MISS TERRENCE: [Looking at the stunned group] Well, what is the matter?

  CLAIRE: [Choking] Did you . . . did you drive up in Miss Gonda’s car?

  MISS TERRENCE: [With hurt dignity] Why, certainly. Miss Gonda had an appointment here at five o’clock, and I thought it a secretary’s duty to come and tell Mr. Farrow that it looks as if Miss Gonda will not be able to keep it.

  FARROW: [Dully] So it does.

  MISS TERRENCE: There is also something rather peculiar I wanted to check on. Has anyone from the studio been at Miss Gonda’s home since last night?

  FARROW: [Perking up] No. Why, Miss Terrence?

  MISS TERRENCE: This is most peculiar.

  SALZER: What is?

  MISS TERRENCE: I’m sure I can’t understand it. I’ve questioned the servants, but they have not taken them.

  FARROW: Taken what?

  MISS TERRENCE: If no one else took them, then Miss Gonda must have been back at home late last night.

  FARROW: [Eagerly] Why, Miss Terrence?

  MISS TERRENCE: Because I saw them on her desk yesterday after she left for Santa Barbara. And when I entered her room this morning, they were gone.

  FARROW: What was gone?

  MISS TERRENCE: Six letters from among Miss Gonda’s fan mail.

  [A great sigh of disappointment rises from all]

  SALZER: Aw, nuts!

  McNITT: And I thought it was something!

  [MICK WATTS bursts out laughing suddenly, for no apparent reason]

  FARROW: [Angrily] What are you laughing at?

  MICK WATTS: [Quietly] Kay Gonda.

  McNITT: Oh, throw the drunken fool out!

  MICK WATTS: [Without looking at anyone] A great quest. The quest of the hopeless. Why do we hope? Why do we seek it, when we’d be luckier if we didn’t think that it could exist? Why does she? Why does she have to be hurt? [Whirls suddenly upon the others with ferocious hatred] Goddamn you all! [Rushes out, slamming the door]

  CURTAIN

  ACT I

  SCENE 1

  When the curtain rises, a motion-picture screen is disclosed and a letter is flashed on the screen, unrolling slowly. It is written in a neat, precise, respectable handwriting:

  Dear Miss Gonda,

  I am not a regular movie fan, but I have never missed a picture of yours. There is something about you which I can’t give a name to, something I had and lost, but I feel as if you’re keeping it for me, for all of us. I had it long ago, when I was very young. You know how it is: when you’re very young, there’s something ahead of you, so big that you’re afraid of it, but you wait for it and you’re so happy waiting. Then the years pass and it never comes. And then you find, one day, that you’re not waiting any longer. It seems foolish, because you didn’t even know what it was you were waiting for. I look at myself and I don’t know. But when I look at you—I do.

  And if ever, by some miracle, you were to enter my life, I’d drop everything, and follow you, and gladly lay down my life for you, because, you see, I’m still a human being.

  Very truly yours,

  George S. Perkins

  . . . S. Hoover Street

  Los Angeles, California

  When the letter ends, all lights go out, and when they come on again, the screen has disappeared and the stage reveals the living room of GEORGE S. PERKINS.

  It is a room such as thousands of other rooms in thousands of other homes whose owners have a respectable little income and a respectable little character.

  Center back, a wide glass door opening on the street. Door into the rest of the house in wall Left.

  When the curtain rises, it is evening. The street outside is dark. MRS. PERKINS stands in the middle of the room, tense, erect, indignant, watching with smoldering emotion the entrance door where GEORGE S. PERKINS is seen outside turning the key in the lock. MRS. PERKINS looks like a dried-out bird of prey that has never been young. GEORGE S. PERKINS is short, blond, heavy, helpless, and over forty. He is whistling a gay tune as he enters. He is in a very cheerful mood.

  MRS. PERKINS: [Without moving, ominously] You’re late.

  PERKINS: [Cheerfully] Well, dovey, I have a good excuse for being late.

  MRS. PERKINS: [Speaking very fast] I have no doubt about that. But listen to me, George Perkins, you’ll have to do something about Junior. That boy of yours got a D again in arithmetic. If a father don’t take the proper interest in his children, what can you expect from a boy who . . .

  PERKINS: Aw, honeybunch, we’ll excuse the kid for once—just to celebrate.

  MRS. PERKINS: Celebrate what?

  PERKINS: How would you like to be Mrs. Assistant Manager of the Daffodil Canning Company?

  MRS. PERKINS: I would like it very much. Not that I have any hopes of ever being.

