayed into strange pastures. At present there
lurks an unexpected depression back of his mood; perhaps it is only
the normal reaction which comes to every artist when success is won
and the critical sense within mocks the achievement so beneath the
dream. Perhaps with_ GRANT WILLIAMS _it is something else_.
JERRY
Oh, Grant, I thought you’d never come home.
GRANT
Best, the house manager, detained me.
JERRY
(_Detecting his mood_)
There’s nothing the matter with the play?
GRANT
Nothing; except it’s an enormous success. (_She smiles again, and
he wants to keep her smiling._) We were sold out to-night. The
second night! Think of that! I had to stand myself.
JERRY
Well, I don’t see why you should be blue about it. There were
always plenty of empty seats at your other plays. I knew THE SAND
BAR couldn’t fail.
GRANT
(_Throwing coat carelessly over chair_)
You felt the same about the others.
JERRY
(_Trying to cheer him_)
They didn’t fail--artistically.
GRANT
You mean nobody came to see them--except on passes. But THE SAND
BAR! That’s different! (_With a tinge of sarcasm throughout._) You
ought to have seen the way the mob at the National ate it up.
JERRY
I wanted to go but I couldn’t ask Mrs. Hale to take care of the
baby again. Besides, I was anxious to read all the notices over
quietly by myself and....
GRANT
(_Picking them up and glancing through them_)
Great, aren’t they? Not a “roast” among them.
JERRY
Not one. I couldn’t find Arthur Black’s review: he was always so
kind to your other plays, too.
GRANT
(_Evasively_)
I forgot to bring in the _Gazette_. Best says he never saw such
“money” notices. (_Glances at one._) Doran outdid himself.
(_Reading the critic’s notice with a touch of theatrical
exaggeration._) “The perception of human nature evinced by Grant
Williams in his profoundly moving drama THE SAND BAR places him in
the front rank of American dramatists!”
JERRY
Just where you belong.
GRANT
(_Skipping_)
“His hero, Tom Robinson, the artist, who deliberately deserts his
highest ideals because his wife’s happiness is of more value than
his own egoistic self-expression, is a new angle on the much abused
artistic temperament.” (_With a wise smile._) That “twist” seems to
have got them. (_Reading_) “Marie, his wife, who is willing to risk
her honor to test his love and thus awaken him to a sense of his
human responsibility, is a character which will appeal to every
married woman.”
JERRY
(_She nods in approval, without his seeing her_)
But read the last paragraph, dear.
GRANT
“In fact, all the characters are true to themselves, never
once being bent by the playwright for dramatic effect out of
the inevitable and resistless momentum of their individual
psychologies.” And Doran used to report prizefights!
JERRY
I hope he doesn’t go back to it. He writes beautifully.
GRANT
By the way, I haven’t told you the crowning achievement of my ten
years of writing. Trebaro--the great Trebaro who would never even
read my plays before--asked me in the lobby to-night to write him a
curtain raiser!
JERRY
(_Happily_)
That’s splendid!
GRANT
I’ve promised to get it done in ten days. His new play is going to
run short. He’s got to have something to lengthen the evening.
JERRY
Have you an idea?
GRANT
No; not yet. But he doesn’t like anything with ideas in it.
JERRY
(_As she sees him go to his typewriter to remove cover_)
But, dear, you’re not going to begin it to-night! (_Significantly
stopping him._) To-night belongs to me--not to your work.
(_Nestling close beside him._) Dearest....
GRANT
All right, Jerry. I’ve only got a few paragraphs of personal stuff
to bang off. Then I’ll be with you. _The Times_ wants it for a
Sunday story--with my photo. (_As her face brightens again._) You
see, Mrs. Grant Williams, your husband is now in the limelight.
JERRY
I’m so glad success has come to you at last.
GRANT
Better at last than at first. I’m told it’s bad for your character
to be too successful when you’re young. So providence nearly
starved us a bit, eh?
JERRY
You thought it was going to be so easy when we were first married.
It’s been hard for you, dear. I know. Writing and writing and
seeing other fellows make money. But now you’ve won out. You ought
to be very happy, as I am.
GRANT
You are happy, aren’t you? (_He takes her hands affectionately,
then looks at them, turning them over._) The only hard thing,
Jerry, was to see these hands of yours grow red and rough with the
work here.
JERRY
Maybe that’s the only way they could help you.
GRANT
(_Enigmatically_)
It’s because of them and only because of them that I’ve done it.
JERRY
Done what?
GRANT
Oh, nothing. (_He puts paper in the machine._) How about a glass of
milk?
JERRY
I’ll get it while the great man reveals himself to an anxious
public.
GRANT
And some crackers. (_Sitting at machine._) They want something
on: “How I Make My Characters Live.” (_She laughs suddenly: he
starts._) Oh; it’s you?
JERRY
Yes. I was thinking how funny it was to celebrate a success in milk.
