Memo from David O. Selznick
To: Mr. B. P. Schulberg (General Manager, Paramount)
October 8, 1930

I have just finished reading the Eisenstein adaptation 
of [Theodore Dreiser's novel] An American Tragedy. It 
was for me a memorable experience; the most moving script 
I have ever read. It was so effective, it was positively 
torturing. When I had finished reading it, I was so 
depressed that I wanted to reach for the bourbon bottle. 
As entertainment, I don't think it has one chance in a 
hundred.

... Is it too late to persuade the enthusiasts of the 
picture from making it? Even if the dialogue rights have 
been purchased, even if Dreiser's services have been 
arranged for, I think it an unexcusable gamble on the 
part of this department to put into a subject as 
depressing as this one, anything like the cost that an 
Eisenstein production must necessarily entail.

If we want to make An American Tragedy as a glorious
experiment, and purely for the advancement of the art 
(which I certainly do not think is the business of this 
organization), then let's do it with a [John] Cromwell 
directing, and chop three or four hundred thousand 
dollars off the loss. If the cry of "Courage!" be raised 
against this protest, I should like to suggest that we 
have the courage not to make the picture, but to take 
whatever rap is coming to us for not supporting 
Eisenstein the artist (as he proves himself to be with 
this script), with a million or more of the 
stockholders' cash.

Let's try new things, by all means. But let's keep these 
gambles within the bounds of those that would be indulged 
by rational businessmen; and let's not put more money than
we have into any one picture for years into a subject that 
will appeal to our vanity through the critical acclaim that 
must necessarily attach to its production, but that cannot 
possibly offer anything but a most miserable two hours to 
millions of happy-minded young Americans.

David O. Selznick


An American Tragedy
REEL 1

1.
Darkness. 
 
The low inspired voice of a woman is heard rising and 
falling in the singsong of a chanted sermon. Gradually there 
mingles with the voice the sounds of the city and the noises 
of the street. The siren of an ambulance -- the anxious 
ringing of a streetcar. The characteristic cries of newsboys. 
The tooting of automobiles. Gruff music through radio horns. 
With the ever-increasing sound of the various noises, views 
of the city flash upon the screen. Views that express a 
well-defined contrast. The infinite contrast between the 
chant of the sermon and the life of the city. 

And the woman's voice continues, exalted, speaking of the 
harm of drink, of the horror of sin and of the love of Jesus 
Christ. A small thin chorus follows the voice of the woman 
as she starts singing the 27th hymn:

	"How sweet is the love of Jesus."
 
As yet we see neither the woman whose voice is heard, nor 
those who sing with her.
 

2.
Of the many indifferent passers-by, there are one or two who 
listen to the sound of the song.... Persons slow their walk 
and look in the direction of the hymn.
 

3. 
A group of curiosity seekers gathered at the corner of a 
narrow street, they are busy watching.
 
 
4. 
The crowd watches pityingly. Various of its members speak of 
them in varying ways. Some mock them -- "You'd think they 
could find a better racket than this."  Others pity them...  
Yet others patronise them ....
 
 
5.
Finally -- the street missionaries. An old man with thick 
grey hair; a woman large, heavily built; and their children, 
two little girls and a boy of about seven -- CLYDE GRIFFITHS. 
It is they who are singing the psalms.
 

6.
One woman wishes to know why they drag their children along 
with them. And a second woman clinches the comment by adding: 
"Better for them to be sent to school." The children, 
uninterested, listless, devoid of enthusiasm, their eyes 
astray, sing their hymns of praise while their parents try 
to gather alms from the little group of curiosity seekers. 
No alms are given.


7. 
The bystanders disperse, and the missionaries, folding up 
their music, pick up their small organ and move away into 
the cavernous darkness of the towering narrow street.
 

8.
Seven-year-old Clyde -- sensitive and ashamed of his 
surroundings -- looks no one directly in the eyes.
 

9.
The family of missionaries moves slowly down the street. "I 
think they were kinder today," says the mother.
 

10.
They approach a dingy low-built odd-fashioned building, 
over the door of which hangs a sign Bethel Independent 
Mission. The rest of the family disappears within the small
doors of this building and only Clyde remains on the 
threshold. He hangs back because street urchins are making 
fun of him and his family -- because he irks to answer them 
and pay them out for their mockery. But no words come to 
him, and with a typical movement he shrinks into himself.
 

11.
In sorrow, and hurt by the insults, he turns from the 
laughing children and runs across a dark and dirty courtyard 
towards an old, steep iron fire staircase at the back of the 
mission; like some small hunted animal he runs up the 
staircase to a platform. 

By the platform, crouched on the steps, is his sister, 
seated there motionless.
 

12.
Esta, his elder sister, who played the harmonium on the 
street corner, is crouched on the steps; she peers through a 
stone gap between the houses onto the street, alive, bathed 
in light. Clyde sits down beside her as though hypnotised; 
as though enchanted, the children stare at this tiny piece 
of noisy life, listen rapt to the sound of an odd waltz, 
the strains of which float up from an unseen restaurant. 
They look, listen and dream.
 
					FADE OUT
 

13.
And again in the darkness the same feminine voice rising and 
falling in the cadences of a singsong sermon. Now Clyde's 
mother is speaking of the Life of Man -- the child that 
becomes a youth -- and the years that pass and the youth 
that becomes a man; and again the darkness dissolves and we 
see the favourite nook of the children, but now in their 
places are sitting a youth and a young girl. Clyde is now 
about sixteen or seventeen years old, and the girl a year 
or so older, but the impression remains enchanted as before. 
There are more lights on the street, its noises are louder, 
its movement more bustling. From the restaurant we now hear 
the quick lively tune of a foxtrot, but the expression on 
the youth's face has remained the same and there is the same 
weary sadness in the eyes of the girl....
 

14.
In the restaurant is being played the well-known dance the 
chorus of which is formed from the hackneyed repetition of a 
cry of Hallelujah, and from below, in the mission building, 
rise, interrupting the woman's sermon, the same cries but 
with another intonation and another feeling -- Hallelujah. 
And as the same yet different cries of Hallelujah clash, 
the tremendous contrast forms a discordant dissonance that 
rouses Esta and the boy Clyde, who start at its sound. They 
descend the iron stairs.
 

15.
Opening the yard door into the mission, they pause just 
within it.... The mother has finished her sermon and, with 
sincere exaltation and faith, bids her listeners sing the 
last psalm:
 
	"If ye have faith -- as a grain of mustard seed, 
	Ye shall say unto this mountain; Remove
 	hence to yonder place; and it shall move; 
	And nothing shall be impossible unto you." 

Finished, she asks her followers to sing the chorus.
 

16.
Clyde is miserable. He wishes to leave. His sister presses 
his hand and, though equally unhappy, she nevertheless goes 
docilely towards the harmonium. The congregation gets ready 
to sing.... They clear their throats -- (cough!) .... They 
blow their noses and shuffle their feet.
 
Clyde, hatred in his eyes, turns his head from the spectacle, 
and goes into his own room, slamming the door behind him. 
His mother looks up in concerned surprise.
 

17.
Inharmoniously and out of tune the congregation begins to
sing.
 
 
18.
Clyde sits down on the bed, hiding his face in his hands.
 

19. 
The mother sings with deep faith and religious feeling.  
Sleepily, droningly sings the father .... The congregation 
sings hoarsely and out of tune.
 

20.
Clyde jumps off his bed, grabs his hat, brushes the dust off 
it with his sleeve, and leaves the room with decision.... 
With firm steps he walks past the crowd of singers, and his 
anxious mother, continuing to sing, follows him with 
surprised eyes. Esta at the harmonium is likewise startled 
by his behaviour. Clyde goes out into the street and moves, 
firmly resolved, in the direction of Life -- in the 
direction of light and movement; and the further away he 
gets from the mission the less clearly does he hear the 
discordant tune, and the stronger grows the sound of the 
street and the brighter grow its lights.
 

21.
He passes the show windows of a sports-goods store.... The 
windows, and glass showcases set out into the street, crowded 
by dummy figures of the well-dressed in white bathing suits, 
tennis dresses, white golf suits -- brandishing all manner 
of sports weapons. Clyde drifts amid the maze of these white 
society dummies.

 
22. 
He passes a drug store, where, amidst dazzling shine of 
metal and white porcelain, the soda fountain is being 
manipulated by a youth of his own age clad in white cap, 
tunic and apron. Clyde stops, as a group of young girls, 
laughing and joking, take all the seats at the counter. The 
youth jokes with them as he mixes his syrups and creams like 
a circus magician, flipping his glasses and spoons like a 
juggler. Clyde sees that one of the places at the counter is 
empty. The young girls smile enticingly, but the fewness of 
the copper coins he has extracted from his pocket make him 
turn and go in the opposite direction. 

Now he passes close to a gasoline station, where boys of his 
own age, in white dungarees, are cleaning the windshields of 
magnificent cars, filling the radiators with water and 
pouring gasoline into the tanks.
 

23.
His path lies past the bright entrance of a cinema. Boys of 
his own age in ushers' uniforms of white, trimmed with gold, 
like those of lion tamers, stand there seeming to him more 
magnificent and splendid than generals in uniform. Past all 
these boys, so beautifully groomed, so proud and self-
assured, slinks Clyde in his little darned old suit, his 
haircut as of a day long past, his manner as of a crushed, 
maimed soul.
 

24.
Suddenly the sad weariness leaves his bearing, and alert 
attention enters his expression.... At first a little 
cautious, then musingly uncertain, then resolute, he looks 
at a sign glued to the glass pane of the door of a store. 
The sign reads Boy Wanted. Clyde is undecided but at last 
he takes hold of the doorknob to turn it. The door is 
locked, and now Clyde sees a postscript on the sign Apply 
before 6 p.m. He looks around him and sees on the clock of 
the city hall -- 10.


25.
Out of the mission, straggling, the last remnants of the 
congregation are making their way onto the street. Clyde 
enters the building, he passes through the hall, there is no 
one at the harmonium, the harmonium seat is empty, the mother 
is talking to a miserable group of persons about to leave.
 

26. 
The deserted harmonium.
 
 
27.
The father preparing dinner.
 
 
28.
The deserted harmonium.
 
 
29.
Clyde enters his room. Approaching the chest of drawers he 
takes out his money box and jingles it next his ear. It is 
of papier mâché, a worn child's money box in the form of a 
pig; it contains only a few pennies. Now he takes out of his 
pocket the money that was insufficient to buy him a soda and 
thrusts it, coin by coin, into the slot. As he restores the 
money box to the chest, he catches sight of himself in a 
mirror, approaches it and scrutinises his reflection.
 

30.
From under the bed he pulls out an old album with a 
collection of illustrated newspaper clippings on which are 
represented heroes of the world of sport -- of fashion -- 
dancers -- entertainments in which girls and boys of his 
own age participate. He looks back into the mirror and 
compares himself with the pictures.
 

31. 
The mother, a coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the other, 
approaches his door offering him his dinner.
 

32.
Clyde starts at her voice, hides the pictures, and, having 
learnt the object of her knock, refuses his dinner. When the 
steps of his mother have died away, and the squeak of the 
closing kitchen door has reached him, Clyde proceeds with 
his strange occupation. He combs his unruly hair, pours on 
it some oil out of a bottle, and then parts it like that of 
one of the boys in the pictures. He ties his tie into a bow, 
and, tearing a little piece of material from the curtain, 
tucks it into his breast pocket. When he now surveys himself 
again in the mirror, he smiles in satisfaction at the 
marvellous change in his appearance. 

At this moment comes an anxious knock at the door. 

Clyde neither starts nor shrinks in the manner customary to 
him. With firm step he goes to the door and he asks what is 
the matter without hesitation. From behind the door in a 
voice uneasy and trembling, unusual to her, his mother asks 
him to let her in. Clyde half-opens the door, and his mother 
looks into the room over his arm, asking him whether he has 
seen Esta. Clyde is surprised at her question and her manner.

"We can't find her," says his mother.

At that moment enters the father, and, as though confirming 
the words of his wife, says that he has hunted through all 
the places outside, where she usually goes and he can't 
think where she can have got to.
 

33.
The deserted harmonium.
 
 
34.
Clyde dashes into the little room of his sister.... Her 
things are in disorder. The signs of a hasty packing.
 
 
35.
The parents are speaking of asking help from the police.
 

36.
From out of the bed in the room next door peep the 
frightened younger children.
 

37. 
On the pillow of his sister's bed is pinned a small note. 
Clyde finds it. Before he has time to unfold it, his mother 
stretches out her hand for it. Having read it, she pales and 
says:

"She's run away with someone. I thought she was happy here, 
but evidently I was wrong." 

Only now does the mother notice the change in her son. Only 
now does she notice his changed way of dressing his hair, 
his tie, and his grown-up appearance. And Clyde suddenly, in 
an unfamiliar voice, speaks. An outburst full of bitterness. 
He speaks of the futility of his existence. He says he 
wishes to work, but he doesn't know how to do anything 
because he hasn't been taught anything. He says his parents 
have done nothing for him, not even written to his Uncle 
Samuel who has a big collar factory and might have taught 
him to work. They haven't even done that. He raises his 
voice and says that he won't go on living like this, that 
he wants to work and he will work.
 