  PERKINS: Well, dovey, you are. As of today.

  MRS. PERKINS: [Noncommittally] Oh. [Calls into house] Mama! Come here!

  [MRS. SHLY waddles in from door Left. She is fat and looks chronically dissatisfied with the whole world. MRS. PERKINS speaks, half-boasting, half-bitter]

  Mama, Georgie’s got a promotion.

  MRS. SHLY: [Dryly] Well, we’ve waited for it long enough.

  PERKINS: But you don’t understand. I’ve been made Assistant Manager—[Looks for the effect on her face, finds none, adds lamely]—of the Daffodil Canning Company.

  MRS. SHLY: Well?

  PERKINS: [Spreading his hands helplessly] Well . . .

  MRS. SHLY: All I gotta say is it’s a fine way to start off on your promotion, coming home at such an hour, keeping us waiting with dinner and . . .

  PERKINS: Oh, I . . .

  MRS. SHLY: Oh, we ate all right, don’t you worry! Never seen a man that cared two hoops about his family, not two hoops!

  PERKINS: I’m sorry. I had dinner with the boss. I should’ve phoned, only I couldn’t keep him waiting, you know, the boss asking me to dinner, in person.

  MRS. PERKINS: And here I was waiting for you. I had something to tell you, a nice surprise for you, and . . .

  MRS. SHLY: Don’t you tell him, Rosie. Don’t you tell him now. Serves him right.

  PERKINS: But I figured you’d understand. I figured you’d be happy—[Corrects his presumption hastily]—well, glad that I’ve been made—

  MRS. PERKINS: —Assistant Manager! Lord, do we have to hear it for the rest of our lives?

  PERKINS: [Softly] Rosie, it’s twenty years I’ve waited for it.

  MRS. SHLY: That, my boy, is nothing to brag about!

  PERKINS: It’s a long time, twenty years. One gets sort of tired. But now we can take it easy . . . light . . . [With sudden eagerness] . . . you know, light . . . [Coming down to earth, apologetically] . . . easy, I mean.

  MRS. SHLY: Listen to him! How much you got, Mr. Rockafeller?

  PERKINS: [With quiet pride] One hundred and sixty-five dollars.

  MRS. PERKINS: A week?

  PERKINS: Yes, dovey, a week. Every single week.

  MRS. SHLY: [Impressed] Well! [Gruffly] Well, what’re you standing there for? Sit down. You must be all tired out.

  PERKINS: [Removing his coat] Mind if I slip my coat off? Sort of stuffy tonight.

  MRS. PERKINS: I’ll fetch your bathrobe. Don’t you go catching a cold. [Exits Left]

  MRS. SHLY: We gotta think it over careful. There’s lots a man can do with one-sixty-five a week. Not that there ain’t some men what get around two hundred. Still, one-sixty-five ain’t to be sneezed at.

  PERKINS: I’ve been thinking . . .

  MRS. PERKINS: [Returning with a flashy striped flannel bathrobe] Now, put it on like a good boy, nice and comfy.

  PERKINS: [Obeying] Thanks. . . . Dovey, I was sort of planning . . . I’ve been thinking of it for a long time, nights, you know . . . making plans . . .

  MRS. PERKINS: Plans? But your wife’s not let in on it?

  PERKINS: Oh, it was only sort of like dreaming . . . I wanted to . . .

  [There is a thunderous crash upstairs, the violent scuffle of a battle and a child’s shrill scream]

  BOY’S VOICE: [Offstage] No, ya don’t! No, ya don’t! Ya dirty snot!

  GIRL’S VOICE: Ma-a-a!

  BOY’S VOICE: I’ll learn ya! I’ll . . .

  GIRL’S VOICE: Ma-a! He bit me on the pratt!

  MRS. PERKINS: [Throws the door Left open, yells upstairs] Keep quiet up there and march straight to bed, or I’ll beat the living Jesus out of the both of you! [Slams the door. The noise upstairs subsides to thin whimpers] For the life of me, I don’t see why of all the children in the world I had to get these!

  PERKINS: Please, dovey, not tonight. I’m tired. I wanted to talk about . . . the plans.

  MRS. PERKINS: What plans?

  PERKINS: I was thinking . . . if we’re very careful, we could take a vacation maybe . . . in a year or two . . . and go to Europe, you know, like Switzerland or Italy . . . [Looks at her hopefully, sees no reaction, adds] . . . It’s where they have mountains, you know.

  MRS. PERKINS: Well?

  PERKINS: Well, and lakes. And snow high up on the peaks. And sunsets.