GRANT
Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that THE SAND BAR _is_ a
success--a real financial success.
JERRY
It’s a very good joke.
(_She goes out happily. Then a cynical look creeps into his
face. He reads as he types._)
GRANT
“How I Made My Characters in THE SAND BAR Live.”
(_He pauses a second, smiling cynically. Then, as he
apparently hears something, he rises and goes over to
the hall door which he opens quickly. He looks out and
apparently sees a neighbor entering the apartment opposite.
A bibulous “good night” is heard. He closes the door, turns
the key, tests the door and sees it is locked. As he stands
there puzzled_, JERRY _enters, with a bottle of milk, some
crackers, and an apple on a small tray_.)
You’ll have to get over this habit of waiting on me now.
JERRY
Don’t ask the impossible.
GRANT
But we shall have servants now; plenty of them.
JERRY
Plenty of them? Why how much money are you going to make out of THE
SAND BAR?
GRANT
Nearly a thousand dollars a week.
JERRY
(_Almost inaudibly as she nearly drops the tray_)
My God!
GRANT
(_As he puts tray on table_)
It will run forty weeks at the National. Then three road companies
next year: “stock” and the “movies” after that. I’m going to
make as much money in two weeks now as I ever made before in one
year--turning out hack stuff and book reviews. And all I’ve got to
do is to sit back and let it work for me!
JERRY
It doesn’t seem honest.
GRANT
Maybe it isn’t, Jerry. (_As he eats._) But when the public is
pleased it pays to be pleased.
JERRY
(_Venturing_)
The first thing I want is some new clothes.
GRANT
(_Grandiloquently_)
My first week’s royalty is yours.
JERRY
Really?
GRANT
Throw away everything that’s darned and patched. I’m sick of seeing
them.
JERRY
I was always so ashamed, too. Just think what people would have
said if I’d been run over or killed in an accident.
GRANT
Now you’ll do the running over--in our new car.
JERRY
(_Hardly believing her ears_)
A car!
GRANT
Every successful playwright has a car.
JERRY
(_Joyfully_)
Then we’ll have to move from here to live up to the car?
GRANT
We’ve got to move. It’s more important to look like a success than
to be one. (_Glancing about flat._) And the Lord knows this doesn’t
look like success.
JERRY
I’m so glad. I’ve grown to hate these five stuffy rooms without
sunlight.
GRANT
Nothing to light them up these ten years but the glow of my genius,
eh? Now I’ll have a big house to shine in.
JERRY
I’ve always dreamed of you having a room off by yourself.
GRANT
Where you could really dream without the sound of my typewriter
waking you and the baby?
JERRY
But it will be splendid for you, too. I don’t see how you ever
wrote here with me always fussing in and out.
GRANT
Washing the eternal dish and cooking the eternal chop.
JERRY
I don’t ever want to look another gas stove in the face.
GRANT
You’ve cooked your last chop.
JERRY
Oh, Grant; my dreams have come true.
GRANT
(_Enigmatically again_)
Yes. Success or failure: it’s all a matter of how you dream. (_She
looks up puzzled: he is silent a moment and then goes to machine
again._) But I’ll never get this done.
JERRY
I’ll put on my old wrapper, for the last time, and wait up for you.
I’m going to get a real négligée to-morrow. Your favorite color.
GRANT
I won’t be long. This is an awful bore and I’m tired.
(_He begins to pound out something on his machine._ JERRY
_goes over to hang up his coat, and as she does so, a
newspaper clipping falls out of his pocket, on the floor.
She picks it up unnoticed by_ GRANT. _She glances at it;
starts angrily to speak to_ GRANT _about it; but seeing he
is absorbed, hesitates and then conceals it. She hangs up
the coat, comes around back of him as though to speak--but
changes her mind. She kisses him. As she passes the table,
she knocks off the manuscript of a play. She picks it up._)
GRANT
What’s that?
JERRY
The manuscript of THE LONELY WAY. (_He looks over at it, with a
cynical smile._) You’ve learned a lot about playwrighting since you
wrote that, haven’t you, dear?
GRANT
Yes--a lot.
JERRY
(_Tentatively_)
You used to say it was the best thing you ever did.
GRANT
How did you happen to come across it?
JERRY
I found it behind the chest when I was cleaning.
GRANT
Oh, yes; I remember. I threw it there the day of my great decision:
The day I made up my mind to rewrite it and call it THE SAND BAR.
JERRY
(_As she glances over the pages_)
Grant. I’m not going to lose you now that you’re a success?
GRANT
What ever put such a foolish idea in your head?
JERRY
You remember the Tom Robinson you drew in this play? All you made
him think of was his art; he even threw away his wife to make a
success of it.
GRANT
That was because his wife didn’t understand. Besides, dear, you
know how much I altered my original conception of their characters
and completely changed the plot. Look how different it all is in
THE SAND BAR.