 
38.
While he is engaged in this outburst the younger children 
creep out of bed and approach their mother. She drops 
wearily into an armchair. Clyde stops suddenly and runs out 
of the room. The mother is quiet under the blow of these 
unexpected events. She notices the children, puts her heavy 
arms around them, and tells them what they should say if 
anyone should ask where Esta is. She has left to visit 
relatives in Tonawanda. This will not be quite true but we 
may say it because we ourselves do not know the whole 
truth. Go pray to the Lord and go to sleep.
 
 
39.
And in the yard, on the platform of the fire escape, 
trembling with emotion at the scene he has just gone through, 
Clyde -- now alone-- stands gazing out over the town, the 
mysterious town that has swallowed up his sister, where one 
by one the lights twinkle and go out.
 
 
REEL 2

 
1. 
Dawn creeps up over the city.
 

2.
And already Clyde stands, in the pale light of the dawn, in 
front of the store with the notice Boy Wanted. 

The store is not yet open.
 
Clyde waits and waits, until life begins slowly to waken on 
the street.
 
At last the door of the store is opened from within, and a 
youth appears, wearing spectacles and clad in a white smock.
 
Clyde asks him: "Is this where the boy's wanted?" 

The youth shakes his head and grins. Clyde, disappointed, 
points to the notice. The youth laughs, takes it down from 
the glass doorpane and explains that he's the boy that was 
wanted; he got taken on yesterday. The fortunate youth 
withdraws into the store closing the door behind him and 
Clyde, discouraged, sits listlessly down upon the steps.
 
An angry-looking individual opens the door and comes out:
 
"What do you want?" 

-- he asks of Clyde. Clyde explains again that he wants 
work. Crossly, the man replies that he has nothing for him. 
Taking a second glance at the boy, he notices his good looks 
and offers him a hint: "You look a smart lad. Why not try 
the hotel round the block?" 

He gives Clyde the name -- Squires -- of the staff manager, 
but warns him not to say who sent him, and as Clyde, his 
spirits soaring, moves away, the storekeeper calls out:
 
"But don't give them my name."


3.
Clyde stops at the corner to write down the name Squires. As 
he does so we see that he makes orthographical mistakes 
indicating the imperfection of his education.
 

4. 
Across a yard into which the hotel garbage is being thrown 
and where coal is being unladen for the heating of the 
building -- through the door where dirty linen is being 
checked into a van and by sculleries where dishes are 
being washed, Clyde passes into the office of Mr. Squires.
 

5. 
"We need good-looking boys," says Mr. Squires to a redheaded 
youth with freckles all over his face standing before his 
desk.

"Sorry," says the boy. 

"Next." From Mr. Squires.

Clyde, entering the private office, plunges into the midst 
of telephone calls, the signing of cheques and forms. Mr. 
Squires' every attention is wrapped up in calls and errand 
boys. He looks up at Clyde standing there and sees in a 
glance all he desires to know about him. He tells him 
rapidly the conditions of work, calls a boy and sends Clyde 
with him to be fitted for his uniform.
 
 
6.
As Clyde takes off his shoes with their patched soles, he is 
ashamed of them and of his darned socks ashamed of his 
soiled and mended underwear as they take his measurements. 
The youth who is his guide looks superciliously at him, and 
keeps his eyes fixed upon him, which tends only to increase 
Clyde's embarrassment.
 
The name of the boy is Ratterer.
 
"You gotta be back ready to start at a quarter to eight this 
evening," says the boy.
 
					FADE OUT

 
7. 

FADE IN
 
Clyde's hand is seen grasping the papier mâché money box and 
breaking it against the window sill -- the fragments tumble, 
and the hand picks up the coins from among the fragments.


8.   
Active hands, busy hands cleaning all manner of people in 
all manner of ways. Hands stropping, shaving the razor blade 
down a soap-buried cheek, trimming the hair with great snips 
of the scissors -- hands busy polishing boots with a boot 
brush, and the great hand of the city clock pointing to 7:35.

 
9.
The basements where the hotel boys get dressed, little 
elbowroom and plenty of noise. Boys are busily slicking 
their hair down -- scenting themselves with a dash of 
eau-de-Cologne -- giving an extra shine to their shoes -- 
tilting their caps at an angle, just so -- and smoking 
cigarette after cigarette. In a corner sits Clyde, uneasy 
and bashful. He is washed, his hair is cut, he is spick and 
span in his new uniform. He is terribly anxious, as a 
schoolboy before an examination -- as a soldier going into 
battle. Ratterer enters towards him, looks him over 
authoritatively with the air of a superior being -- fixes 
Clyde's tie, pulls at his uniform -- fixes his cap at the 
right slant over his eyebrow and then starts to give him 
instructions. Having adjusted Clyde's clothes, 
unconsciously noticing him as clean and neat, Ratterer 
becomes friendly. He sits there at his ease, his knees 
crossed, flicking the ash off his cigarette with a finger of 
the hand that holds it. Clyde sits on the very edge of the 
bench, his knees apart, striving to control his anxiety. 

Ratterer begins:
 
"In the morning the blinds have to be pulled up -- at night 
they have to be let down -- at sundown switch on the small 
light and always put fresh water in the closet."

 
10. 
As Ratterer speaks we see on the screen the mechanical 
routine of an hotel boy's duties. 

A day-boy pulling up the blinds. 

A night-boy letting down the blinds.
 
Ratterer continues: that when the room is ready one can stay 
by the door a few moments before leaving, and if this 
procedure results in a tip it must be gratefully 
acknowledged --

and if it doesn't one must show no trace of disappointment 
and bow oneself out.

And as he continues we continue to see the illustrations of 
the routine.
 
And Ratterer continues: that no matter what happens, the 
guest is always right, and he adds that, in a good day, if 
all goes well, Clyde may possibly make as much as six or 
seven dollars in tips.
 

11.
Six or seven dollars! Clyde is speechless with joy.
 

12.
The signal bell, and Clyde stands in single file with the 
other boys ready for duty .... A second bell and the boys go 
through a small door, through which as it opens is heard 
penetrating a buzz of voices and the distant music of the 
hotel orchestra. The army of boys approaches large gilt 
doors and, as these are flung back, Clyde is plunged into 
the maelstrom and dazzle of a gorgeous gilt and mirror hall 
decorated for a ball.
 

13.
Immediately by the doors whence he has emerged is a 
cloakroom. Piles of rich furs heap upon the counter. A woman 
beside him flings back her mantle and emerges from it, white 
and naked by contrast. The silks, the exquisite dresses, the 
precious stones and elegance bewilder and increase the 
anxiety of Clyde.
 

14. 
On the highly polished floor of the vestibule of this hall 
stands the file of boys ready for orders.
 

15. 
To Clyde, these are not boys on duty but almost the Guards 
at the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He feels 
that this is a parade, at which he will be promoted general 
at least.
 

16.
The parade is finished, groups of the boys disperse in their 
several directions, Clyde is in a group that sits down on a 
long bench waiting for calls.
 

17.
Barely have they sat down when a bell rings -- from out of a 
small window an order is given, and the first boy in the 
line runs off to fulfil it.
 
 
18.
Bell after bell, order after order, boy after boy -- the 
long line of boys keeps moving up as those at the head move 
up, returning to sit at the tail when their tasks are 
completed. As, little by little, Clyde sees himself  
approaching the head of the bench his anxiety grows stronger 
and stronger. His movements are more nervous and there is a 
bewildered expression in his eyes.
 
 
19.
And on the background of the accompaniment -- of bells of 
orders being cried out -- of the music from the restaurant 
and the laughter of the guests -- occasional fragments of 
Ratterer's continued instructions continue to penetrate to 
us: "You gotta use the employees' elevator" -- "Even numbers 
are on the left of the corridor, odd numbers on the right."
 

20.
And Clyde approaches nearer and ever nearer to the end of 
the bench -- and the bells ring ever more frequently and the 
tempo of everyone's movements hastens and speeds. It is his 
turn now. He trembles in his anxiety like a race horse at 
the "Off". A bell. An order rings out: "Number 500" -- Clyde 
dashes up the short flight of steps to the gates of the 
elevators on the Bel-étage.
 

21.
The employees' elevator is full.
 
 
22.
At the last moment he squeezes into a neighbouring elevator. 
The doors shut to, deadening the sound of the orchestra, the 
laughter and noises of the great hall.
 

23. 
The elevator is packed with men in evening dress. Clyde is 
wedged into the midst of satin lapels and stiff white cuffs. 
The elevator goes up and up, leaving behind it the sound of 
the ever receding music. The glitter of the evening dress 
suits and the polish of the men only increase the anxiety of 
Clyde. The elevator stops. Clyde squeezes aside to let 
someone in and then darts out himself.
 

24.
The doors of the elevator swing to behind him, and Clyde is 
left, solitary, in the carpeted silence of a long empty 
corridor. At first he runs quickly, but then more slowly for 
it seems sacrilege to run on the soft sinking pile of this 
carpet.
 

25.
He stops before the big double doors of No. 500, brushes his 
hands over his hair, gives a twist to his tie, to his cuffs, 
and knocks.

"Come in," is heard from behind the door.
 

26.
Clyde opens the door. It is dark in the room; only one light 
shines from behind a screen. A man's hand with money in it 
reaches out from behind the screen and a masculine voice is 
heard telling him to go buy a pair of garters.

"Pink ones," adds suddenly a woman's voice from behind the 
screen.

"Yes, sir," stammers Clyde in his confusion and runs down 
the corridor towards the elevator.

27. 
A Negro boy is in it, guiding the elevator, and together 
they start going down. "New?" enquires the Negro. "You'll 
soon get used to it," and, learning his errand gives him 
directions for finding the hotel shops.
 

28.
The doors of the elevator slide open, Clyde rushes out. The 
doors close behind him.
 
 
29.
Clyde is in the shop. The woman behind the counter is 
finishing wrapping the garters and hands Clyde, together 
with the package, a bill and a ten-cent tip. Noticing his 
pleased surprise she tells him that every time he buys 
anything there he will receive 10 per cent commission.
 

30.
Clyde rushes out of the shop. He is lost in the series of 
great halls. Through Morocco -- through Venice -- through 
rooms in Empire and in Gothic style, through samples of all 
the world he hurries frantically. At last he is back in the 
main entrance hall, filled with guests in their gorgeous 
dresses.  He threads his way through the great crowds, and 
once again at the last moment manages to squeeze into the 
elevator.
 

31. 
The elevator is crowded with ladies. Amidst the expensive 
dresses and perfumes and the nudity of the bared backs 
stands the trembling Clyde, his excitement having passed all 
bounds.
 

32. 
A bell. Clyde dives through the bevy of ladies and stops 
before No. 500. The door opens, and in front of the 
decorated screen stands a man in radiantly glittering 
dressing gown. Clyde bends and obsequiously hands him the 
package, the bill and the change. The man absent-mindedly 
takes the package, puts the change into his pocket, and 
screws up and throws away the bill--then he looks at the 
garters and then at Clyde. Exactly as instructed, Clyde 
stands in the same place, shifting from foot to foot. The 
man throws open his dressing gown with a gesture, takes a 
fifty-cent piece out of his vest pocket and gives it to 
Clyde. Clyde cannot believe it. He is numb with 
astonishment. To look at the garters the man turns on the 
light, and with the click of the switch the room suffuses 
with brilliance, as the glow of happiness suffuses Clyde's 
face. 

"Fifty cents." 

An unknown voice is heard screaming it and a smile almost 
of exaltation brightens the whole face of Clyde. 

"Fifty cents." 

Still louder screams the strange voice, and together with 
the cry the orchestra is heard playing a wild, happy march. 
As though at High Mass the music peals forth, and the hotel 
resembles a mighty cathedral. Like an organ swells forth the 
huge proud volume of music and a tremendous chorus of human 
voices rends the air asunder behind the whole small being of 
the youthful Clyde, clasping in his fists his fifty-cent 
piece.
 

33.
And as the screen fades and grows darker, so the mighty 
notes of the music grow fainter and their sound slowly 
fades --
 
 
34. 
And there rises the image of the poor mission hall and the 
sound of its congregations singing psalms.
 

35.
Clyde runs through the mission hall into his room, closing 
the door behind him.
 

36.
He goes to pick up his money box but it is there no longer. 
Only the fragments of it are upon the sill. Then he 
unclenches his fist and in the palm of his hand are to be 
seen silver coins to the amount of several dollars.

And with the same gesture as that with which the man had 
thrown back his dressing gown and given Clyde his first tip, 
Clyde now throws back his coat and thrusts the money into 
his vest pocket. Then, slapping his pocket with his hand he 
looks at himself in the mirror and smiles his first smile. 
And together with this first smile are heard from behind the 
door the strains of a joyous song such as "Everybody's 
happy."
 

REEL 3
 

1.
It is a morning, and boys are filing through the office of 
Mr. Squires. Mr. Squires sits at his desk and each as he 
passes lays a dollar on the table, to be greeted sometimes 
by a nod. Mr. Squires appears casual, but we can see from 
his glance that he is watching carefully to make sure of his 
tribute. The little dollar pile grows and Clyde adds his 
quota. 

