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 theWilliams’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 comeGrant 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, areseveral 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 risesJerry Williamsis seated in the cozy chair reading a number of newspaper clippings.
Jerryis an attractive woman in her thirties. Externally, there is nothing particularly striking about her: if there be such a thing as an average wifeJerrypersonifies 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 thechild 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 Williamsis 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.Granthappens 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 withGrant Williamsit 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 knewThe Sand Barcouldn’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. ButThe 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 theGazette. 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 dramaThe Sand Barplaces him in the front rank of American dramatists!â€
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.â€
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 Timeswants 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. Iknow. 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 CharactersLive.†(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 thatThe Sand Barisa 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.)
(She goes out happily. Then a cynical look creeps into his face. He reads as he types.)
Grant
“How I Made My Characters inThe Sand BarLive.â€
(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,Jerryenters, with a bottle of milk, some crackers, and an apple on a small tray.)
(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,Jerryenters, 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 ofThe 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 realnégligéeto-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.Jerrygoes 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 byGrant.She glances at it; starts angrily to speak toGrantabout 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.)
(He begins to pound out something on his machine.Jerrygoes 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 byGrant.She glances at it; starts angrily to speak toGrantabout 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 ofThe 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 itThe 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 inThe 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, castingits 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.)
(She turns off the switch and goes out. The room is lighted only by the desk lamp, castingits 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 writingThe Sand BarI ... I....â€
(This makes him hesitate to continue. He glances toward the manuscript ofThe 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 asGrantlooks up in surprise and sees a man enter.Grantimmediately discovers there is something extraordinary about his unexpected visitor. As he directs the light upon him,Grantperceives 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 drooppulling down the corners. In spite of an occasional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurting out his words,Grantsoon 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.Grantis 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.)
(This makes him hesitate to continue. He glances toward the manuscript ofThe 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 asGrantlooks up in surprise and sees a man enter.
Grantimmediately discovers there is something extraordinary about his unexpected visitor. As he directs the light upon him,Grantperceives 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 drooppulling down the corners. In spite of an occasional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurting out his words,Grantsoon 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.Grantis 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. (Grantgives him a look asTomgoes over to the machine and glances at the heading of the article.) “How I Make My Characters Live!†You certainly do—some of us.
(Grantsuddenly crosses to the door, tries it and realizes it is still locked. He turns, bewildered, toTom.)
(Grantsuddenly crosses to the door, tries it and realizes it is still locked. He turns, bewildered, toTom.)
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.â€
Grant
I can’t say you look it.
Tom
(Eyeing him as he lights one ofGrant’scigarettes)
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 tobemy father. Are you accusing me of improving on Nature?
Tom
All artists do. (Picking up manuscript ofThe 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 inThe Lonely Way.
Grant
Well, I’m damned.
Tom
I suspect you are.That’swhat I’m here to see. (Ominously) And then if.... (Suddenly casual) But sit down and we’ll talk it over calmly first. (Grantsits down astonished.Tomsits 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 toThe Sand Barand 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
ButIwas 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 thatIwas a force inThe Lonely Waythough inThe Sand BarTom 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 inThe Lonely Wayyou didn’t consider me a fool whenIcontinued 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: myLonely Wayis 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 strengthyou 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 withThe 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.