  MRS. PERKINS: And what would we do?

  PERKINS: Oh . . . well . . . just rest, I guess. And look around, sort of. You know, at the swans and the sailboats. Just the two of us.

  MRS. SHLY: Uh-huh. Just the two of you.

  MRS. PERKINS: Yes, you were always a great one for making up ways of wasting good money, George Perkins. And me slaving and skimping and saving every little penny. Swans, indeed! Well, before you go thinking of any swans, you’d better get us a new Frigidaire, that’s all I’ve got to say.

  MRS. SHLY: And a mayonnaise mixer. And a ’lectric washing machine. And it’s about time to be thinking of a new car, too. The old one’s a sight. And . . .

  PERKINS: Look, you don’t understand. I don’t want anything that we need.

  MRS. PERKINS: What?

  PERKINS: I want something I don’t need at all.

  MRS. PERKINS: George Perkins! Have you been drinking?

  PERKINS: Rosie, I . . .

  MRS. SHLY: [Resolutely] Now, I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense! Now, you come down to earth, George Perkins. There’s something bigger to think about. Rosie has a surprise for you. A pretty surprise. Tell him, Rosie.

  MRS. PERKINS: I just found it out today, Georgie. You’ll be glad to hear it.

  MRS. SHLY: He’ll be tickled pink. Go on.

  MRS. PERKINS: Well, I . . . I’ve been to the doctor’s this morning. We have a baby coming.

  [Silence. The two women look, with bright smiles, at PERKINS’ face, a face that distorts slowly before their eyes into an expression of stunned horror]

  PERKINS: [In a choked voice] Another one?

  MRS. PERKINS: [Brightly] Uh-huh. A brand-new little baby. [He stares at her silently] Well? [He stares without moving] Well, what’s the matter with you? [He does not move] Aren’t you glad?

  PERKINS: [In a slow, heavy voice] You’re not going to have it.

  MRS. PERKINS: Mama! What’s he saying?

  PERKINS: [In a dull, persistent monotone] You know what I’m saying. You can’t have it. You won’t.

  MRS. SHLY: Have you gone plumb outta your mind? Are you thinking of . . . of . . .

  PERKINS: [Dully] Yes.

  MRS. PERKINS: Mama!!

  MRS. SHLY: [Ferociously] D’you know who you’re talking to? It’s my daughter you’re talking to, not a street woman! To come right out with a thing like that . . . to his own wife . . . to his own . . .

  MRS. PERKINS: What’s happened to you?

  PERKINS: Rosie, I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s not even dangerous nowadays and . . .

  MRS. PERKINS: Make him stop, Mama!

  MRS. SHLY: Where did you pick that up? Decent people don’t even know about such things! You hear about it maybe with gangsters and actresses. But in a respectable married home!

  MRS. PERKINS: What’s happened to you today?

  PERKINS: It’s not today, Rosie. It’s for a long, long time back. . . . But I’m set with the firm now. I can take good care of you and the children. But the rest— Rosie, I can’t throw it away for good.

  MRS. PERKINS: What are you talking about? What better use can you find for your extra money than to take care of a baby?

  PERKINS: That’s just it. Take care of it. The hospital and the doctors. The strained vegetables—at two bits a can. The school and the measles. All over again. And nothing else.

  MRS. PERKINS: So that’s how you feel about your duties! There’s nothing holier than to raise a family. There’s no better blessing. Haven’t I spent my life making a home for you? Don’t you have everything every decent man struggles for? What else do you want?

  PERKINS: Rosie, it’s not that I don’t like what I’ve got. I like it fine. Only . . . Well, it’s like this bathrobe of mine. I’m glad I have it, it’s warm and comfortable, and I like it, just the same as I like the rest of it. Just like that. And no more. There should be more.

  MRS. PERKINS: Well, I like that! The swell bathrobe I picked out for your birthday! Well, if you didn’t like it, why didn’t you exchange it?

  PERKINS: Oh, Rosie, it’s not that! It’s only that a man can’t live his whole life for a bathrobe. Or for things that he feels the same way about. Things that do nothing to him—inside, I mean. There should be something that he’s afraid of—afraid and happy. Like going to church—only not in a church. Something he can look up to. Something—high, Rosie . . . that’s it, high.

  MRS. PERKINS: Well, if it’s culture you want, didn’t I subscribe to the Book-of-the-Month Club?

  PERKINS: Oh, I know I can’t explain it! All I ask is, don’t let’s have that baby, Rosie. That would be the end of it all for me. I’ll be an old man, if I give those things up. I don’t want to be old. Not yet. God, not yet! Just leave me a few years, Rosie!