JERRY
And you think your changes made the play truer to life? In real
life a Tom Robinson wouldn’t have got rid of her?
GRANT
I don’t think anything’s ever going to come between us, if that’s
what you mean.
JERRY
Of course not. (_Putting the manuscript on table, relieved, as she
sees him resume his typing._) But I felt so sure of you when we
were poor. Perhaps it was because you couldn’t afford to be wild.
(_She turns off the switch and goes out. The room is lighted
only by the desk lamp, casting its shadows into the corners
of the room. He takes a cigarette from the box on the table,
and as he smokes he reads half to himself what he has
written._)
GRANT
“An author’s characters grow into life out of his observation and
experience. Once they are conceived by these two parents their
first heart beats are the taps of the author’s typewriter.” Good.
“Gradually they grow into living men and women. They live with him,
yet with a life of their own. In writing THE SAND BAR I ... I....”
(_This makes him hesitate to continue. He glances toward the
manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY. _He rises slowly and picks
it up cynically. Then, as though fascinated, he gradually
settles in the cozy chair by his table. He begins to become
absorbed as he reads his earlier play. He puts his hand over
his eyes, he lowers the manuscript, gives a sigh as though
lost in the thoughts it calls up. The door, which he has
locked, opens noiselessly, and closes as_ GRANT _looks up in
surprise and sees a man enter_.
GRANT _immediately discovers there is something extraordinary
about his unexpected visitor. As he directs the light upon
him_, GRANT _perceives the man’s power which lies both in his
frame and impressive personality. His eyes have a relentless
coldness when they narrow. His mouth is firm but cruel, with
a sarcastic droop pulling down the corners. In spite of
an occasional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurting out
his words_, GRANT _soon realizes how keen is the intruder’s
penetration when it is sharpened to the one point which
vitally concerns him--his art. For this man of fifty-five
winters, is a great artist._ GRANT _is too amazed and puzzled
to recognize it is one of his own creations_: TOM ROBINSON.
_The latter comes over to the dramatist and places a hand on
his shoulder._)
TOM
You and I have some scores to settle.
GRANT
(_Moving away_)
Who are you?
TOM
So you don’t recognize me?
GRANT
Your manners are familiar.
TOM
So Whistler once said. Look at me closely.
GRANT
Is this a dare?
TOM
(_Shaking his head slowly_)
An author’s brain is indeed a store-house of mixed impressions: a
strange asylum for me to have escaped from.
GRANT
(_Starting toward door_)
Possibly the police may be able to lead you safely home.
TOM
I am at home with you.
GRANT
Don’t get excited. Keep perfectly cool.
TOM
I am cool because my intention is. (GRANT _gives him a look as_
TOM _goes over to the machine and glances at the heading of the
article_.) “How I Make My Characters Live!” You certainly do--some
of us.
(GRANT _suddenly crosses to the door, tries it and realizes
it is still locked. He turns, bewildered, to_ TOM.)
GRANT
How did you get in here?
TOM
Why shouldn’t I? As your fellow-craftsman once remarked: “I am a
trifle light as air.”
GRANT
I can’t say you look it.
TOM
(_Eyeing him as he lights one of_ GRANT’S _cigarettes_)
Since you don’t recognize me perhaps you didn’t do what you did to
me--deliberately.
GRANT
But I’ve never done a thing to you.
TOM
Are we so soon forgot? (_Puffing_) Yet how reminiscent the odor of
this cigarette. I notice you still smoke the same cheap brand.
GRANT
I must say I admire your nerve.
TOM
You ought to admire it. You gave it to me.
GRANT
I never gave you anything.
TOM
(_Bluntly_)
Liar! You gave me life!
GRANT
Gave you life?
TOM
Yes; I am your child.
GRANT
My child? (_He laughs._)
TOM
Many a man before you has tried to deny paternity with a laugh.
GRANT
But you’re old enough to _be_ my father. Are you accusing me of
improving on Nature?
TOM
All artists do. (_Picking up manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY.) Here’s
how you described me. (_Reading_) “... his eyes have a relentless
coldness when they narrow ... mouth firm but cruel.... Not
attractive but impressive.” There I am. Read it for yourself.
GRANT
Then you are--?
TOM
(_Sarcastically_)
Your child. Your once dearly beloved brain baby.
GRANT
(_Awed_)
Tom Robinson!
TOM
As you originally conceived him here in THE LONELY WAY.
GRANT
Well, I’m damned.
TOM
I suspect you are. _That’s_ what I’m here to see. (_Ominously_)
And then if.... (_Suddenly casual_) But sit down and we’ll talk it
over calmly first. (GRANT _sits down astonished_. TOM _sits also_.)
Thanks.
GRANT
Go on.
TOM
Look at me. Here I am, as you drew me. Tom Robinson. Your greatest
creation!
GRANT
I recognize the egotism.
