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, full 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, sunburned 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 dreamt 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 dreamt of! I'm ready to meet the only woman I've ever wanted—
Kay Gonda! I've waited all these years for the day when I would meet her! That's all I've lived for! And no one's going to stand in my way!
EUNICE:
[She walks to door Left, picks up her hat and coat from a pile of clothing in a corner, turns to him again, quietly] Good-bye, 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 good-byes ]
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 flophouse?
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