"Quite at home now, eh!" 

-- greets Squires as he pockets the money. 

"Yes, sir," replies Clyde and goes.
 

2.
Clyde goes into the dressing room, smokes a cigarette, and 
in a carefree knowing way, dons his hotel uniform. With a 
practised hand he smooths his hair, flips the ashes off his 
cigarette, ties his tie and laughs at the cracks of his 
colleagues, among whom is Ratterer.
 
A bell is heard, and the boys get into line.
 

3.
As on the first day, they all go into the hall, but the hall 
now no longer seems as grand to Clyde. A morning, 
businesslike atmosphere pervades it -- emptiness -- severity.

The tempo of the successive bell-ringings is no longer 
frenzied, but slower, deliberate. And as bell follows bell, 
there passes before us, in glimpse after glimpse, the 
fragments of life as they pass before a bellhop, the moral 
face that society presents to him. The boys seated on the 
bench are quietly yawning and bored.
 

4. 
A bell.
 
Clyde jumps up and runs to the office.
 
A happy and bright couple of newlyweds ask for a room. The 
clerk tells them the number, and gives Clyde the keys. Clyde 
takes their luggage and leads them to the elevator.
 

5. 
In the room, obedient to Ratterer's instructions, Clyde goes 
through all the necessary operations. He opens the blinds in 
the windows, checks the electric bulbs, sees if there is ink 
in the inkpot, water in the pitcher, and goes into the 
bathroom. 

Left alone, the couple kiss.

Obeying Ratterer's instructions, Clyde changes the water in 
the carafe.
 
At the sound of the running water, the newlyweds start and 
look guiltily at Clyde, standing in the doorway. 

He smiles back in answer to their smile.
 

6.
A bell.
 
A second boy on duty jumps up.
 
He carefully knocks on the door of another room. "Come in," 
a voice is heard to call out. The boy enters. He is carrying 
a large bundle of newspapers

Once in the room he sees through the half-open door into the 
bathroom. In the bath, her back to him, sits a woman combing 
out her wet hair. 

"It's our wedding day today," says the woman. 

Her husband grunts unintelligibly in answer, and starts 
picking out the papers he wants from the boy. 

The woman, seeing a youth, gives a scream. The man laughs at 
her fright and hides himself behind the paper with the 
callous expression a one who thinks such modesty from her 
unnecessary at her age.
 

7 
A third bell.
 
A third boy on duty jumps up.
 
With a tray on which are bottles of soda water he enters the 
room. Within it, all is in dreadful disorder. A gramophone 
-- empty bottles -- cards -- and from behind the back of an 
armchair can be seen the feet of a sleeping man. A woman is 
lying in bed and abusing a second man who is pouring a drink 
for himself out of a hip-flask. The woman, having said what 
she wanted to, turns her back on him.
 
"Behave yourself," the man says, as he sees the boy enter. 

The woman in irritation, to spite him, throws her blankets 
off her, sits up and chucks the boy under the chin. 

Sensing a quarrel, the man gestures for the boy to get out.
 
 
8.
A fourth bell.
 
A fourth boy on duty, handsome, sunburnt, closes the door 
behind him. In the foreground of the room he has entered are 
baskets of flowers. He hears a woman's voice, as if calling 
out his name. He straightens up, and smiles a knowing smile.

Sitting in an armchair, the woman motions with her hand. On 
it are numerous bracelets, rings, and her fingers hold a 
long cigarette holder.  

The fourth boy on duty approaches her.
 

9.
Three bells ring one after the other. 

Three boys jump up and run off.
 
In a room stands a woman, who is sobbing in terrible 
distress. Mr. Squires is annoyed, he is scolding her as she 
packs her things into a trunk. The woman says: "What a fool 
I've been -- and he walking straight out like that and 
leaving me," and at that moment the three boys enter.

The woman finishes writing out a telegram, and a boy takes 
it, then waits for the money. The sobbing woman searches in 
her purse and cannot find any money. Mr. Squires takes the 
money out of his own pocket and the boy runs out into the 
corridor.
 

10.
The fourth boy circumspectly leaves the room of the woman 
with the cigarette holder, and, folding a bundle of dollars, 
hides them in his pocket.
 

11.
"We can wait two or three days, but you will have to change 
your room," Squires motions to the other two boys to take 
away the sobbing woman's luggage. 

In another part of the room two stout Negro women are 
pulling the bedding and table cloths off the beds and 
tables.
 
       
12.
Clyde and Ratterer are going down the stairs carrying trunks. 
 
"You haven't forgotten," says Ratterer, "that we're going 
out tonight?" 

"Oh, no," answers Clyde.
 
 
13. 
From the room vacated by the deserted woman we can hear the 
laughter of the Negro maids, changing the linen.

One of the plump women pinches a bellhop who has just come 
into the room.
 

14.
In the room where they undress, the boys, finished with 
their duties, are changing their clothes, and laughing at 
one of their number who is imitating the sobbing woman.

Ratterer is biting his lips in anticipation of the 
night-out; showing an imitation of the "Danse du Ventre" to 
Clyde, comically exaggerating the snake-like movement, as a 
sample of what he is to see that evening. "And gee, next 
week, Clyde, that will be a time. I know a fellow who's a 
gardener and the people there will be away. We can take 
their car easy, one of the fellows here can drive. And 
we'll get some girls and we will have a time! Don't forget." 

Having divested themselves of uniform vests and caps, the 
boys are dressing in smart evening dress, hats, fastening 
up the fancy bows of their ties, fixing their silk pocket 
handkerchiefs, and fastening the laces of their shoes in 
extravagant bows. They powder, scent themselves with 
eau-de-Cologne, oil their hair, put cigars into the pockets 
of their vests and, in such a costume, Clyde looks like an 
illustration for a fashion magazine.
 
At the back of the huge hotel, with merry jokes and an 
important stride, a group of the boys goes but dressed up 
like men. The group disappears in the darkness.
 

16.
The window of Clyde's room. Dawn behind the window. And in 
the room a lamp is burning and in a sitting position on the 
bed, his mother has fallen asleep waiting for him.
 

17.
Clyde, coming in from the street, cautiously opens the door 
to the mission building, over which hangs a sign: How Long 
Since You Wrote to your Mother?
 

18.
On tiptoe Clyde walks through the big empty hall, past the 
empty harmonium. He quietly enters his room, goes to the 
mirror and studies his dishevelled look consequent in the 
riotously spent evening. Suddenly he notices the lighted 
lamp, turns to the bed and sees his mother. Her open eyes 
seem to have been watching him. But they had been unseeing, 
she had other thoughts. Startled, he is confused by 
awareness of his appearance, and quickly starts to take out 
the bright links from his cuffs.

"Clyde," he hears his mother's voice.
 
The mother is sitting on the bed, she looks long at him with 
strange eyes. Clyde is worried. He hides the bright cuff 
links, but the mother remarks nothing about him, she says:

"Clyde, couldn't you help me find some money?" 

And her rough, big, coarse hand passes over her face. 

"You see -- Esta -- has been left by the man who ... by her 
husband.... She is in a terrible plight -- I will sell your 
father's ring, then you know -- we have -- a silver jug and 
plate -- but it won't be enough." 

Clyde's surprise and worry pass. He begins to feel the 
superiority of his position. He puts his cuff links back, 
and with an intonation which is still humble but has a 
different ring in it, promises to find money for his mother. 
His mother asks him to add five dollars a week for the rent 
of his room, so that with this money she can pay back the 
money she has borrowed. Clyde agrees half-heartedly and 
makes a sour face.

"You see, mother, I don't earn very much and then I wanted 
money rather specially next week," he says.
 
					FADE OUT

19. 
A luxurious open Packard drives out of a garage. Ratterer, 
dressed in smart evening dress, closes the garage doors. At 
the wheel sits a boy of about sixteen or seventeen years, 
dressed as elegantly as Ratterer. Looking about them, they 
turn into an alley where two of their companions (one of 
them Clyde) and four young girls, powdered and dressed up, 
are waiting for them. They take their places in the car, 
and Ratterer says to the boy at the wheel:
 
"Well, there -- no one saw us -- I told you it would be safe 
as houses." 

And, with a grinding of gears, the Packard starts off.
 

20.
A young girl is sitting on Clyde's knees. She presses close 
to him, and he derives from her contact a trembling sense of 
pleasure. But Clyde is inexperienced, he is shy. The car 
goes rushing by pretty roads, the girls squeal at every turn, 
pressing closer to the boys. Time passes. They have gone far. 

The sun is setting, and the boys look at their watches. 

"We must be getting back now," says Ratterer, "or we shall 
be late for work." 

And with a risky movement the Packard is headed round. 
Looking at his colleagues, Clyde slowly grows more certain 
of himself and, seeing how they press the girls closer to 
them and boldly kiss them, Clyde embraces his companion who, 
helping him, kisses him herself. The car stops at a railway 
crossing, letting a long freight train pass by. Ratterer is 
nervous and tells the driver:

"Step on it -- there'll be a fearful bawling-out." 

When the last freight wagon opens up the road for them, the 
car at a mad speed dashes through the evening darkness, 
along the wet roads.
 

21.
The first snow is falling. The wet flakes cover the 
windshield and close the eyes of those in the car. At a 
street crossing they cannot pass because of the steady 
traffic across. It is five minutes to six on the watch. The 
boys no longer embrace the girls, they are anxious, nervous,
beat their knees with their hands, twist their watches in 
their hands, stamp their feet on the boards, and wait for 
the moment to get across the crossing. At the very first 
opportunity, at high speed, the car flashes past and dashes 
into an alley. At the turning, from out of a corner, a 
little girl comes out, and the car knocks her down. 
Terrified, the driver, his face livid with fright, 
accelerates his speed, and the car, humming like an 
aeroplane, dashes past.

"Stop that car" -- "He's killed a child" -- "Stop, stop!" 
"Stop them!" Cries and whistles are heard from the alleys, 
and, humming ever louder, the Packard goes ever quicker 
with its terrified occupants. 

"Switch off the lights!" 

cries Ratterer, and the driver turns the switch to off. 
Without lights, through the dark alleys, the car dashes on. 
The sirens of police motorcycles are heard behind them. 
Hearing these sirens, the driver pushes the speed up to the 
very highest the car can go.

 
22.
The sirens are heard ever nearer and a group of 
motorcyclists come dashing into the camera.
 
 
23.
Skidding at a turning, the Packard is thrown against the 
pavement, jerks sideways, cuts into a mound of stones and 
wooden boards, and, crackling with a loud noise, it turns on 
its side.
 

24.
Clyde jumps to his feet, having been thrown out through an 
open door, and, trembling with fear and foreboding, looks 
around him. The roar of the police sirens approaches nearer, 
becomes more and more terrifying. Wiping the blood off his 
face, Clyde runs into a narrow alley between tall buildings, 
climbs over a fence, over a mound of bricks, runs through a 
lot of dust and rubbish and reaches the outskirts of the 
town, where the prairie begins. Looking back, he sees, 
through the curtain of falling snow, the lights of the city, 
hears the roar of the police sirens, the whistles, the cries. 
He sees behind him the ruin of his job, the scandal that 
cuts him from his home. Clyde trembles and, turning, goes 
away into the fields, hiding in the thickly, fast falling 
snow.
 
 
REEL 4
 

1. 
The darkness lightens to disclose the anxious family of 
Clyde intent upon a letter.
 
The letter is the first news they have received from him for 
a year. In it he has related something of his difficulties 
and fears following the Packard accident, his scraping of an 
existence from town to town. Now he is working in Chicago, a 
small job and he is sorry he cannot yet send money.

The family is deeply moved. The father stares in front of 
him. Clyde's mother pauses, and puts down the letter. She 
cannot finish it.

The little girl ends the reading of the letter. 

At the end of the letter is set Chicago, the date and the 
year.
 

2.
The letter fades out and we see the city of Chicago and, 
resplendent on one of the buildings, is an electric sign. 
The sign outlines a collar, a collar gorgeous, in 
apotheosis -- straight lines of light, like a fiery star, 
like a halo, shoot out around it, bursting and extinguishing 
like the opening and shutting of a fist. And ever and anon, 
beneath it, shows the illuminated signature: Samuel 
Griffiths.
 
 
3.
The camera pans down, and we see a man with a travelling bag 
beside him on the pavement and an umbrella. His head strikes 
the background of the lighted collar and over his shoulders 
bursts out the illuminated sign: Samuel Griffiths. He is 
standing outside a sort of residential club, a hostelry much 
more sober of exterior than the hotel of previous reels. 

A porter runs up to him, takes his grip away from him, and 
follows him through the doors of the club.
 
 
4.
Having checked-in for a room, he hands a visiting card to 
the clerk. The name on it is: Samuel Griffiths.
 

5. 
Once in his room he rings down, asking that newspapers be 
brought him, and, while waiting for them, he looks out of 
the window, pondering upon the advertisement of his wares.

A boy comes in with the papers. He offers him a tip, but the 
boy, shifting as if embarrassedly on his feet, refuses to 
accept the money, saying:

"Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr. Samuel Griffiths?" 