TOM
(_Blurting_)
I am what my egotism made me. Your egotism also made you dare to
conceive me, here at this very desk, out of your brain, in the
puffs of your cheap cigarettes. The taps on your typewriter were my
first heart beats. Your birth pains were my own cries of life.
GRANT
You certainly gave me a lot of trouble.
TOM
But you never suffered in having me as I did last night when I went
with you to THE SAND BAR and saw what you’d done to Tom Robinson!
GRANT
(_More and more amused at what seems to be the childish petulance
of an admittedly great man_)
You must have had quite a shock.
TOM
Shock? I was disgusted! Why, the actor who’s interpreting me isn’t
even bad looking.
GRANT
No. He couldn’t be. He’s a star.
TOM
But _I_ was your original conception. Why did you alter me into a
good-looking fashion plate with charm? There never was anything
charming about me; _never_.
GRANT
(_Glancing towards his wife’s door_)
Please not so loud. I made you unpleasant, I know; but don’t pile
it on, Tom.
TOM
(_With dignity_)
Robinson to you.
GRANT
(_Smiling_)
I beg your pardon.
TOM
Why you authors feel you can take liberties with your characters is
beyond me. I, for one, shall be treated with respect. (_His eyes
narrow_.) Unless you have lost your capacity to respect a work of
art like me.
GRANT
Come, come. I’m afraid it’s you who have lost your sense of humor.
TOM
(_Sarcastically_)
Perhaps you didn’t give me as much humor as you thought.
GRANT
But can’t we talk over the object of your visit in a friendly
spirit? (_With a smile_.) Say, as father to son?
TOM
You’ll take me seriously before I’m through. I’ll remind you that
_I_ was a force in THE LONELY WAY though in THE SAND BAR Tom
Robinson is merely a figure. One suit a year was good enough for
me. You make him change his every act.
GRANT
(_More at ease_)
I’m afraid you don’t understand the demands of the modern theater.
TOM
What have I--a great character--to do with the modern theater?
GRANT
Nothing. That’s why I revised you.
TOM
(_Bitterly_)
Then why did you give me life at all?
GRANT
Because then I was fool enough to think the modern theater was a
place for great creations. I recognize the conditions better now.
TOM
But in THE LONELY WAY you didn’t consider me a fool when _I_
continued to paint great pictures--in spite of conditions.
GRANT
You were a great artist in that play.
TOM
And when you drew me you were a great dramatist. (_Sadly_) Now I
see you are only a playwright.
GRANT
And at the National Tom Robinson has become only a painter of
pot-boilers. (_Mockingly_) You’ve certainly come down in the world.
TOM
I don’t need your pity; but I want you to realize that what you did
to me you also did to yourself. When you made me fall, I brought
you down with me. (_He shakes the manuscript before him._) Look! I
had life there in a powerful play.
GRANT
I won’t dispute that. It was fine: beautifully articulated in its
subtlety.
TOM
That just describes it. It was nearly as fine as my Sumatra
Sunlight or even my Russian Nocturne.
GRANT
Which you never sold.
TOM
But what is painted lives for the future.
GRANT
Don’t be sensitive: my LONELY WAY is still here. Nobody would
produce it.
TOM
Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live in it--perfect
as the frame that held me. The strength you gave me in my own
relentlessness was also yours. You glowed when you wrote it; as you
made me glow when I painted. You felt the joy which only a creator
knows when beauty and perfection slowly struggle out of his inner
vision.
GRANT
But, my dear fellow....
TOM
Wait. Contrast this play with THE SAND BAR! With your skill as a
builder you turned what was a lonely palace on a peak--aflame with
my art--into a scrambly suburban residence where miserable ordinary
people function. You produced a miserable makeshift of a play and
made Tom Robinson a miserable makeshift of a man. (_Accusing him._)
But when you played tricks on me you played tricks on yourself.
That’s what you did when you took from Tom Robinson his genius
and made him paint pot-boilers at the National. Pot-boilers!
Pot-boilers! Me!! Good God, man, did you know what you were doing
when you rewrote this play?
GRANT
(_Slowly_)
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was turning it into a popular
success.
TOM
(_Outraged_)
You had not even the excuse of self-deception?
GRANT
No.
TOM
(_Eyeing him strangely_)
Then you are worse off than we thought!
GRANT
_We?_
TOM
I wonder how far you have fallen! I shall be patient till we see
the depths of your artistic degradation.
GRANT
You said “we”?
A WOMAN’S VOICE
(_Outside_)
Yes. We.
(GRANT _gives a start towards the door, thinking the voice
has come from his wife’s room_.)
TOM
Oh, that isn’t your wife.
GRANT
Then if you’ve some friend concealed about your person, hadn’t you
better produce her?
TOM
That isn’t my friend; that’s my wife.
GRANT
Your humor isn’t inspiring. I’ve heard that brilliant retort before.
