Ideal (12 page)

I
deal
was written in 1934, at a time when Ayn Rand had cause to be unhappy with the world.
We the Living
was being rejected by a succession of publishers for being “too intellectual” and too opposed to Soviet Russia (this was the time of America's Red Decade);
Night of January 16th
had not yet found a producer; and Miss Rand's meager savings were running out. The story was written originally as a novelette and then, probably within a year or two, was extensively revised and turned into a stage play. It has never been produced.

After the political themes of her first professional work, Ayn Rand now returns to the subject matter of her early stories: the role of values in men's lives. The focus in this case, as in “Her Second Career,” is negative, but this time the treatment is not jovial; dominantly, it is sober and heartfelt. The issue now is men's lack of integrity, their failure to act according to the ideals they espouse. The theme is the evil of divorcing ideals from life.

An acquaintance of Miss Rand's, a conventional middle-aged woman, told her once that she worshiped a certain famous actress and
would give her life to meet her. Miss Rand was dubious about the authenticity of the woman's emotion, and this suggested a dramatic idea: a story in which a famous actress, so beautiful that she comes to represent to men the embodiment of their deepest ideals, actually enters the lives of her admirers. She comes in a context suggesting that she is in grave danger. Until this point, her worshipers have professed their reverence for her—in words, which cost them nothing. Now, however, she is no longer a distant dream, but a reality demanding action on their part, or betrayal.

“What do you dream of?” Kay Gonda, the actress, asks one of the characters, in the play's thematic statement.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Of what account are dreams?”

“Of what account is life?”

“None. But who made it so?”

“Those who cannot dream.”

“No. Those who can
only
dream.”

In a journal entry written at the time (dated April 9, 1934), Miss Rand elaborates this viewpoint:

I believe—and I want to gather all the facts to illustrate this—that the worst curse on mankind is the ability to consider ideals as something quite abstract and detached from one's everyday life. The ability of
living
and
thinking
quite differently, in other words eliminating thinking from your actual life. This applied not to deliberate and conscious hypocrites, but to those more dangerous and hopeless ones who, alone with themselves and to themselves, tolerate a complete break between their convictions and their lives, and still believe that they have convictions. To them—either their ideals or their lives are worthless—and usually both.

Such “dangerous and hopeless ones” may betray their ideal in the name of “social respectability” (the small businessman in this story) or in the name of the welfare of the masses (the Communist) or the will of God (the evangelist) or the pleasure of the moment (the playboy count)—or they may do it for the license of claiming that the good is impossible and therefore the struggle for it unnecessary (the painter).
Ideal
captures eloquently the essence of each of these diverse types and demonstrates their common denominator. In this regard, it is an intellectual tour de force. It is a philosophical guide to hypocrisy, a dramatized inventory of the kinds of ideas and attitudes that lead to the impotence of ideals—that is, to their detachment from life.

(The inventory, however, is not offered in the form of a developed plot structure. In the body of the play, there is no progression of events, no necessary connection between one encounter and the next. It is a series of evocative vignettes, often illuminating and ingenious, but as theater, I think, unavoidably somewhat static.)

Dwight Langley, the painter, is the pure exponent of the evil the play is attacking; he is, in effect, the spokesman for Platonism, who explicitly preaches that beauty is unreachable in this world and perfection unattainable. Since he insists that ideals are impossible on earth, he cannot, logically enough, believe in the reality of any ideal, even when it actually confronts him. Thus, although he knows every facet of Kay Gonda's face, he (alone among the characters) does not recognize her when she appears in his life. This philosophically induced blindness, which motivates his betrayal of her, is a particularly brilliant concretization of the play's theme, and makes a dramatic Act I curtain.

In her journal of the period, Miss Rand singles out religion as the main cause of men's lack of integrity. The worst of the characters, accordingly, the one who evokes her greatest indignation, is Hix, the
evangelist, who preaches earthly suffering as a means to heavenly happiness. In an excellently worked-out scene, we see that it is not his vices, but his religion, including his definition of virtue, that brings him to demand the betrayal of Kay Gonda, her deliberate sacrifice to the lowest of creatures. By gaining a stranglehold on ethics, then preaching sacrifice as an ideal, religion, no matter what its intentions, systematically inculcates hypocrisy: it teaches men that achieving values is low (“selfish”), but that giving them up is noble. “Giving them up,” in practice, means betraying them.