"Yes," answers the surprised guest.
 
"Well, excuse me, sir, my name is Clyde Griffiths. My father 
is your brother." 

"Oh, indeed!" exclaims Samuel Griffiths, glancing at him 
shrewdly. Clyde bears this inspection. He has been through a 
good deal. He is thinner and more subdued, but still 
sensitive-looking and handsome.
 
 
6.
In the corridor an employee of the club, in the same uniform 
as Clyde, is vacuuming the carpets. On the stairs, a second 
servant in uniform is polishing the brass balusters. A third 
servant is washing a large windowpane, through which can be 
seen the city, and the advertisement of the collars.
 

7 
Clyde is standing deferentially before Samuel Griffiths, 
who, patronising and seated, is bringing a homily to an end:

"If you want to get out of the rut and be somebody, and care 
to come down to our part of the world, I think I should be 
ready to give you a chance to show what you have in you and 
what you are capable of." 

Clyde, but still deferential, thanks him with warmth and 
then, hearing a bell in the corridor, hurries out of the 
room.
 
 
8.
The interior of the Griffiths' household. The family -- his 
wife, son Gilbert, and daughter Bella, are breakfasting.
 
"Well, what is he doing now," Gilbert, displeased, desires 
to know.
 
"He serves in a club in the capacity of a messenger boy," 
Mr. Griffiths answers.
 
"But father says he is very, very much like you, and much 
handsomer than any of our other cousins." 

"Bella!" -- her mother stops her.

"I still can't understand," says Gilbert, who really has a 
strong resemblance to Clyde, only looking a little more 
sullen and less docile, "why father takes on people when we 
have difficulty in keeping those who already work for us. 
Besides I can imagine what will be said when people know 
this messenger boy is a relative of ours." 

"It is too late now to do anything," says the mother. "He's 
arriving, and you had better try to control your rudeness."
 

9.
Neatly, if inconspicuously dressed, with a small grip in his 
hand, Clyde approaches the gates of the Griffiths factory. 
The watchman takes him for Gilbert, opens the gates for him, 
and greets him: 

"Good day, Mr. Gilbert." 

"Excuse me, my name is Clyde. But I should like to see Mr. 
Gilbert," Clyde answers with an embarrassed smile.

He passes through the gates.
 
"Well, what do you want?" the secretary asks, without 
lifting her head.
 
"My name is Clyde Griffiths. I have a letter with me from my 
Uncle." 

And the secretary, lifting her head, does not know how to 
act, so surprised is she at the extraordinary likeness of 
Clyde and Gilbert, whom she quickly rings on the telephone.
 
Having heard the answer, she says: "You may enter," and leads 
him to a door, with the sign: Mr. Gilbert Griffiths.
 
And having entered, Clyde sees himself as he likes to imagine 
himself. It is Gilbert -- his cousin. Both lose poise at the 
resemblance.
 

10.
Telephone bells ring -- machines are working -- the collars 
run along endless bands -- men and women are busy with 
different kinds of work -- smoke comes out of the factory 
chimneys -- the typewriters click in the Griffiths factory.
 
 
11.
The discomfort of Gilbert shows itself in an icy coldness, 
the discomfort of Clyde shows itself in a nervousness and 
hesitation in speech. The gulf between them has grown wider 
with the advance of the conversation. 

In Gilbert's office, the conversation continues. 

Gilbert: "Father tells me you've had no practical experience. 
You don't know accounting?" 

Clyde: "I am sorry to say I do not." 

Gilbert: "You don't take down shorthand, or something like 
that?" 

Clyde: "No, sir, I do not."
 
Gilbert: "In that case it will perhaps be best for you to 
start working in the shrinking room; that is the department 
in which the first stage of the business takes place. By 
this means you will be able to learn our trade from the very 
beginning."
 
Gilbert presses a button, and in answer to it a well-dressed 
young woman with a scowl on her face enters.
 
Gilbert: "And so, good-bye, Clyde. Mrs. Bradley will tell 
you all you want to know, and tomorrow you must be at work 
by 7 a.m."
 
And without shaking hands, Gilbert bows officially to Clyde.
 
 
12.
Clyde comes out of the factory gates and walks in leisurely 
fashion along the streets.
 

13.
And all at once he finds himself before an imposing mansion, 
with bronze deer in the garden and marble lions over the 
entrance gate. It attracts his admiration. 

"Can you tell me please -- whose house is this?" he asks of 
a passer-by.
 
"You don't know? Why that's the home of Samuel Griffiths, 
one of our leading citizens." 

"Thank you," answers Clyde and, though rendered puny by the 
contrast, yields himself to the luxury of reflecting on his 
connection, however humble, with this gorgeous family. The 
mansion slowly fades in the darkness.
 

14. 
And in the darkness the factory looms roar, and the steam 
machinery hisses, and out of the clouds of steam appears 
working a perspiring, wet, miserable-looking Clyde.

He seems unable to get the hang of his work. The material 
boiling in the kettle keeps falling off his tongs, and 
spraying his chest with boiling water; he is despairing, 
lost, and helplessly looks around him. 

The foreman comes to his help. He emphasizes the name "Mr. 
Griffiths," sits by him and starts to explain and show him 
how to handle his work. Around Clyde are working experienced 
men, their movements are calm and sure. And, after seeing 
them, we realise how little suited Clyde is to this work, 
how unhandy he is in character, how difficult he finds it to 
be in this low-built, stuffy room, among red-hot kettles, 
clouds of steam and the roar of the machines.

And when the factory whistle blows, Clyde sighs deeply with 
relief.
 

15.
Weary and exhausted he comes into his room and sits down on 
the bed. The furnishings of his room express everything that 
is dingy and horrible in a boardinghouse existence. No more 
comfortable, in reality, than those of his room in the 
mission, they differ only in being more oppressive.

A knock at the door, his landlady enters, asks him if there 
is anything he wants. She accents his name "Griffiths" in 
snobbery.

"There's a letter for you, Mr. Griffiths," she adds, and 
hands it to him. 

The letter is an invitation.
 

Dear nephew,
   
Ever since your arrival, my husband has been away or busy. 
Now, he is less occupied and we should be very glad to see 
you if you could come to dine tomorrow, Sunday. We will be 
quite alone, no guests. And there will be no need to dress.
 
	Your aunt, 
	Elizabeth Griffiths.
 
 
16.
Once more Clyde stands before the gate with the marble lions 
and the gardens with the bronze deer. But now he feels as 
though possessed of the magic key. He brushes his hair back, 
flicks a speck of dust off his carefully pressed dark suit, 
fixes his tie and rings. A maid opens the door and leads him 
to the drawing room.

The room -- filled with different kinds of furniture, 
bronzes, candelabras, little statuettes, flowers, covered in 
carpets, with beautiful draperies -- amazes Clyde.

He looks about him, and hears the swish of a silk skirt. 

The swish approaches. Coming down the wide staircase can be 
seen a pair of feet, and the swishing of the silk dress 
increases. Mrs. Griffiths is coming down the stairs, a thin, 
faded, sweet-tempered woman.
 
"So you are my nephew," she says, coming up to Clyde. 

"Yes," answers Clyde.
 
"I am very happy to meet you -- welcome," Mrs. Griffiths 
greets him in formal manner. 

"How do you like our city? We are very proud of our street." 

-- begins Mrs. Griffiths to the embarrassed youth. She is 
interrupted by the arrival of Griffiths himself, who takes 
Clyde in with a penetrating look, and says: 

"Well, it's good you came. It means you got fixed up. 
Everything was done for you without me?" 

"Yes, sir," answers Clyde.
 
"Well, that's perfect. I'm glad. Sit down, sit down." 

The rattle of feet fast descending the staircase, and 
Gilbert, in evening dress with a coat on, plunges into the 
hall. He speaks to his parents, ignoring Clyde except for a 
nod.

"Well, I'm going out now, mother," he says in an even voice.
 
"Are you sure you have to go? You know Sondra Finchley is 
coming back with Bella and she wants to see you." 

"No, I have to go." 

He gives a quick side look at Clyde as if to tell his mother: 
You know why I'm dining out tonight, pecks her forehead and 
hastily goes out. The signal neither escapes Clyde nor 
increases his self-confidence. 

Dinner is announced, and Clyde walks with his aunt and uncle 
through several large rooms, all satin and mahogany, each 
stiffer than the last.
 
Dinner is not a success. Conversation flags, and Clyde is 
painfully uncertain in the various social graces such as 
bestowal of the napkin and correct selection of the fork. As 
unobtrusively as possible he endeavours to wait for the 
example of his relatives, but he is conscious that they are 
conscious he is waiting. 

Dessert has been reached when there is the sound of a car 
drawing up at the door, of the doors being opened and a 
burst of laughter and barking comes into the room.

Gaily into the dining room come three girls, and pause in 
the doorway. They still wear their wraps, one of them is 
Bella, and one, in the centre, holds two wolfhounds on a 
leash. The newcomers had checked at the sight of the 
stranger, but Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths rise and welcome them. 
Mrs. Griffiths explains to the centre figure -- Sondra 
Finchley -- that Gilbert is not in, he had to go out, at 
which news Sondra makes a movement of annoyance.

Never has so gorgeous a being previously appeared before 
Clyde. Her white dress, the orchids on her shoulder, the 
straining wolfhounds make her appear as a being from another 
world. He of course had risen too, and hovered, partly 
expectant that he would be introduced.

But most certainly not.

Perhaps not consciously, but certainly inwardly relieved at 
escaping for a moment from the need to entertain him, uncle 
and aunt have forgotten his existence. He is supremely 
conscious of his ostracism, of the gulf that yet separates 
him from such incomparable denizens of Paradise, as he 
gazes at this girl, like a firework bursting in the darkness, 
like a saint glowing upon an altar. And her figure is covered 
in mist, growing thicker every moment, and whirling upwards 
in its movement. She is hidden in white clouds, and these 
clouds expand.
 

17.
And now they are the cloudy bundles of hot steam coming out 
of the factory kettles, and in this steam Clyde is working, 
perspiration running down him, and frightened by the noise 
of the machines. 

Samuel Griffiths, surrounded by his managers and 
secretaries, is coming down the factory stairs into the 
cellar. He makes a wry face, as he sees how one of the 
workmen, bent over the can, is stirring small pieces of 
material in the boiling water. The workman has little 
strength left, his face is burnt mercilessly as well as his 
hands, he groans from his efforts and his pain. When the 
workman turns away from the can, and turns to Samuel 
Griffiths, he recognises the workman -- Clyde.

Wet with perspiration, in a torn shirt, his chest bare, with 
hands swollen and red from the steam -- the nephew stands 
before the uncle. The uncle turns his head and sees Gilbert, 
who looks so like Clyde, but crimped and elegant.
 

18.
Embarrassed and not knowing how to act, the uncle goes 
upstairs. Entering the director's office, he turns to 
Gilbert and says to him:

"We must transfer Clyde to another department. After all he 
is a relative of ours and we cannot keep him there. Heaven 
knows what people will be saying about us." 

Gilbert is abut to disagree. The uncle adds: 

"Besides, he looks so much like you." 

Gilbert no longer dissents, and taking his hat and coat, 
Samuel leaves the office.
 

19. 
In the outer office the telephone rings. The secretary 
listens with the receiver, and says:

"I understand. From the cellar department, workman 70 is to 
be transferred to you? I understand. Yes, Mr. Gilbert."
 

20.
The foreman approaches Clyde and tells him to go to the 
director's office. Clyde takes off his wooden shoes, his 
leather jacket: over his torn shirt he puts on his coat, and 
then goes up the stairs.
 
 
21.
He enters Gilbert's office.  Gilbert, more kindly than 
before, tells Clyde that he has given permission to have him 
transferred to another department, as he feels he has gained 
enough experience in the cellar. 

"Instead of fifteen dollars weekly -- you will now receive 
twenty-five dollars. My father, your uncle, wishes it to be 
so." 

Clyde mops the perspiration off his forehead, and his face 
brightens.

Gilbert, as distant as ever:
 
"We have decided to give you a trial as manager of the 
stamping department. The work is easy and does not require 
any technical knowledge. But you must show qualities of 
character. There are twenty-five girls working in that 
department and you are responsible for its moral tone. Our 
rules absolutely forbid any relationship outside the factory 
with any female employee and we expect you to set an 
especially high example by your conduct owing to the fact 
that you are related to us. Now you have got your chance, do 
not allow yourself to be disturbed by working in the 
presence of so many girls." 

At the very first words pronounced by Gilbert, his office 
disappears from the screen, and in its place we see girls 
stamping collars. Slowly they all drop their work, and their 
heads become turned in one direction. And as Gilbert's words 
are heard, on the screen we see more and more of them, and 
the stronger grows their coquettishness, and the more 
concentrated their gaze --
 
And as the gaze of twenty-five pairs of eyes flirtatiously 
centres on one spot, we hear Gilbert's voice -- "You must not 
get acquainted with these girls, and must never meet them 
after working hours. Have you understood all I have told 
you? Do you promise to do as you have been told?" And at 
that moment all the girls turn.

"Yes, sir," answers Clyde's voice, and on the screen we see 
his figure, elegantly dressed and severe. 