TOM
Certainly. You wrote it yourself; but you stole it from Molière. If
I had your memory I’d be witty, too.
GRANT
(_Looking about_)
I don’t seem to see Mrs. Robinson very clearly.
TOM
She says you never did. Come to think of it, she’s no longer Mrs.
Robinson.
GRANT
Oh, I forgot. In THE LONELY WAY you divorced her.
TOM
Marie and I haven’t been on speaking terms since; but _after_ she
saw THE SAND BAR she simply insisted on coming here.
GRANT
Well, I’ll be happy to hear her grievance, too.
TOM
(_Ominously_)
You won’t think us so amusing when we are through with you.
GRANT
As a dramatist, I admire your talent for suspense. (_Calling_) Come
in, Mrs. Robinson.
TOM
(_Correcting him_)
Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You’ve also forgotten that in THE LONELY
WAY you made her marry him.
GRANT
To be sure. But in THE SAND BAR I made her stay with you.
TOM
Yes. That’s one of her grievances.
GRANT
Come in, Mrs. Case.
(GRANT _watches_ MARIE _come slowly from behind the curtains,
into the light. Then he sees a handsome woman of thirty-five,
bien soignée to the last degree. Yet somehow to_ GRANT _her
manner is an assumption she has acquired and not inherited.
Beneath her vivid personality, her unrestrained moods glitter
with force if not heat. But now she eyes him steadily with
the greatest contempt. She wears a magnificent opera cloak,
clutched close to her. She carries a small hand bag._
_Though_ MARIE _and_ TOM _are aware of each other’s presence,
they never address each other; they speak to each other
through_ GRANT _as though they existed only in him_.)
GRANT
Do sit down.
TOM
Oh, Marie will sit down. Don’t worry.
(_Before she sits she carelessly throws her cloak over the
same chair that_ GRANT _had previously thrown his coat. She
stands revealed in a beautiful evening gown. It seems to
proclaim to_ GRANT _her daring and contempt for conventions_.)
MARIE
After what I’ve just heard I don’t know whether it’s worth while to
waste words on a creature like you.
GRANT
(_Very politely throughout_)
Your husband seems to have succeeded in doing it.
TOM
Her husband? Don’t try to saddle her off on me. Once was enough.
MARIE
It’s only our contempt for you, Mr. Williams, that finds us two
together.
GRANT
To be sure. I keep forgetting.
(MARIE _takes a cigarette out of the hand bag_; GRANT _offers
her a light_.)
Permit me.
(_She glares at him and refuses it. As she searches her hand
bag for a match, a small pistol accidentally falls to the
floor._ GRANT _quickly picks it up and hands it to her. She
replaces it. He offers her another light, which she sullenly
accepts._)
MARIE
I wouldn’t accept anything from you, only, in my haste, I forgot
my matches. (_She crosses one knee over the other and puffs._)
Brr--it’s cold here.
TOM
(_Bluntly_)
She wants a drink.
GRANT
Will she accept it from me?
TOM
She’ll take it from anybody.
GRANT
Oh, yes, I remember. I beg your pardon.
MARIE
(_Seeing him lift up the milk bottle_)
Milk!
GRANT
(_Apologetically_)
When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in THE LONELY WAY, we
didn’t have prohibition.
MARIE
Was that the reason you took it away from Marie when you changed
her in THE SAND BAR?
GRANT
Not exactly. You see no leading lady can ever have a real thirst.
I’m sorry if you’re cold.
TOM
Oh, Mrs. Case will warm up when she remembers what you’ve done to
her. She had a wonderful temper when she lived with me.
MARIE
I had to have. And you also took that away from me.
GRANT
I’m very sorry, Mrs. Case; the leading lady didn’t like your temper
either.
MARIE
But _I_ liked it. It was part of my character, as you originally
conceived me.
GRANT
Yes; a character touch. It was the only comedy relief in my play.
TOM
It may have been comedy to you but it was no relief to me.
MARIE
(_Emotionally_)
My temper was my defense and my attack. It aroused fear and
respect. Through it I got what I wanted out of life. It was mine!
Mine! And you took it away from me! Oh!
(_She rushes angrily towards the milk bottle and lifts it
above her as though to smash it; but_ GRANT _stops her_.)
TOM
(_As he lights another cigarette_)
There you see. Every time she thinks of what a temper she has she
loses it.
GRANT
(_Still holding the bottle with her_)
I concede your temper. I always had a hard time to control it.
(_Taking it from her courteously._) It was one of your most
unpleasant traits.
MARIE
(_Sullenly_)
Then why did you change me?
GRANT
It’s a professional secret, Mrs. Case. The leading lady hasn’t
the capacity to reach the heights your wonderful temper demanded.
Besides, her specialty is cute ingénue stuff. She’s a great
popular favorite, you know, and is consequently afraid to lose her
following by playing any part which lacks charm.