“None of us,” one of the characters complains, “ever chooses the bleak, hopeless life he is forced to lead.” Yet, as the play demonstrates, all these men do choose the lives they lead. When confronted by the ideal they profess to desire, they do not want it. Their vaunted “idealism” is largely a form of self-deception, enabling them to pretend to themselves and others that they aspire to something higher. In fact and in reality, however, they don't.

Kay Gonda, by contrast, is a passionate valuer; like Irene in “The Husband I Bought,” she cannot accept anything less than the ideal. Her exalted sense of life cannot accept the ugliness, the pain, the “dismal little pleasures” that she sees all around her, and she feels a desperate need to know that she is not alone in this regard. There is no doubt that Ayn Rand herself shared Kay Gonda's sense of life, and often her loneliness, too—and that Kay's cry in the play is her own:

I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion! I want it real! I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too! Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry.

Emotionally,
Ideal
is unique among Ayn Rand's works. It is the polar opposite of “Good Copy.” “Good Copy” was based on the premise of the impotence and insignificance of evil. But
Ideal
focuses almost exclusively on evil or mediocrity (in a way that even
We the Living
does not); it is pervaded by Kay Gonda's feeling of alienation from mankind, the feeling, tinged by bitterness, that the true idealist is in a minuscule minority amid an earthful of value-betrayers with whom no communication is possible. In accordance with this perspective, the hero, Johnnie Dawes, is not a characteristic Ayn Rand figure, but a misfit utterly estranged from the world, a man whose virtue is that he does not know how to live today (and has often wanted to die). If Leo feels this in Soviet Russia, the explanation is political, not metaphysical. But Johnnie feels it in the United States.

In her other works, Ayn Rand herself gave the answer to such a “malevolent universe” viewpoint, as she called it. Dominique Francon in
The Fountainhead,
for instance, strikingly, resembles Kay and Johnnie in her idealistic alienation from the world, yet she eventually discovers how to reconcile evil with the “benevolent universe” approach. “You must learn,” Roark tells her, “not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom.” Dominique does learn it; but Kay and Johnnie do not, or at least not fully. The effect is untypical Ayn Rand: a story written
approvingly
from Dominique's initial viewpoint.

Undoubtedly, the intensity of Miss Rand's personal struggle at the time—her intellectual and professional struggle against a seemingly deaf, even hostile culture—helps to account for the play's approach. Dominique, Miss Rand has said, is “myself in a bad mood.” The same may be said of this aspect of
Ideal.

Despite its somber essence, however,
Ideal
is not entirely a malevolent story. The play does have its lighter, even humorous side, such as its
witty satire of Chuck Fink, the “selfless” radical, and of the Elmer Gantry–like Sister Essie Twomey, with her Service Station of the Spirit. The ending, moreover, however unhappy, is certainly not intended as tragedy or defeat. Johnnie's final action is
action
—that is the whole point—action to protect the ideal, as against empty words or dreams.
His
idealism, therefore, is genuine, and Kay Gonda's search ends on a positive note. In this respect, even
Ideal
may be regarded as an affirmation (albeit in an unusual form) of the benevolent universe.

Leonard Peikoff

 

CHARACTERS

BILL M
c
NITT
, screen director

CLAIRE P
EEMOLLER
, scenario writer

SOL SALZER
, associate producer

ANTHONY FARROW
, president of the Farrow Film Studios

FREDERICA SAY
ERS

MICK WATTS
, press agent

MISS
TERRENCE
, Kay Gonda's secretary

GEORGE S. PE
RKINS
, assistant manager of the Daffodil Canning Co.