In a pose of expectation Clyde stands face to face with 
twenty-five young girls.

"How do you do?" the chorus of young girls greets him. 

"How do you do," answers Clyde.
 
 
REEL 5
 
 
1.
Springtime. On the ledges of the factory windows coo 
pigeons, through the panes a river is sparkling in the sun, 
and within the factory is the noise of looms and the hissing 
of steam machinery.
 
2.
Five and twenty girls of differing characters, of differing 
types, are working behind long tables stamping mountains of 
snow-white collars. One of the young girls throws open a 
window -- startled, the pigeons fly away flapping their 
wings, and the mechanical noise of the looms has become 
softer as its sound loses itself through the open window in 
the spring-clad gardens and fields.
 

3.
As a breath of sweet fresh spring air enters the room the 
girls breathe in deeply its freshness and sigh with relief 
... They are all young, all in their own way are charming 
and pretty ... And the eyes of all of them are constantly 
focussed in one direction. Thither, where stands the head of 
the department. The twenty-year-old Clyde Griffiths.
 

4.
He is dressed in a well-cut suit with a smart modern tie. He 
is handsome, and that is why the girls' eyes are so often 
directed towards him. But Clyde tries not to look at the 
young girls. He remembers Gilbert's warning and with all his 
strength tries to be indifferent and unapproachable. But the 
sweet spring breeze is coming through the open window and 
fills the room. The pigeons return to the window ledge, 
joyously the looms work on, and because of the spring warmth 
the girls open up the collars of their blouses and turn up 
their sleeves, but Clyde tries to remain cold and severe.
 

5.
Noticing the light-heartedness of his workers he goes to the 
window and shuts it in order to emphasize his severity. His 
movements are clumsy and cramped for he feels upon himself 
the gaze of five and twenty pairs of youthful eyes.

 
6.
One of the girls, Roberta, while watching Clyde, makes a 
mistake, stamps the number on the wrong side of the collar. 
She nervously approaches Clyde with the spoilt article in 
her hand and tells him of her error. Clyde tries to be 
serious and reserved. He dares not look into the young 
girl's face -- he gives her instructions with face averted 
-- but when the girl's naked arms come forward in passing 
him the collar he cannot help but lift his head and meet the 
shy admiring look of Roberta.
 
 
7.
The factory whistle blows. The joyous crowd of girls comes 
out of the factory gates, runs up and down the stairs. Some 
of the girls are being met by their sweethearts, but Clyde, 
looking out of the window, notices that Roberta moves down 
the street unaccompanied, alone.
 
 
8.
Over the factory chimney in the evening mist a full moon 
rises. Alone, Clyde strolls along the boulevard.
 

9.
Alone, Roberta sits on the river bank.
 

10.
At the entrance to a cheap dance hall Clyde stops, 
hesitating and thinking to enter, but at that moment the 
foreman of the shrinking room greets him: "Good evening, Mr. 
Griffiths." The foreman goes on his way but his respectful 
"Mr. Griffiths" still lingers in Clyde's mind, and it 
brings before him the image of the wealthy house of his 
uncle with its bronze deer in the garden, and its marble 
lions on the gates .... And accordingly he does not enter 
the cheap dance hall, but, turning around, moves off.
 

11.
Roberta is in her room.... She turns off the light and 
looks out of the window at the smiling spring moon.
 

12.
And Clyde is sitting at his window sill and likewise looks 
at the same moon as it gently hovers over the chimneys of 
the factory.
 

13.
And again the machines beat. Once again five and twenty 
young girls are busy stamping collars ... Again the girlish 
eyes embarrass Clyde. It is hot in the building. From the 
heat and the sweat and the thickness of the air, everyone is 
filled with languor and weariness, languor is in the heat of 
the machines, languor fills the eyes that grow more amorous 
and Clyde with greater difficulty holds himself in hand; and 
when suddenly his gaze meets that of Roberta he does not 
lower his eyes but smiles, in a sudden unexpected smile. And 
to his smile answers a smile of Roberta.
 

14. 
And the machines beat on. And in their work the girls' hands 
flit to and fro, and on the bench float mountains of 
snow-white collars, and more and more often Clyde's eyes 
meet Roberta's. They meet in those moments when the other 
girls are not looking. They steal seconds from the quick 
tempo of factory work and, accompanied by the dull roar of 
the machines, the monotonous beat of the stamps, the 
hissings of the steam, their gaze speaks a dumb language 
miming the sympathy reciprocated.
 

15.
The heat of the sun grows stronger. It is hot in the 
building .... The girls languidly speak of young Clyde and 
build fantastic tales around him and his wealthy relatives, 
tales of his imagined luxurious life, the while Roberta 
listens, looking with pride and affection at his handsome 
figure, and flashing a happy smile at him at a convenient 
moment.
 

16. 
And on the white ceiling, and on the whitewashed walls of 
the factory the sunlight plays in bright pools reflected 
from the river. These pools of light leap and dance to the 
sound of the machine in quick rhythm and fantastic 
composition, and then slowly the noise of the machines dies 
and in the water we see the calm surface of a lake on which 
is reflected Clyde as he comes rowing in a skiff.
 

17.
And on this body of water the same exquisite rays of light 
dance their way. Also on Clyde's face, and on the sides of 
his little boat, just as they did on the walls and ceiling 
of the factory.
 

18.
Boats pass by with couples in them, with singing, with the 
strumming of a banjo, or guitar, and through this atmosphere 
of love Clyde drifts along alone and lonely. His boat drifts 
slowly along through the tangle of water lilies, quite near 
the shore. And on the shore, at the very brink of the water, 
stands a young girl; her hat is off and she is admiring 
flowers.
 

19.
Clyde stops rowing and watches her. And when the boat comes 
abreast of her she lifts her head and Clyde sees her smiling 
face. 

"Miss Alden! Is that really you?" 

"Why, yes. It's me," smilingly answers Roberta, but she is 
startled and seems a little afraid.

"Are you spending the day here?" asks Clyde. And noticing 
that she is watching the water he adds: "Would you like some 
of these flowers?" 

"Oh, yes," answers the girl and looks surprised. 

The dark hair of Clyde is wind-blown, he wears a sports vest 
short-sleeved and open at the neck, and one of the oars is 
lifted high above the water. All this makes the girl inwardly 
tremble, and in order to cover her confusion she gives him a 
charming smile.
 

20.
She looks out onto the lake and sees a boat pass by in which 
are sitting a youth like Clyde and a girl like herself .... 
And all over this lake similar boats drift by and in each 
one of them are just such identical couples.

"Oh, please take a seat in the boat," she hears Clyde invite 
her.
 
"Why yes, only I have a friend with me here and besides it 
might be better for me not to, it may not be quite safe." 

"Oh, but of course, it's safer to sit on dry land," 
laughingly Clyde answers her.
 

21.
Boat after boat... Couple after couple ... Song after song 
float down the water past them. And, suddenly anxious, 
Roberta cries out: 

"Grace, Grace. Where are you?" 

From the woods in the background a voice is heard answering:
 
"Hallo. What's the matter?" 

"Come here, I want to tell you something." 

"No, you'd better come here. There are marvellous anemones 
over here." 

"You know what we'll do? We'll row down to where she is. 
What do you think of that?" asks Clyde. 

"Why yes, certainly," answers Roberta, and suddenly bashful, 
in concern, once more asks him: 

"You're sure it's safe?" 

"Quite safe."
 
 
22.
Roberta jumps into the boat and Clyde helps her so that she 
shall not fall.

"Do you know, I had just been thinking of you .... I had 
been thinking how nice it would be if we were rowing 
together on this lake."
 
"Is that true, Mr. Griffiths?" Roberta wants to know. 

And Clyde, shyly reaching forward, strokes her hair. 

"Don't!" Roberta says, frightened, and becomes more 
reserved and colder towards him.
 
 
23.
And, together with a crowd of other boats, their boat drifts 
along among rushes under the shade of thick-leaved boughs 
into nooks by the shore.
 
 
24.
And along the water's edge are heard youthful songs the 
chords of guitars .... And the sun begins to set. Evidently 
Roberta feels cold for she has come to sit next to Clyde.... 
Evidently he has not noticed how their boat has become 
tangled in the rushes and that they are now left alone.... 
And, as in the hotel, on the long bench of waiting bellboys, 
Clyde was filled with trepidation, so now once more he is 
filled with trepidation, from the fullness of his youth, 
from the presence of the young girl by his side, from the 
secluded nook ... And he kisses her. She tears herself away 
from him, frightened, saying: 

"Mr. Griffiths." 

But Clyde, made happy by his daring, excited by his conquest, 
smiles as he smiled that day when he earned his first money, 
and heard that grand music, that majestic -- swelling -- 
hymn in the hotel. And the echo of that music rises in the 
tune of a dance hall distant on the other side of the lake.
 

25.
And paying no attention to her exclamation, to her fright 
... at the sound of that conquering march he turns his boat 
to the shore where Roberta's friend is waiting.
 
 
26.
Forgetting all, forgetting where he is and what he is... he 
wanders through the woods and across the fields, through 
streets and alleys, walking to the tempo of the ever 
swelling march ....
 
 
27.
And when he has shut the door of his room, he speaks quietly 
but exaltedly: "To live! To live! How good that is."
 

REEL 6


1.
No longer does the river glisten behind the factory windows.

The long factory windows are closed -- to shut out the cold, 
whistling wind....
 
 
2. 
Silently the girls go about, stamping their endless train of 
collars. Silently, with concentration, Clyde is working in 
his little office. No longer do Roberta's eyes and his meet 
in affectionate understanding -- they are like strangers -- 
at least as such they conduct themselves.
 
 
3.
The factory whistle....
 
From out the gates, the hands make their way .... 

In the jostling crowd, Clyde and Roberta come face to face 
with each other, but they do not wish to acknowledge each 
other's presence. They look past each other. And they 
separate, each going his and her separate way....
 
Clyde to the right.... 

Roberta to the left....
 
 
4 
The gates of the factory close.... 

And its lights are turned out....
 

5. 
The tower bells play in the evening air and the street lamps 
light up one after the other.... 

And when one of these lamps goes on -- it throws its light 
on the shivering figure of Clyde. He lowers his hat over his 
eyes, and walks into the mist. 

He is waiting -- back and forth by the railing he walks, 
wrapping himself tighter in his coat to save himself from 
the severe gusts of cold wind.
 

6.
Into the light of the lamp Roberta enters. She carefully 
looks around her.
 
 
7.
Clyde calls her by a tender intimate little name.
 
 
8.
He gives a peck of greeting on her cheek. Not because he is 
indifferent but because he is still shy and respectful. He 
kisses her once more and whispers to her. 

When, across the pavement, the figure of some passer-by goes 
past, they stop their love-making and press against the dark 
corner, remaining motionless until the figure has 
disappeared.

"It's getting very cold," Clyde says. "I don't know what 
we're going to do. Isn't there some place where we could sit 
down?" 

"Couldn't we go to a movie or a cafe?" asks Roberta. 

Clyde shakes his head and answers: "They might see us."
 
 
9.
Another passer-by. Once again they stand still in their dark 
corner.
 
 
10.
When the steps of the stranger die away, a new gust of wind 
makes Roberta and Clyde shiver from the could and he says: 
"What do you think? Couldn't we go to your room for a little 
while?" 

"No, no, no, that wouldn't be right." Shaking her head and 
frightened, Roberta answers him. 

Clyde takes out his watch and lights a match -- 11.30. 

"No, no, we might be seen," continues Roberta. 

But Clyde is excited and resolved. He links his arm through 
hers and together they go down the street towards her home.
 

11.
Roberta begs him not to come near her house but Clyde is 
insistent and stubbornly leads her towards it.
 
"I can't see why we shouldn't go in out of the cold."

"No, you oughtn't to come in, Clyde. It may be all right in 
your set, but I know what's right and what's wrong, and I 
don't want it." 

Clyde's face sombres and Roberta looks at him, scared at her 
own firmness. The tense minute-long pause is broken by the 
hysterical bark of a little dog. 

Clyde: "If you don't want to let me come in and sit down a 
few minutes ...."
 
Roberta: "Oh, it isn't that, but I can't. I'd like to but I 
can't. You know it's not right," and she puts her hand on 
his shoulder.

Clyde shrugs his shoulders, turns away and says "Well, all 
right, let it be so, if that's how you want it," and he 
makes a movement with his shoulders throwing off her hand.
 
"Don't go away. I love you so Clyde. I'd do anything for you 
I could," and she embraces him.
 
"Yes, yes," roughly answers Clyde, and tearing himself from 
her embrace he goes off into the darkness. And at that 
moment someone kicks the little dog and it gives out a long 
painful wail.
 

13.
Roberta, bewildered at his departure, cries out loudly to 
him in despair: "Clyde, Clyde!"
 

14.
But he does not turn back.
 

15.
Filled with despair the girl, not knowing what to do, 
remains standing stock-still in the same place. 

Clyde has not stopped. Quietly the door of the house opens 
and a woman looks out inquisitively while her hand pushes 
the wailing dog away.
 