TOM
(_Bitterly_)
Charm! Charm! There it is again, Williams. You hadn’t a bit of
respect for Mrs. Case’s _true_ character so you made her charming.
MARIE
But you gave me a charm all my own before I married Tom.
TOM
She kept it to herself; I never suspected it after we were married.
MARIE
But, Mr. Williams, you knew no one could live with Tom Robinson
and not lose her charm. All he really wanted of me was to cook his
chops and wash his dishes.
TOM
She seems to forget she was my wife and that I was a genius. She
wanted me to get my precious fingers red and rough in a dish pan.
MARIE
(_Flaring_)
No. I wanted him to be a human being, not an artist.
GRANT
(_Who has been trying to speak throughout_)
Please. Please. Remember you two are no longer married.
TOM
You see: she’s warming up.
MARIE
(_Bitterly_)
How like old times.
GRANT
By Jove. I remember now. (_Opening manuscript._) I remember
everything about you.
MARIE
Don’t be humorous. There’s lots about your own characters you
authors never know.
TOM
That’s what critics are for.
MARIE
So don’t try to make my temper seem trivial, Mr. Williams. I valued
it. It gave me a chance to assert myself. It kept me alive as an
individual. In THE LONELY WAY, while I was his wife, you made my
whole fight to keep from being swamped by his personality.
TOM
As a married man yourself, Williams, you know damn well that women
have got to capitulate in marriage. We husbands have got to close
the door on them when they don’t understand us.
MARIE
(_Contemptuously_)
And in THE SAND BAR, Marie didn’t have the courage to take the
things of life that lay outside the door! She didn’t dare, like me,
because you’d changed _her_ into a sweet simpering woman who loved
her husband.
TOM
But the Tom Robinson she loved there isn’t the Tom Robinson you see
here.
MARIE
No. The other is a hero! He’s a halo on legs.
GRANT
Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. THE SAND BAR
_had_ to have a happy ending. If I hadn’t made you both charming
the public wouldn’t have believed in your ultimate happiness
together.
TOM
(_Bringing his hand down on the table_)
Now we’re getting at it. Why the devil did you bring us together?
GRANT
(_Trying to explain elementally_)
Because I’d turned you into the hero and you into the heroine. They
must always come together for the final curtain.
MARIE
But I wasn’t a heroine.
TOM
No. She’s right there.
MARIE
(_Emotionally_)
I was a bitter, disillusionized woman. I saw how Tom Robinson
succeeded in getting out of life what he wanted by being
relentless. I, too, became relentless and married Pendleton Case
because he could give me what _I_ most wanted.
GRANT
(_Beginning from now on to lose his patience_)
Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to use in a popular
play. So I _had_ to make Pendleton Case a villain who took
advantage of your trust in him.
MARIE
But Penny was only a poor gullible fool consumed by my egotism. Why
were you so unfair to him? Why did you make him a villain?
TOM
Yes. I want to know why you gave him all my vices?
GRANT
If Case hadn’t had all your vices, Marie wouldn’t have had all the
sympathy.
MARIE
I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted clothes!
GRANT
(_Confused_)
But the leading lady has to, have sympathy even without clothes. I
mean----
TOM
(_Quickly_)
Do you mean that the reason you made me sacrifice my art in THE
SAND BAR and rescue her from Case was because she had to have
sympathy?
GRANT
Exactly. And, besides, how was an audience going to know you were a
hero unless you sacrificed something?
TOM
But I’m not a hero: I’m an artist. You know the real reason I got
rid of her was because she stood in the way of my art; because I
wouldn’t let a single human responsibility weaken the vision within
me.
MARIE
Wasn’t that reason enough why I should leave him?
GRANT
But that was too abstract an idea for the audience to get.
MARIE
So you turned an abstraction into a villain!
GRANT
Can’t you see your husband couldn’t rescue you from an abstraction?
MARIE
But I didn’t want to be rescued. I wanted to marry Penny!
TOM
And I was tickled to death to get rid of her.
MARIE
Yes. It meant release for us both to be ourselves.
GRANT
But, Robinson, you _had_ to rescue her. She was the leading lady.
The manager pays her five hundred dollars a week to marry the star.
MARIE
Well, she earns it.
GRANT
She earns it because she draws.
TOM
(_Surprised_)
Does she paint, too?
GRANT
She draws that much money into the box office.
TOM
Money, money! How that runs through your talk.
MARIE
(_Referring to_ TOM)
I wish to heaven it had run through his.
TOM
(_Lifting his voice angrily_)
I was above such things. I am an artist. Money! Money! I see red
when I hear that word. Money! Money! The curse of true art.
GRANT
(_Pointing to his wife’s door_)
Please, please; not so loud. You’ll wake the baby.
MARIE
(_With a poignant cry_)
Oh!
GRANT
What’s the matter with you?
