Chapter I: Part 1

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

Silly boy. What on earth is the matter with you? I go out of the room for a moment and I come back to find you yelling and wanting to kill me.

GRANT

(_Still dazed_)

No. It wasn’t true: I don’t want to get rid of you. I....

JERRY

(_In a matter-of-fact tone_)

I do wish you’d get over the habit of acting all your plays out. The neighbors will think you and I aren’t happy. You’d better come to bed and get some rest.

GRANT

I--I couldn’t sleep just now.

(_He goes over to the table and sees the manuscript of_ THE
LONELY WAY _untouched. He stands trying to collect himself._)

JERRY

It’s upset you, reading over THE LONELY WAY?

GRANT

(_Half to himself_)

That’s strange.

JERRY

Then what is the matter?

GRANT

(_Evasively as he sits down wearily_)

I--I was reading over the notices.

JERRY

I should have thought they’d soothe you, not get you so excited. Though there is one that put me in a terrible temper. (_He looks at her quickly._) Why did you conceal the _Gazette_ notice from me? (_Smiling, she shows it to him: he takes it._) Did you think this would worry me because Arthur Black said THE SAND BAR didn’t live up to the promise of your other plays?

GRANT

(_Half to himself_)