 
16.
Further and further away, fainter and fainter, Clyde's 
footsteps are heard disappearing.
 

17.
"Don't leave me," Roberta cries out to him in a voice full 
of tears. Then she runs after him. But after running a few 
steps she stops and, frightened, looks around her. The 
footsteps are no longer to be heard, nor the dog's wail.

Roberta feels weak, she sits dawn, sobbing, upon the ground. 
One by one the street lamps fade and her sobbing grows 
weaker.
 

18.
Rain lashes the factory windows -- The looms beat harshly 
and unpleasantly -- Heavily hisses the steam machinery -- 
And even and anxious in the hands of the girls is the sound 
of the stamp as it falls.
 

19.
Pale, Roberta is working nervously and uncertainly. 

Motionless, Clyde sits over his papers.
 
It is no longer cosy in the stamping department. It is bare 
and empty.... Not many hands remain.... Little merchandise
.... Empty tables.... Empty shelves.... And that is the 
reason why the sound of the machines is so unpleasantly 
grating.
 
 
20.
Rain falls behind the windows.
 

21.
Roberta tries by every means to catch Clyde's attention, but 
she herself does not look at him.
 
There is an increasing nervousness in her movements and an 
increasing number of mistakes in her work. She is nearer and 
nearer to complete despair, and suddenly she sees --

Clyde is smiling to the other girls. 

Clyde is flirting with her neighbour.
 
Her head is spinning. The roar of the machines fills her 
ears. The beat of the motors is as fast as the beat of her 
heart. She is unable to hold out.
 
She runs off to the girls' rest room, where, on a little 
piece of paper torn from off the table, she writes a note: 
Come.

And they go to her home.
 
 
22.
As they come in together, she switches on the light and it 
floods the dingy parlour that is her apartment. 

"Oh, this is nice," says Clyde. "I never thought it would 
be so cosy." She takes off her coat. "We'll have a fire in 
a minute," she says and kneels to adjust the coals before 
setting light to it. He kneels on the mat to help her.

They are close together. So close their elbows touch. She 
half turns. He lets his head drop on her shoulder and raises 
his hand to stroke her hair. Putting her arm round his neck, 
she presses her lips to his head and then speaks: "Dear...."
 

23.
And when in their embrace the two young bodies come into 
contact and the hands grope for one another in a sudden new 
desire, that majestic music that Clyde hears in the happiest 
moments of his life bursts forth once again. And when they 
stop their kisses for a moment, behold, the ceiling of her 
little room has opened to the heavens and so have the walls. 

Marches of victory.
 
Hymns of happiness are rending the air asunder. And they no 
longer know where they are because fantastically beautiful  
but absolutely incomprehensible things crowd in upon them, 
and they laugh a young and infectious happy laugh. And while 
the fantastical compositions with the underlining of music 
change from one to another, her voice, in an anxious whisper, 
is heard to say: "But never, never! If anything should 
happen... You won't leave me?" And Clyde likewise in a 
whisper, answers her: "Never -- I'll never leave you."
 
 
24.
And again they are standing facing each other at the door of 
her little room; now they are saying goodbye, and once again 
Clyde repeats: "I will never, never leave you." 

Kissing her before he leaves, he goes out into the street.
 

25.
But still Roberta's face holds traces of anxiety as, through 
the window, she watches his disappearing figure.
 

26.
And for the first time Clyde walks off like "a real man." 
His head is proudly held up and his hands thrust deep into 
the pockets of his coat.
 
 
27.
He passes by a big luxurious automobile.
 
"Hallo! Are you walking?" he hears a voice. "If you like I 
can give you a lift." Sondra Finchley is saying these words, 
looking out of the window of the automobile.
 
Clyde turns away.
 
Sondra, astonished, says, "Oh, excuse me. I thought it was 
Gilbert." 

"I beg your pardon, it is I," he answers, taking off his hat.

"There's no need for excuses, I'm very glad to see you. 
Please get in and let me take you wherever you are going." 

He would like to leave and takes a few steps backwards, but 
Sondra, desiring to cover the mistake she has made, insists: 
"But do come, Mr. Griffiths." 

Embarrassed he goes to the car and sits beside her.
 
 
28.
At that moment the chauffeur returns with a package and she 
asks Clyde where she can take him.
 
 
29.
The car makes its way quickly along the road. "I didn't 
realise that you were mistaking me for my cousin," Clyde 
says in his embarrassment. 

"Don't speak about that any more. Tell me rather why do you 
never go any place?" 

"I'm working in the factory and have very little time," 
answers Clyde.
 
Sondra's conversation, flirtatious and flippant, ends in her 
promising Clyde to get him an invitation to a dance that is 
to be attended by the very best society of the town.
 
The beauty, charm, dress and manner of the rich girl 
overwhelm Clyde with admiration and he cannot take his eyes 
off her all the ride long. And Sondra, looking at him, 
notices his charm and good looks. They smile at each other, 
but at that moment the car comes to a stop at the corner of 
his street.
 

30. 
The chauffeur opens the door of the car and Clyde steps out.
 
"Till soon," answers Sondra in reply to his thanks.
 

31. 
And the car disappears behind the bend.
 
 
32.
Clyde remains standing still on the empty street and listens 
to the ever fainter noise of the car. 

"Mr. Griffiths," he hears once again the name as she 
pronounces it. "Griffiths", repeats Clyde to himself, 
standing there frozen between embarrassment and a new pride.
 
 
REEL 7
 

1. 
Hands are fastening the laces of patent leather shoes -- 
then the same hands lift higher, dusting an almost invisible 
speck off the crease of the trousers -- then higher still, 
as they button a black dinner vest. At last they give a 
final twist to the black bow tie, and in all the glory of 
his new tuxedo, drawn to full height, we see the figure of 
proud Clyde, polished, smartened and finished by Roberta. 
Now she is giving a final comb to his hair. As she lays 
down the comb she says: "If I can't keep you all to myself, 
if I must share you with the Griffiths, I'll make you as 
beautiful as I can." 

She helps him on with his coat and white silk muffler, hands 
him his brand-new silk hat, and escorts him to the door. As 
she hugs him in a kiss: "You'll think of me tonight, won't 
you dear?" she says. He is gone.
 
 
2.
The first snow of the year is falling, and Clyde, to protect 
his new suit, opens his umbrella.
 
He pauses beneath a lamp, takes a card from his vest pocket 
and rereads the text:
 
 
          The Now and Then Club 
           Will hold its First 
           Winter Dinner Dance 
             At the Home of 
            Douglas Trumbull 
          135 Wykeagy Avenue 
        On Thursday, November 4. 
       You are Cordially Invited 
Will you Kindly Reply to Miss Jill Trumbull. 


It is to this address he is going, not to the Griffiths. 
Turning it over, Clyde rereads a note written on its blank 
side:


Dear Mr. Griffiths:
   Thought you might like to come. It will be quite informal. 
And I'm sure you'll like it. If so, will you let Jill 
Trumbull know?
			Sondra Finchley.
 
 
Having read the note, Clyde tucks it away carefully in the 
pocket of his vest and resumes his way. 

Past the amazed inhabitants of the poor quarter, Clyde walks 
beneath his umbrella, filled with pride and self-
satisfaction.
 

3.
Handsome-looking cars stand before the entrance to Jill 
Trumbull's home. A group of chauffeurs, chatting among 
themselves, make room for Clyde to pass through.
 
He rings at the front door. Behind it can be heard happy 
laughter and conversation. The door is opened. The servant 
takes his hat, coat and umbrella from him and, once inside, 
Clyde finds himself face to face with Jill Trumbull.
 
"I know you. You're Mr. Griffiths. I'm Jill Trumbull." 

-- and on this they shake hands.
 
"Miss Finchley hasn't arrived yet, but I'll do my best as 
hostess until she comes."
 
 
4. 
She leads Clyde through several rooms, introducing him to 
various girls on her way. "This is Mr. Clyde Griffiths, a 
cousin of Gilbert Griffiths, you know." The girls, who are 
speaking to attendant swains or otherwise engrossed, nod and 
smile politely with a -- "How do you do" -- "So pleased to 
meet you," and turn back to their companions, completely 
uninterested.
 

5. 
Finally, guided by Jill, Clyde arrives at a big fireplace at 
the end of the room where stands, resplendent in white 
waistcoats and tails, a group of unoccupied males. Here, 
with another muttered introduction or two, a little laugh 
and an "excuse me" she leaves him to return to her welcome 
of other newcomers.
 
Clyde stands on the rug in front of the fireplace. Beside 
him on the rug stand the males, tall, wide-chested and 
stiff, their hands behind their backs and their feet 
separated. They survey him dully, while he endeavours to 
control his nervousness.
 

6.
Into another room, adjoining at some distance by wide-opened 
doors, Sondra enters in a dazzling white dress. Her entry 
causes a stir, Sondra is always a centre of movement. "Is 
Griffiths here yet?" she asks eagerly.
 
Through the intersecting doors Clyde can be seen on his rug. 
He shifts about nervously, the stiff society young men are 
reminiscent of the maze of society dummies in the glass 
window cases between which, earlier, he drifted.
 
Sondra calls Jill and her friends to her. "He's presentable, 
isn't he?" she says. "He's better-looking than Gilbert. We 
must take him around a bit. Gilbert will be furious. Oh, 
what a lark!" A rustle of silks and satins, gay approval and 
the group starts laughing forward.
 

7.
Clyde looks up. Across the room he sees Sondra advancing, 
more beautiful and resplendent than ever. He feels a thrill 
at her approach.
 
Sondra greets him and surrounds him with a bevy of girls, 
who have crossed the room in her train. He is at once the 
centre of the whole group. All are eager to cultivate Clyde, 
the idea of spiting someone else through him appeals to 
them.
 
"We shall have the first and the eighth dances," says 
Sondra with authority. "And I want you to dance with Jill, 
Betty, Clara...." naming several of those around.
 

8.
The strains of the first foxtrot are heard coming from the 
ballroom and Sondra leads him to the floor for the first 
dance.

The orchestra plays rapidly; embracing Sondra, adoringly 
but gingerly, as if he held something too precious to be 
real, Clyde allows himself to be swept into the dance among 
the crowding couples.
 
Rapt by the rhythm, he is beginning to stammer his 
appreciation to Sondra, when she gently disengages herself 
and he is swept up, first by one of the girls whom she led 
to greet him -- then by another -- 

-- from one to the other he is swept, dancing with each a 
bare moment. Snatches of their conversation reach us. His 
partners pretend a roguishness. One: "You're better-looking 
than Gilbert." Another: "I saw you going into the 
confectioner's on Central yesterday. Were you getting 
something for your girl?" (This one alarms him.) And another: 
"Sondra thinks you're handsome." (Clyde thrills.) "She told 
us she means to see a lot of you."
 

9 
And once again Sondra is with him. The jazz continues.
 

10.
The jazz diminishes and dies.
 
In the factory rest room. A gust of giggles. Roberta is 
taking down her coat from a peg. The other girls, also 
preparing to leave, are laughing and gossiping. "No wonder 
Mr. Griffiths looks tired. I'll bet they stay up late at 
those parties. Dancing night after night." Roberta starts, 
and, concealing her interest, asks a question: "Don't you 
never read the papers? Why those young society people all 
went to two dances last night, on from one to the other. 
And they had Mr. Clyde's name down," is the answer. Roberta, 
the gossips turned aside, glances at a note crumpled in her 
hand: Dear, I have to dine with my uncle again tonight. 
You understand, don't you. Her fist grips round it. She 
bites her lip, her face is white. 

And the music of the dance begins to rise again.
 

11.
Clyde is still with Sondra. The growing band music rises 
abruptly to sound ever faster and more gay, now fortissimo.

To the fortissimo of the band, he whirls into a poem of the 
days that follow. A poem of dancing, laughter, joy. A poem 
of loving glances, smiles, hinted caresses. A poem of 
Sondra's gorgeous wardrobe. Today she is clad in black silk, 
tomorrow in fluffy white, or again in glittering silver. And 
always Clyde is dancing with her. Or they sit on a couch, or 
they stand in a glassed winter garden, or they dance 
together in a lighted ballroom or in an intimate club. And 
as their poem of love progresses, its rhythm becomes ever 
happier, with the happier tempo of the music and the 
increasing brightness of the light.


12.
In his top hat, in his muffler, in company with a wealthy 
youth and girls, Clyde is passing, in a luxurious car, 
through the streets of the town. With a wave of laughter 
the car stops under a street lamp at a corner, and, excited, 
dishevelled, Clyde jumps out. Another burst of laughter and 
the car disappears.
 

13.
Clyde turns the corner and sees a light in Roberta's room.
 

14.
Sighing wearily, Roberta drops onto the bed.
 
 
15.
Clyde, standing on the porch, starts to push the outer door, 
it opens.
 
 
16.
Quietly Clyde enters Roberta's room. She turns a tear-
stained face to him. "Clyde, where have you been? We haven't 
been alone together for weeks. What has happened?" Clyde 
feels uncomfortable, so makes a show of irritation. "I told 
you, I've had to go to see my uncle. You know what it means 
to me. You know I can't possibly refuse." Suddenly, 
unexpectedly, she jumps up, grabs a bundle of newspapers and 
turns towards him. "You're lying to me, Clyde." With 
difficulty keeping back her sobs, she shows Clyde the 
chronicle of his social life. One, two, three balls, more 
-- and in each among those present appears his name.
 