MRS. PERKINS
, his wife

MR
S. SHLY
, her mother

KAY GONDA

CHU
CK FINK
, sociologist

JIMMY
, Chuck's friend

FANNY
FINK
, Chuck's wife

DWIGHT LANGLEY
, artist

EUNICE HAMMOND

CLAUDE
IGNATIUS HIX
, evangelist

SISTER
ESSIE TWOMEY
, evangelist

EZRY

C
OUNT DIETRICH VON ES
TERHAZY

LALO JANS

MR
S. MONAGHAN

JOHNNIE D
AWES

SECRETARIES
,
LAN
GLEY
'
S GUESTS
,
POLICE
MEN

Place   
Los Angeles, California

Time   
Present; from afternoon to early evening of the following day

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES

PROLOGUE
—Office of Anthony Farrow in the Farrow Film Studios

ACT I

Scene 1—Living room of George S. Perkins

Scene 2—Living room of Chuck Fink

Scene 3—Studio of Dwight Langley

ACT II

Scene 1—Temple of Claude Ignatius Hix

Scene 2—Drawing room of Dietrich von Esterhazy

Scene 3—Garret of Johnnie Dawes

Scene 4—Entrance hall in the residence of Kay Gonda

L
ate afternoon. Office of
ANTHONY
FARROW
in the Farrow Film Studios. A spacious, luxurious room in an overdone modernistic style, which looks like the dream of a second-rate interior decorator with no limit set to the bill.

Entrance door is set diagonally in the upstage Right corner. Small private door downstage in wall Right. Window in wall Left. A poster of
KAY GONDA
, on wall Center; she stands erect, full figure, her arms at her sides, palms up, a strange woman, tall, very slender, very pale; her whole body is stretched up in such a line of reverent, desperate aspiration that the poster gives a strange air to the room, an air that does not belong in it. The words “KAY GONDA IN
FORBIDDEN ECSTASY
” stand out on the poster.

The curtain rises to disclose
CLAI
RE PEEMOLLER
,
SOL SAL
ZER
, and
BILL M
c
NITT
.
SALZ
ER
, forty, short, stocky, stands with his back to the room, looking hopelessly out of the window, his fingers beating nervously, monotonously, against the glass pane.
CLAIRE PEEMOLLER
, in her early forties, tall, slender, with a sleek masculine haircut and an exotically tailored outfit, reclines in her chair, smoking a cigarette in a lengthy holder.
M
c
NITT
,
who looks like a brute of a man and acts it, lies rather than sits in a deep armchair, his legs stretched out, picking his teeth with a match. No one moves. No one speaks. No one looks at the others. The silence is tense, anxious, broken only by the sound of
SALZER
's fingers on the glass.

M
c
NITT
: [
Exploding suddenly
] Stop it, for Christ's sake!

[
SALZER
turns slowly to look at him and turns away again, but stops the beating. Silence
]

CLAIRE
: [
Shrugging
] Well? [
No one answers
] Hasn't anyone here a suggestion to offer?

SALZER
: [
Wearily
] Aw, shut up!

CLAIRE
: I see absolutely no sense in behaving like this. We can talk about something
else,
can't we?

M
c
NITT
: Well, talk about something else.

CLAIRE
: [
With unconvincing lightness
] I saw the rushes of
Love
Nest
yesterday. It's a smash,
but
a smash! You should see Eric in that scene where he kills the old man and . . . [
A sudden jerk from the others. She stops short
] Oh, I see. I beg your pardon. [
Silence. She resumes uneasily
] Well, I'll tell you about my new car. The gorgeous thing is so chic! It's simply dripping,
but
dripping with chromium! I was doing eighty yesterday and not a bump! They say this new Sayers Gas is . . . [
There is a stunned, involuntary gasp from the others. She looks at two tense faces
] Well, what on earth is the matter?

SALZER
: Listen, Peemoller, for God's sake, Peemoller, don't mention it!

CLAIRE
: What?

M
c
NITT
: The name!

CLAIRE
: What name?

SALZER
:
Sayers,
for God's sake!

CLAIRE
: Oh! [
Shrugs with resignation
] I'm sorry.