  MRS. PERKINS: [Breaking down into tears] Never, never, never did I think I’d live to hear this!

  MRS. SHLY: [Rushing to her] Rosie, sweetheart! Don’t cry like that, baby! [Whirling upon PERKINS] See what you’ve done? Now, don’t let me hear another word out of that filthy mouth of yours! Do you want to kill your wife? Take the Chinese, for instance. They go in for abortions, that’s why all the Chinks have rickets.

  PERKINS: Now, Mother, who ever told you that?

  MRS. SHLY: Well, I suppose I don’t know what I’m talking about? I suppose the big businessman is the only one to tell us what’s what?

  PERKINS: I didn’t mean . . . I only meant that . . .

  MRS. PERKINS: [Through her sobs] You leave Mama alone, George.

  PERKINS: [Desperately] But I didn’t . . .

  MRS. SHLY: I understand. I understand perfectly, George Perkins. An old mother, these days, is no good for anything but to shut up and wait for the graveyard!

  PERKINS: [Resolutely] Mother, I wish you’d stop trying to . . . [Bravely] . . . to make trouble.

  MRS. SHLY: So? So that’s it? So I’m making trouble? So I’m a burden to you, am I? Well, I’m glad you came out with it, Mr. Perkins! And here I’ve been, poor fool that I am, slaving in this house like if it was my own! That’s the gratitude I get. Well, I won’t stand for it another minute. Not one minute. [Rushes out Left, slamming the door]

  MRS. PERKINS: [With consternation] George! . . . George, if you don’t apologize, Mama will leave us!

  PERKINS: [With sudden, desperate courage] Well, let her go.

  MRS. PERKINS: [Stares at him incredulously, then:] So it’s come to that? So that’s what it does to you, your big promotion? Coming home, picking a fight with everybody, throwing his wife’s old mother out into the gutter! If you think I’m going to stand for . . .

  PERKINS: Listen, I’ve stood about as much of her as I’m going to stand. She’d better go. It was coming to this, sooner or later.

  MRS. PERKINS: You just listen to me, George Perkins! If you don’t apologize to Mama, if you don’t apologize to her before tomorrow morning, I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live!

  PERKINS: [Wearily] How many times have I heard that before?

  [MRS. PERKINS runs to door Left and exits, slamming the door. PERKINS sits wearily, without moving. An old-fashioned clock strikes nine. He rises slowly, turns out the lights, pulls the shade down over the glass entrance door. The room is dim but for one lamp burning by the fireplace. He leans against the mantelpiece, his head on his arm, slumped wearily. The doorbell rings. It is a quick, nervous, somehow furtive sound. PERKINS starts, looks at the entrance door, surprised, hesitates, then crosses to door and opens it. Before we can see the visitor, his voice a stunned explosion:] Oh, my God!! [PERKINS steps aside. KAY GONDA stands on the threshold. She wears an exquisitely plain black suit, very modern, austerely severe; a black hat, black shoes, stockings, bag, and gloves. The sole and startling contrast to her clothes is the pale, luminous gold of her hair and the whiteness of her face. It is a strange face with eyes that make one uncomfortable. She is tall and very slender. Her movements are slow, her steps light, soundless. There is a feeling of unreality about her, the feeling of a being that does not belong on this earth. She looks more like a ghost than a woman]

  KAY GONDA: Please keep quiet. And let me in.

  PERKINS: [Stuttering foolishly] You . . . you are . . .

  KAY GONDA: Kay Gonda. [She enters and closes the door behind her]

  PERKINS: W-why . . .

  KAY GONDA: Are you George Perkins?

  PERKINS: [Foolishly] Yes, ma’am. George Perkins. George S. Perkins . . . Only how . . .

  KAY GONDA: I am in trouble. Have you heard about it?

  PERKINS: Y-yes . . . oh, my God! . . . Yes . . .

  KAY GONDA: I have to hide. For the night. It is dangerous. Can you let me stay here?

  PERKINS: Here?

  KAY GONDA: Yes. For one night.

  PERKINS: But how . . . That is . . . Why did you . . .

  KAY GONDA: [Opens her bag and shows him the letter] I read your letter. And I thought that no one would look for me here. And I thought you would want to help me.

  PERKINS: I . . . Miss Gonda, you’ll excuse me, please, you know it’s enough to make a fellow . . . I mean, if I don’t seem to make sense or . . . I mean, if you need help, you can stay here the rest of your life, Miss Gonda.