Scared lest they wake the family of the proprietors, they 
quarrel in whispers. Whispers of passion, but now not of 
passionate love.
 
"You were with Miss Finchley," says the girl, and this 
drives Clyde to lose his head. He runs up to Roberta, takes 
hold of her shoulders and brings her face nearer to his, 
looking straight into her eyes. 

And, seeing his face, his dear face, so close to her own, 
Roberta involuntarily forgets his neglect, and the old joy 
and tenderness for him appear in her expression. 

And as the familiar charm reawakens, Clyde, instead of 
striking her or scolding her as he had intended, kisses 
Roberta. And when she throws back her head it seems to him 
as though he is being held in the arms of Sondra. His 
fingers clenched in her hair, with new strength and new 
passion he kisses Roberta.
 

17. 
From the street we see the light go out behind Roberta's 
window. Nearby, from some source unknown, the laughter of a 
little child is heard in childish glee.

					FADE OUT
 

18.
 
FADE IN 

Once more the noise of the looms in the factory, the hissing 
of the steam machines, and the sound of the stamps marking 
the collars.
 
It is dark outside and the electric light is searing. It 
outlines sharply unusual shadows on the faces of those 
working.

Roberta at her worktable is pale, sad and anxious. She 
watches Clyde, striving to catch his eye. But Clyde will not 
look at her.
 
Roberta takes a torn slip of paper and writes upon it a 
note: 

Clyde, I absolutely, absolutely must see you today. 
Please come to see me after work or meet me somewhere. It 
is essential. Roberta. 

Taking a basket of collars she passes by his desk and, 
unseen by the others, throws him her note.
 
As Clyde finishes reading the note he sees Roberta's face, 
nervous and full of anxiety. With a slight nod of the head 
he agrees to meet her. He glances at a memorandum pad on his 
table, inscribed: 10th January, Dinner at the Griffiths, and 
once again nods to Roberta.
 
 
19.
Slowly the noise of the machines dies and the jigging melody 
of an old-fashioned dance fills the air.


20. 
Clyde and Sondra are dancing one of those old-fashioned, 
rapid jig-time dances in which everyone has to take part 
together, and which consist of circles and pairs. A 
Christmas tree and Christmassy decorations are in evidence. 
To the sound of handclaps beating with the music, Clyde -- 
now in tails -- and Sondra advance, jigging, towards the 
centre of the room, and circle hands on hips and back to 
back in one of the figures of the dance.
 
By the walls a group of old ladies, made-up, powdered, 
overdressed, scrutinise Clyde and criticise his manners and 
success in society. They say that the Griffiths have started 
receiving him only because it became impossible for them not 
to do so when he was received by everyone else. Their smiles 
at the Griffiths' discomfiture are vinegar.

To the merry, frantic children's tune, Clyde and Sondra 
whirl round in the frenzied closing figures of the dance.
 
 
21.
The music stops with a burst of laughter. Clyde and Sondra 
run out into the hall and throw on their wraps and coats.
 
 
22.
Outside the snow is pouring down and is slushy underfoot. 
Cars move away from the entrance.
 
 
23.
Sondra and Clyde are in a car together. Sondra is driving. 
The car pulls up outside her house. She looks at him through 
half-closed lids and proposes: "Why don't you come in, Clyde. 
I'll fix you up a cup of hot chocolate before you go home. 
Do you like chocolate?" "Oh, yes," says Clyde.
 
 
24. 
The kitchen amazes Clyde by its luxury, its cleanliness, the 
glitter of its copper dishes and the large Norman-style 
fireplace with bright logs burning in it. And Clyde says, 
spontaneously and sincerely: "What a marvellous kitchen!" 

"Do you think so? Aren't all kitchens the same?" Sondra asks 
as she busies herself with the chocolate. She also looks 
around the walls of the kitchen and brings her gaze to a 
stop before the closed dresser. Having thought for a moment 
she goes to the dresser and opens wide its little doors.
 
An arsenal of crystal and silver services. Tumblers and 
goblets that amaze Clyde by their number and glitter. And 
Sondra picks out the handsomest tumbler for chocolate, 
pouring the chocolate out of a jug into the tumbler, she 
sits down beside Clyde, near the fireplace, and says: "Isn't 
it cosy here?" 

"It's very lovely with you here, Sondra," says Clyde. 

"I'm pleased you're  satisfied," Sondra answers smiling 
tenderly, and each notices the good looks of the other and 
both keep silent, not knowing what to say or what to do.

"You've been very anxious to tell me something," Sondra asks 
in a very low voice.
 
"I'd like to tell you a lot, but you forbid me to." 

"I know what you'd like to tell me." Both get off the bench 
and he takes her hand in both of his. Clyde looks at her as 
a faithful believer would look at a holy relic and under 
this gaze she lowers her eyes and Clyde, who has never done 
so before, puts his arm about her and kisses her.
 
At the moment of this kiss the silver seems to glitter 
dazzlingly on the open dresser -- the burning logs crash 
throwing up sparks like fireworks, and for a few seconds 
Sondra allows herself to be embraced. Then she gently pushes 
him away without any anger and smilingly says:

"Now you must leave, do you hear?" "Are you angry?" asks 
Clyde.
 
Smiling, she shakes her head: "It is very late." 

And Clyde makes a gesture with the hand, as does a 
sportsman answering the ovations of a many-thousand crowd.
 

25.
The handsome crystal tumbler stands on the table filled with 
the untouched chocolate.
 
 
26.
With a firm tread, humming the melody of that "hymn of 
happiness", that same melody which passes as a theme motif 
through all his happy days, Clyde walks down the street, 
already deep in snow, smiling to passers-by. The snow is 
whirling down and pouring, a frenzied whirling blizzard.
 
 
27.
He carefully enters the porch of Roberta's home and knocks 
at the door. The door is immediately opened and Roberta, 
still dressed in her day-dress, lets him into her room.
 

28.
Her face is so very sad and frightened that it makes Clyde 
scrutinise her closely. "Do you remember, Clyde, you said 
that if ever a misfortune happened to me ... you would help 
me?" 

"A misfortune?" asks Clyde, and he sees how Roberta sits 
down on the bed lifting her hands to the waist of her dress.
 
And again from some unknown source is heard the mocking 
joyous laughter of a child.
 
 
REEL 8
 
 
1.
A druggist's sign. The show window of a drug store. In it, 
among the array of medicine and bottles, the cardboard 
cutouts of nurses' figures and happy feeding children; this 
is an advertisement for milk, that for purgatives or candy. 
Hanging over the glass of the drug store doors, a bright 
illustrated sign of a naked little boy and his sympathetic 
father.  Looking through the window is a nurse and her 
little charges, the children laughing, their attention 
caught by a gaily-coloured advertisement.
 
And at the entrance to the drug store stands Clyde, 
uncertain and embarrassed. He looks through the glass, 
trying to inspect the clerk behind the counter, and he 
sees --
 
 
2.
-- a woman stands behind the counter, a saleslady.
 

3.
Clyde grits his teeth, looks around him, and crosses the 
road, stopping at another drug store. Looking inside, he 
sees a man. Trembling with anxiety, he enters, and at the 
same time through the radio loudspeaker is heard a song sung 
by children in a treble. Through the window we are able to 
see Clyde approach the counter, take off his hat, and, 
embarrassed, ask something of the druggist.
 
And as Clyde's embarrassment increases, so does the volume 
of the children's voices increase in the song over the radio. 
The druggist having listened to Clyde, shakes his head, and 
Clyde comes out onto the street. And at that moment, as 
Clyde opens the door of the drug store, the radio children 
finish singing, and are heard laughing over something in 
sheer exuberance.
 
 
4.
With quick steps, Clyde crosses past some little knots of 
children playing on the street. He stops at yet another drug 
store, and looks in through the window.
 

5. 
A grey-haired, bewhiskered man is sitting there reading the 
newspaper. Next to the drug store is a phonograph shop. In 
its show window are cutouts of children and dogs listening 
to a record. And, within the shop, a record is being played 
of a child's recitation, touching and yet at the same time 
slightly comical.
 
Turning away from the window, Clyde enters the drug store 
and --

While the child's voice from the radio shop continues 
declaiming how it loves its father and its mother, the 
sunshine and the forest, Clyde once again takes off his hat, 
bends over the counter, and he repeats his question to the 
elderly man. And we see the greyhaired man grow angry, wave 
his hands about and raise his voice at Clyde; what he says 
we cannot hear through the glass of the window, but we do 
see Clyde grow confused, excuse himself and come out onto 
the street again.
 
 
6.
With quick steps Clyde makes his way through the noisy, busy 
streets. The lights are now lit. Gleams of light appear from 
the buildings, as lamps are turned on, illuminating the 
various signs, advertisements and illustrations in the shops. 
In the background is an enormous advertisement for milk, the 
huge, laughing head of a child. Clyde stops before it, 
thinking where to go. He looks around him -- on the roof of a 
tall building a children's jelly is being advertised.
 
 
7. 
As though feeling pursued by all these advertisements and 
signs, Clyde retreats into a dark alley. He still walks 
slowly, not knowing where he should turn. He has to stop at 
the corner of the street to let a heavy truck pass by, and 
as the truck passes, he notices that he is facing an obscure 
little drug store. Something, perhaps a man-of-the-world air 
in the bearing of the druggist, inspires him with confidence. 
An expression of resolution comes into his face, and he 
enters....
 
 
8.
An ambulance with its red cross and long whining siren 
dashes through the little street. The whine of the siren 
dies away.
 
Clyde comes out of the drug store; as soon as he has passed 
from the view of the druggist he thrusts a small packet that 
he is holding deep into his coat pocket. He looks happier 
and his walk is firmer. He goes back through the streets he 
has passed, his hand firmly gripping the package inside his 
pocket. 

It is late. The lights fade, and in the growing darkness the 
laughing posters of the children are no longer visible.
 
 
9.
Clyde goes into Roberta's room. She is so frightened and 
worried over what has befallen her that she no longer pays 
any attention to her looks. She is untidy, dressed in a 
provincial-looking dressing gown and her movements are 
bewildered and absent-minded. Clyde opens up the package, 
and takes out a bottle from it. Roberta snatches it from his 
hands, lifts it to the light, and reads the instructions on 
it. "We must hope that it will all plan itself out," Clyde 
says. They arrange that the following day, on his way to the 
factory, he will pass Roberta's house, and if everything 
works out well, she will raise the blinds, if not, the 
blinds will only be drawn halfway. He kisses her, but his 
tender words are only mumbled. 

"Oh, Clyde, Clyde!" Roberta cries, as she is left alone.
 
 
10.
A Clyde who now appears much relieved enters his own room, 
to find waiting for him on his table several small packages 
from a smart shop. He reads an accompanying note from 
Sondra, her good wishes and greetings. These parcels she has 
sent him in token of their friendship, and in them he finds 
the smartest ties, and dainty handkerchiefs to be worn in 
the pocket.
 
 
11.
Roberta is lying on the couch in her room. Her cheeks have 
fallen in -- the pupils of her eyes have grown immensely 
large -- her face is as white as linen -- there are deep 
blue circles under her eyes and the lips are parched. 
Suffering terrible pain, Roberta lies there on the couch.
 

12.
The blinds of Roberta's room are drawn only halfway.
 

13.
And Clyde stands looking at them on the other side of the 
street in horror and consternation.
 
 
14. 
The blinds are drawn only halfway.
 

15. 
Clyde goes down the street and stops at a men's goods store. 
He stands for a few seconds before the door, obviously 
nerving himself for a terrific effort, and suddenly goes in.
 

16. 
He pleasantly greets the salesman, clearly an old 
acquaintance. Absent-mindedly picking out a tie, he lets 
drop, as though a matter of little importance -- "By the way 
-- I wanted to ask you about something. Perhaps you could 
tell me. One of the workmen at the factory, a young fellow 
recently married, is very much worried over the condition of 
his wife." 

The salesman's face has grown annoyed; Clyde goes on, his 
nervousness, which he still endeavours to conceal, 
increasing:

"I don't know why they always come to me about such things 
-- they seem to think I am very experienced --" 

But Clyde's laugh rings false. The salesman continues to 
smile with that smile that clearly covers annoyance, and he 
gives an even greater attention to Clyde, who adds: "I'm new 
in this city, I don't know anyone, and so I can't help him. 
But you've been here a long time, so I thought you might be 
able to put me in a position to advise him." 

The salesman looks around him, then comes nearer to Clyde 
and says: "Of course, I will be glad to help you, Mr. 
Griffiths. Continue, what is the matter?" 

And they start to whisper in very low voices, too low for 
the words to be distinguishable. Clyde is seen taking out a 
notebook, and writing down an address. Then he sighs with 
relief.

"I'll tell the man not to mention anyone's name," Clyde says 
as he thanks the salesman and exits from the shop.
 
Left alone, the salesman opens his eyes wide and whistles. 
He is in possession of a fine piece of gossip and he knows 
it.
 