MARIE
I forgot all about that. You also took my baby away from me in THE
SAND BAR.
TOM
So far as I was concerned that was the only decent thing you did. I
had to make money for the child.
MARIE
Have you forgotten that was the other reason I left him? He didn’t
love our child: it was in his way.
TOM
Love a mewling, puking child? Not much.
GRANT
(_Trying to calm her as she walks up and down_)
Sh! Control yourself.
MARIE
My love for the child was the only decent thing about me.
GRANT
But I gave you other virtues. I made you love your husband.
MARIE
If I _had_ to love my husband in your revised version couldn’t I at
least have kept my child?
GRANT
Don’t be unreasonable. No leading lady wants a child.
MARIE
So you took it away to please the leading lady!
GRANT
Can’t you understand if I’d given her a child it would have
complicated matters?
TOM
You’re right. It certainly complicated matters for me.
GRANT
(_Trying to explain_)
I wanted the struggle to be a simple one between two men and a
woman. A child would have been a side-issue.
MARIE
You call my child a side-issue! (_Looking at_ TOM.) Hasn’t his
father anything to say to that?
TOM
(_To_ GRANT)
She can’t get me excited about that brat. It stood in my way. I’d
have killed it myself if necessary.
MARIE
(_To_ GRANT)
But _you_ killed it instead.
GRANT
(_Losing patience_)
Yes. I killed it for the same reason he would have: because it
would have stood in the way of the play’s success. Are you a couple
of fools? Can’t you both get into your heads I was writing a play
to make money?
TOM
Money! Money again!
MARIE
(_Astonished as she comes to_ GRANT)
So you killed it for money?
GRANT
Yes. Just as I changed you both for money.
TOM
If you’d killed it for art I would have understood. But to kill a
creature for money! You are a murderer!
MARIE
(_Sneering_)
And how much blood money will you get for what you have done?
GRANT
A thousand dollars a week!
MARIE
(_Overcome_)
My God!
TOM
(_Awed_)
How much did you say?
GRANT
A thousand a week.
MARIE
You’re going to get that much for putting me into a popular success?
GRANT
Yes.
TOM
She isn’t worth it.
GRANT
(_Determined to have it out with them_)
It was worth it to me. Think of the exquisite joy I had in revising
my problem drama. Think of how I turned two hectic, distorted,
twisted, selfish, miserable, little-souled characters into two
self-sacrificing, sugar-coated, lovable beings!
TOM
You are not only a murderer but a hypocrite: you distorted life to
win sympathy for us.
GRANT
The theater no longer has anything to do with life. It’s a palace
of personality.
TOM
Well, what’s the matter with _my_ personality?
MARIE
Leaving him aside, what about me?
GRANT
You wouldn’t draw a cent. There wasn’t a dollar in either of you.
MARIE
Is that _my_ fault? You made us what we are.
GRANT
Yes; before I learned that the public pays to be pleased. Do you
think there’s anything pleasing about either of you? Why, you
couldn’t even be happy together.
TOM
This is getting damned personal.
MARIE
What right has the public got to be so proud of itself? There’s
many a woman in the audience worse than I am.
GRANT
But they want to be flattered into believing they are as much like
heroes and heroines as you are not. The successful playwright, like
the fashionable portrait painter, flatters and never reveals.
TOM
While true artists like me starve?
GRANT
And dramatists who write “Lonely Ways” also starve. What are you
two kicking so about? Because I’ve made you respectable, wealthy
and happy? Do you think the general public cares a whoop in Hades
what _I_ think of life, of my peculiar slant on the motives that
mess up the characters that happen to interest _me_? No: all they
want is what they want life to be.
TOM
How little you know of human nature. If we’d had a chance to be our
true selves we would have been appreciated.
GRANT
By whom, pray? A few professional soul lovers. And they’d get into
the theater on passes. No. You are caviar; most of the world lives
on mush. So I mixed you in mush, sentimental glue, anything you
want to call it.
TOM
You disgust me.
MARIE
But _I_ see hope for you. At heart you despise the crowd, as I did
its smug conventions.
GRANT
(_Bitterly_)
I hate what it has made me suffer.
TOM
Every great artist has despised them. I despise them.
GRANT
(_More seriously_)
Only I think the public has its rights. They have the right to
laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold success, to feel love
win out, to see what they think is happiness. They have that right
because their own lives are so full of the other things. And maybe
they like to dream a little, too.
MARIE
Who’s mushy now?
GRANT
Don’t sneer at a popular success. It’s sometimes more difficult to
perform a trick than climb a mountain peak.
TOM
Have _we_ artists no rights?
GRANT
(_Wearily_)
Only the right to dream and starve.
MARIE
But I’m not an artist: I’m one of your creations. Have _I_ no
rights? Must I be turned into a trained poodle and do tricks for
money?
GRANT
You are only a phantom, a projection, a figment.