[
Silence.
MCNITT
breaks the match in his teeth, spits it out, produces a match folder, tears off another match, and continues with his dental work. A man's voice is heard in the next room. They all whirl toward the entrance door
]

SALZER
: [
Eagerly
] There's Tony! He'll tell us! He must know something!

[
ANTHONY FARROW
opens the door, but turns to speak to someone offstage before entering. He is tall, stately, middle-aged, handsomely tailored and offensively distinguished
]

FARROW
: [
Speaking into the next room
] Try Santa Barbara again. Don't hang up until you get her personally. [
Enters, closing the door. The three look at him anxiously, expectantly
] My friends, has any of you seen Kay Gonda today? [
A great sigh, a moan of disappointment, rises from the others
]

SALZER
: Well, that's that. You, too. And I thought you knew something!

FARROW
: Discipline, my friends. Let us keep our heads. The Farrow Studios expect each man to do his duty.

SALZER
: Skip it, Tony! What's the latest?

CLAIRE
: It's preposterous!
But
preposterous!

M
c
NITT
: I've always expected something like this from Gonda!

FARROW
: No panic, please. There is no occasion for panic. I have called you here in order to formulate our policy in this emergency, coolly and calmly and . . . [
The interoffice communicator on his desk buzzes sharply. He leaps forward, his great calm forgotten, clicks the
switch, speaks anxiously
] Yes? . . . You did? Santa Barbara? . . . Give it to me! . . .
What?!
Miss Sayers won't speak to
me
?! . . . She
can't
be out—it's an evasion! Did you tell them it was Anthony Farrow? Of the Farrow Films? . . . Are you sure you made it clear?
President
of the Farrow Films? . . . [
His voice falling dejectedly
] I see. . . . When did Miss Sayers leave? . . . It's an evasion. Try again in half an hour. . . . And try again to get the chief of police.

SALZER
: [
Desperately
] That I could have told you! The Sayers dame won't talk. If the papers could get nothing out of her—we can't!

FARROW
: Let us be systematic. We cannot face a crisis without a system. Let us have discipline, calm. Am I understood? . . . [
Breaks in two a pencil he has been playing with nervously
]
Calm!

SALZER
: Calm he wants at a time like this!

FARROW
: Let us . . . [
The intercom buzzes. He leaps to it
] Yes? . . . Fine! Put him on! . . . [
Very jovially
] Hel-lo, Chief! How are you? I . . . [
Sharply
] What do you mean you have nothing to say? This is
Anthony Farrow
speaking! . . . Well, it usually
does
make a difference. Hell . . . I mean, Chief, there's only one question I have to ask you, and I think I'm entitled to an answer. Have there or have there not been any charges filed in Santa Barbara? [
Through his teeth
] Very well. . . . Thank you. [
Switches off, trying to control himself
]

SALZER
: [
Anxiously
] Well?

FARROW
: [
Hopelessly
] He won't talk. No one will talk. [
Turns to the intercom again
] Miss Drake? . . . Have you tried Miss Gonda's home once more? . . . Have you tried all her friends? . . . I know she hasn't any, but try them anyway! [
Is about to switch off, then adds
] And get Mick Watts, if you can find the bast—if you can find him. If anyone knows,
he
knows!

M
c
NITT
: That one won't talk, either.

FARROW
: And that is precisely the thing for us to do. Silence. Am I
understood?
Silence.
Do not answer any questions on the lot or outside. Avoid all references to this morning's papers.

SALZER
:
Us
the papers should avoid!

F
ARROW
: They haven't said much so far. It's only rumors. Idle gossip.

CLAIRE
: But it's all over town! Hints, whispers, questions. If I could see any point in it, I'd say someone was spreading it intentionally.

FARROW
: Personally, I do not believe the story for a minute. However, I want all the information you can give me. I take it that none of you has seen Miss Gonda since yesterday?

[
The others shrug hopelessly, shaking their heads
]

SALZER
: If the papers couldn't find her—we can't.

FARROW
: Had she mentioned to any of you that she was going to have dinner with Granton Sayers last night?

CLAIRE
: When has she ever told anyone anything?

FARROW
: Did you notice anything suspicious in her behavior when you saw her last?

CL
AIRE
: I . . .

M
c
NITT
: I should say I did! I thought at the time it was damn funny. Yesterday morning, it was. I drove up to her beach home and there she was, out at sea, tearing through the rocks in a motorboat till I thought I'd have heart failure watching it.

SALZER
: My God! That's against our contracts!

M
c
NITT
: What? My having heart failure?

SALZER
: To hell with you! Gonda driving her motorboat!

M
c
NITT
: Try and stop her! So she climbs up to the road, finally, wet all over. “You'll get killed someday,” I say to her, and she looks straight at me and she says, “That won't make any difference to me,” she says, “nor to anyone else anywhere.”

FARROW
: She said that?

M
c
NITT
: She did. “Listen,” I said, “I don't give a damn if you break your neck, but you'll get pneumonia in the middle of my next picture!” She looks at me in that damnable way of hers and she says, “Maybe there won't be any next picture.” And she walks straight back to the house and her damn flunky wouldn't let me in!

FARROW
: She actually said that? Yesterday?

M
c
NITT
: She did—damn the slut! I never wanted to direct her, anyway. I . . .

[
Intercom buzzes
]

FARROW
: [
Clicking the switch
] Yes? . . .
Who?
Who is Goldstein and Goldstein? . . . [
Exploding
] Tell them to go to hell! . . . Wait! Tell them Miss Gonda does
not
need any attorneys! Tell them you don't know what on earth made them think she did! [
Switches off furiously
]

SALZER
: God! I wish we'd never signed her! A headache we should have ever since she came on the lot!

FARROW
: Sol! You're forgetting yourself! After all! Our greatest star!

SALZER
: Where did we find her? In the gutter we found her! In the gutter in Vienna! What do we get for our pains? Gratitude we get?

CLAIRE
: Down-to-earthiness, that's what she lacks. You know. No finer feelings.
But
none! No sense of human brotherhood. Honestly, I don't understand what they all see in her, anyway!

SALZER
: Five million bucks net per each picture—that's what
I
see!

CLAIRE
: I don't know why she draws them like that. She's completely heartless. I went down to her house yesterday afternoon—to discuss her next script. And what's the use? She wouldn't let me put in a baby or a dog, as I wanted to. Dogs have such human appeal. You know, we're all brothers under the skin, and . . .

SAL
ZER
: Peemoller's right. She's got something there.

CLAIRE
: And furthermore . . . [
Stops suddenly
] Wait! That's funny! I haven't thought of this before. She did mention the dinner.

FARROW
: [
Eagerly
] What did she say?

CLAIRE
: She got up and left me flat, saying she had to dress. “I'm going to Santa Barbara tonight,” she said. Then she added, “I do not like missions of charity.”

SALZER
: My God, what did she mean by that?

CLAIRE
: What does she mean by anything? So then I just couldn't resist it,
but
couldn't! I said, “Miss Gonda, do you really think you're so much better than everybody else?” And what did she have the nerve to answer? “Yes,” she said, “I do. I wish I didn't have to.”

FARROW
: Why didn't you tell me this sooner?

C
LAIRE
: I had forgotten. I really didn't know there was anything between Gonda and Granton Sayers.

M
c
NITT
: An old story. I thought she was through with him long ago.

CLAIRE
: What did
he
want with her?

FARROW
: Well, Granton Sayers—you know Granton Sayers. A reckless fool. Fifty million dollars, three years ago. Today—who knows? Perhaps, fifty thousand. Perhaps, fifty cents. But cut-crystal swimming pools and Greek temples in his garden, and . . .

CLAIRE
: And Kay Gonda.

FARRO
W
: Ah, yes, and Kay Gonda. An expensive little plaything or artwork, depending on how you want to look at it. Kay Gonda, that is, two years ago. Not today. I know that she had not seen Sayers for over a year, previous to that dinner in Santa Barbara last night.

CLAIRE
: Had there been any quarrel between them?