MARIE
(_With great indignation_)
You call me a figment?
TOM
(_Rising ominously_)
I’m tired of hearing you insult your own flesh and blood.
GRANT
I disowned you both when I rewrote you. I was thinking then of only
one thing: the public.
TOM
Liar! You _did_ deceive yourself! You were thinking of your wife
and child.
MARIE
(_Seeing_ GRANT _is startled_)
That gets you. You did this to us for them.
GRANT
(_Himself serious now throughout_)
Yes. I was thinking of them most of all.
MARIE
Yet when you created Tom Robinson in THE LONELY WAY you did not let
him think of _his_ wife and child.
TOM
That’s where I was bigger than you, Grant Williams!
GRANT
You mean more brutal.
TOM
Mush. Mush. You can’t hide behind that. (_Impressively._) I am you!
I could never have lived had I not been a wish hidden in yourself.
I am what you would have been if you had dared!
GRANT
How dare you say a thing like that? I made you. I knew you inside
and out.
TOM
But you didn’t know yourself. _I_ knew when you wrote me that you
wanted to be as relentless as you made me.
GRANT
I hated you. I hated every bone beneath your miserable hide!
TOM
(_With a triumphant smile_)
That only proves it! You were afraid to be yourself; so you created
me!
GRANT
(_Shrinking back_)
No.... No....
TOM
You forget people have made gods and devils out of their own dreams
to worship and hate. Look at me, through the mask you gave me, and
see yourself! I was the worst of what was human in you--the devil
side of you: I was the best of what was the artist in you--the God
within you!
GRANT
(_As though stunned by the thought_)
God and devil. No.... No....
MARIE
(_Seriously_)
Now I see how _I_ came into being. I was your wife, as part of you
saw her! (_He protests._) She was in your way, as I was in his way.
You made Tom close the door on me because, deep in your soul, you
wished to close it on her. She never understood.
GRANT
Stop. You shan’t go any further. She stood by me through all these
years of poverty. She loves me and understands.
MARIE
(_Relentlessly_)
But you thought her a fool for loving you. You really thought she
ought to go. You wanted her to go, I tell you. You wanted her to
see that your art meant more to you than her love. But you didn’t
have the courage to do to her what you made him do to me!
GRANT
(_To_ TOM)
Take her away! I won’t let her say these things. I did what I did
to you for Jerry’s sake. I wanted to make money so _she_ would be
happy. I couldn’t stand it to see her hands grow rough....
TOM
(_Contemptuously_)
Bosh! Art denies all human responsibility. You made me face that
truth with my wife, and when I threw her out I was _your_ own inner
answer to that eternal question!
GRANT
I tell you my love for her is greater than for my art.
MARIE
Mush. Mush. It’s time to think of punishment.
GRANT
Punishment? (_Triumphantly_) I have a thousand a week. She will
have clothes and comfort. And you talk of punishment!
MARIE
(_Drawing a pistol and pointing it at him_)
What you did to us means your death.
TOM
(_Stopping her_)
No. You cannot be killed, Grant Williams. You are dead already.
MARIE
(_About to shoot_)
I think I’ll make sure.
TOM
(_As_ GRANT _stares at him spellbound_)
When you turned your soul into money you died. There is a greater
punishment. We’ll let what remains of you live, as we shall live to
haunt you in your dreams.
GRANT
(_Laughing hysterically_)
But you can’t live. I killed you. You’re dead, too. And the dead
cannot dream.
TOM
We are your dreams. We will outlast you.
MARIE
We live. We shall go on living. Yes. That is a greater revenge.
We’ll haunt you every time you are alone....
GRANT
You can’t. You can’t....
TOM
Whenever you smoke and think in your new house....
MARIE
Or walk by the sands, you will see only our hands beckon you from
the living waters of the sea....
GRANT
(_Frantically_)
I’ll drown you like rats. I’ll keep you under till you are dead.
You shan’t come back ... ever ... ever ... (_They both laugh._) Get
out. You phantoms.... I’ll kill you again....
TOM
Mush.... Mush....
GRANT
I’ll kill you forever now. (_He picks up the manuscript of_ THE
LONELY WAY _and savagely tears it up_.) Die. Die forever.... Die....
(_They laugh loudly and mockingly at him._)
TOM
You see we still live!
GRANT
Ah. I’ll kill you yet. I’ll kill you!
(_He rushes towards them and overturns the lamp. They laugh
mockingly farther off in the complete darkness._)
I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!
JERRY
(_As she enters_)
Grant!! What is the matter?
(_She turns on the switch by the door. The other lights flare
up. She is dressed in a kimono, with her hair in braids. He
rushes towards her._)
GRANT
I’ll kill you!
JERRY
Grant!
(_He holds her arms, suddenly realizing who she is and that
they are alone._)
GRANT
You are real, aren’t you? You are flesh and blood?
JERRY