 
17. 
Stealthily, to avoid remark, Clyde once more enters the 
house of Roberta. A lamp is turned on in her room. From 
outside the window, we hear Roberta's voice speaking: "No, 
Clyde, I won't go alone. I'm too afraid. I shouldn't be able 
to explain anything to him. I shouldn't know what to do, nor 
how to begin or anything. You must go with me and we'll tell 
him everything together -- or I won't go at all. No matter 
what happens." 

"Hush! Hush!" Clyde is heard to say, and then the words 
grow indistinguishable.
 
And indistinctly, maybe from one of the top floors, are 
heard the feeble cries of a sick child. The child moans 
pitifully. And against the light of the room lamp of 
Roberta, Clyde's silhouette is seen as he pulls down the 
blinds, and it grows dark all round.
 

18.
Roberta is half lying on the bed. Clyde sits opposite her on 
the couch. Pale, thin, Roberta stares at the light of the 
lamp, and says slowly: "I'll let you go." But, having said 
this, she is unable longer to restrain herself and large 
tears trickle down her wan face. 

In the painful pause that follows we hear that someone is 
walking down the corridor, shuffling in bedroom slippers. 
Doors creak and we hear that an attempt is being made to 
soothe the child. Roberta turns off the light. A pause.
 
In the darkness, they continue their conversation. She must 
not be a drag on him, Roberta says, she is ready to face it 
and afterwards she will try to make her way alone in the 
world. Not quite alone, says Clyde, he will earn more money 
and be able to help her. No, says Roberta, she knows it will 
be alone and she is ready. But what if the doctor be 
unwilling?...
 
Again they hear the wailing of the sick child, a monotonous, 
low wail and sit silent, staring unseeing.
 

19.
And they still stare unseeing, but now they travel in a 
streetcar, and their stare is at the blank unreflecting 
windows, behind which lies the town in darkness.
 
"Did you find out where the streetcar stops -- we won't have 
to walk far?" asks Roberta.
 
"It's quite near. A quarter of a mile, not more," answers 
Clyde.
 
An atmosphere of misery surrounds them as they sit in the 
streetcar. That cold and cut-off feeling of being the only 
passengers in a streetcar passing through dark and isolated 
streets. The hoarse clanging of the streetcar bell.

"Is he old or young -- do you know?" asks Roberta. Clyde 
shakes his head.
 
"It would be easier for me if he were old." 

They are silent again. Again the coldness and the enervating 
clanging of the bell.

"Oh," moans Roberta, "if only the doctor is willing." 

The streetcar passes into the darkness.


20.
Roberta is seated in the depths of a huge armchair in the 
doctor's room. Through the half-opened door of his 
consulting room the doctor and his family can be seen 
finishing a copious dinner. Roberta is nervous. Now the 
doctor is washing his hands in an adjoining room. Roberta 
closes her eyes.
 
The old doctor is in the room. He is absent-minded "What is 
your complaint, how can I help you?" he asks. Roberta opens 
her eyes. She makes as if to answer, then, abashed, drops 
her head. 

"Calm yourself, child," says the old doctor and, passing the 
table, he comes and sits down beside her.
 
"Your name? Mrs ...?" 

She answers: "Howard." 

"Wife of Mister...?"
 
 
21.
Clyde, nervously walking up and down the pavement, before 
the doctor's railing. He stops, bites his lips, rubs his 
hands and nervously looks up at the house.
 

22.
The doctor stands in the centre of the room, and says to the 
confused Roberta:

"To start with, my conscience will not permit me to comply 
with your request. Secondly, such an operation is dangerous 
from a medical point of view, without even taking into 
consideration that I should be breaking our State laws as 
well as ethical laws ...." 

With an effort Roberta stands erect, she presses her hands 
together in anguish.
 
"You do not understand! You do not understand!" Roberta 
says, trying to keep her tears back. "I told you an untruth, 
I have no husband; it must be done, it must be done!"
 
 
23.
Clyde feels as though he had been lashed by a whip; he slips 
behind some shrubs with panicky, quick movements, as he sees 
an automobile pass by.
 

24. 
The doctor's door slowly opens, and Roberta, broken by his 
refusal, comes out. Mechanically she goes out into the 
street and goes past the shrubs behind which Clyde is 
concealed. He watches her, and from the way she is walking, 
and the expression of her face, he realises what has 
happened. But he dare not leave his hiding place, because of 
the cars passing down the street, and the pedestrians on the 
pavements.
 
 
25.
Roberta, as though hypnotised, goes further and further down 
the street, unseeingly, having forgotten about Clyde.
 
 
26.
When the street empties, Clyde runs after her and joins her 
at a deserted spot.
 
At his question, Roberta only shakes her head, and wipes the 
tears from her eyes. Completely bewildered and helpless, 
they both stand there.
 
"You can leave me after, but now -- you have to help me -- 
you have to --"

And she starts to cry again. Clyde does not answer, and 
merely drops his head. Roberta is wringing her hands, she 
shakes her head and continues pitifully: 

"Oh, don't you see, I can't be alone with a child on my 
hands, and no husband!"
 
 
27.
And around them, a new spring. Over the factory chimneys 
appears a soft, full May moon.
 
 
28.
They reach Roberta's house.
 
"You said yourself you don't know anything else we can do 
and every extra day is dangerous for me. There's nothing 
left for it, you must marry me -- right away."
 
Cowardly, and in his anxiety really sorry for her, Clyde 
nods his head in confirmation of her words. In agony of 
realisation he closes his eyes.
 
His eyes closed, standing alone in another place, on another 
street, Clyde nods his head.
 
 
REEL 9
 

1.
In a ravine, near the road, a miserable, half-fallen-in, 
poor farmer's house.
 
An old woman is washing the laundry by the porch of this 
house; behind the open window Roberta finishes a hat she has 
been making. She tries it on, and talks to the old woman:
 
"What would you say, mother, if I suddenly got married?" 

Continuing with her washing, the woman laughs at Roberta's 
question, and shakes her head.
 
"Oh, now I understand why you needed a new dress. Who is 
he?" 

"I can't name him -- yet, mother. But I think it will be 
soon." 

"Oh!" says the mother, surprised and pleased.
 
 
2.
And at this moment an old, broken-down cart to which a thin, 
bony horse is harnessed, comes up to the house. "Good day, 
Father," says Roberta.
 
"Hello, Bobby," answers a tall thin man, his tired worn face 
smiling up at his daughter.
 
The mother leaves her washing and goes across the dirty yard 
towards her husband. And Roberta, resting a piece of paper 
on the window sill, starts a letter.
 

3.
But when she begins to think, the happiness fades from her 
face, there is sorrow in her eyes and for a long while she 
looks through the window, her hand holding up her head.
 
Misery, dirt and poverty are to be seen through the window.
 
The letter:


	Darling Clyde -- It was hard for me to 
	leave alone -- as you know. But I am 
	trying to calm myself, and now that we 
	have decided everything, and you will 
	come for me --


-- is written on the sheet of paper.
 
Along the dirty glass of the window, buzzing, crawl flies 
trying to escape into freedom.
 

	But everything here is lovely -- 
	green trees, everything is blooming.
 
 
And again Roberta looks with sorrowful eyes through the 
window of the poverty stricken house. Among the darkness and 
the dirt of the yard one thin flowering plant is blooming. 
Several weak little trees are visible behind the fence.


	I can hear the buzzing of bees in 
	the garden under my window.


Roberta whispers to herself what she has written.
 
 
4.
"Bobby, you are wanted at the telephone," she hears her 
mother's voice from the street. She runs out of the house, 
crosses the road, runs into the entrance of a post office.
Excited, gasping or breath, she asks over the telephone:
 
"Clyde, is it you? Oh, it's terrible, terrible, Clyde. I 
can't stand it any longer."
 
-- and, after hearing his answer, made in a voice of excuses, 
she continues the conversation:
 
"Oh, don't be angry. Clyde, don't be angry. I don't know how 
to control myself. But whatever happens, you must, you must 
do what we planned, Clyde. I'll write you a long letter, 
because it helps me when I write to you. Clyde!... 
Clyde!..."

She hears no answer through the phone, calls him several 
times, calls out his name, then, disappointed at the 
unfinished conversation, hangs up the receiver and closes 
her eyes, because the tears are rolling down her cheeks.
 

5.
Slowly Clyde hangs up the receiver, and exits from the 
telephone booth onto the verandah of the restaurant of a 
summer resort. He is in white tennis kit, a flower in his 
buttonhole, well-combed and handsome. 

"Hurry, hurry, Clyde," Sondra cries out from a sports model 
standing in the road by the restaurant. 

Clyde's dark expression is replaced by one of pleasure, and 
on the run he jumps into the centre of the car, into a group 
of young girls, merry and bright.
 

6.
Roberta returns, entering the door of the decaying farm.
 
 
7.
As the car drives, it drives into a new dream with Sondra, 
this time a dream of the joys of sport and the bright 
outdoors. Swimming, dancing, diving, racing, shooting, golf, 
tennis all are blended into a pictorial symphony that 
matches with a symphony of music, laughter and the natural 
sounds. And each is instinct with Sondra, and the 
personality of Sondra, and contributes to her growing charm 
for Clyde. Each scene, also, occasions some opportunity for 
intimacy. Now, on a tennis court, 15-love, 30-love, 40-love 
rings out, the syllable of "love" accentuated. Now he is 
pleading with her, on the crests of the waves, as they swim 
side by side, to run away with him, now immediately and, 
though she refuses, the coquetry of her refusal chases the 
gloom from his eyes. 

Ever the composition of the symphony rises, increasing their 
intimacy, and at last, as final movement, they are once more 
in a car, and we see flash past a white roadster, in the 
front seats Clyde and Sondra.
 

8.
In the back seats is a group of laughing young people. The 
car stops at a crossroads, and Sondra asks Clyde to find out 
the road from someone.
 

9.
Clyde goes down into the ravine, to a miserable, dilapidated 
house; on the post in front of it he sees the proprietor's 
name written in printed capitals TITUS ALDEN on a small 
board.
 
Clyde is scared, hesitates and is about to flee, but 
Roberta's father comes up to him and asks him how he can be 
of help.
 
"How can we get to Twelfth Lake?" Clyde asks hurriedly, 
impatient to retreat.
 
And the sickly old man starts a long, slow, detailed 
explanation. And Clyde, barely hearing him, sees the pitiful 
ruins of the old house, and then, averting his head from it, 
he sees at the crossroads the dazzling car, and the laughing 
Sondra.
 

10.
Without waiting to hear the end from Alden, he runs back to 
the car, white and with compressed lips. He is anxious, and 
his hand trembles as he points the way, and Sondra surprised 
at his alarm quickly starts up the car.
 

11.
The car, with a roaring of its powerful engine, flies past 
the house. The father stamps heavily in. Roberta looks up 
from her letter and asks casually: 

"Father, who was it?"
 
"I don't know, Bobby. Some rich no-accounts who lost their 
road."

The sound of the engine fades as the car recedes ever 
farther away.
 
 					FADE OUT
 
 
12.
Clyde throws open the door of his rooms. He is still white, 
still worried, still distressed. He goes up to the table and 
sees on it a letter, in Roberta's handwriting.
 
Annoyed and without pleasure he opens the envelope, and 
turns immediately to the last lines: 


	We must get married. I insist on it. I 
	have the right to. You have allowed all 
	this time to pass in silence and unless 
	I hear from you before noon Friday all 
	your friends shall know how you have 
	treated me. But I will not wait and suffer 
	one hour more.


Dazed, he stares at the letter, then lets his head drop 
forward onto it, his eyes closed.
 
Then he raises his head again. His hands pull the letter 
towards him.
 
And as it moves it discloses a newspaper that lay beneath 
it. Immediately in front of him is the paragraph:
 

ACCIDENTAL DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT LAKE PASS 
UPTURNED CANOE AND FLOATING HATS REVEAL 
    PROBABLE LOSS OF TWO LIVES.
 
 
He reads it at first mechanically, without comprehending.
 

The girl's body has been found but remains unidentified. 
The second victim has not yet been recovered. Fifteen 
years ago in this spot a similar accident occurred, but the 
body of the man was never found.
 

13. 
Clyde finishes reading the article, throws the paper off the 
table, turns out the lamp, and sits wearily down on the 
couch. And suddenly he hears a whisper: 

"And what if Roberta and you --" 

And in the dark corner, he imagines he sees an overset boat. 
Jumping up, Clyde turns on the light. 

He sits down on the couch again, nervous and shivering, he 
picks up the paper he had thrown away and rereads the 
article. And while he is rereading it with wide-open eyes, 
the whisper from afar gradually creeps up till it forms the 
word: "KILL". 

In a strange, gradual way the phrase spoken by the whisper 
forms and forms until at last it pronounces and repeats the 
whole word: "KILL! KILL!" 

And from this moment the action begins to work along the 
line of the thoughts of a distracted man, leaping from one 
fact to another, suddenly stopping -- departing from sane 
logic, distorting the real union between things and sounds; 
all on the background of the insistent and infinite 
repetition of scraps of the description in the newspaper.

In this scene, in which the idea of murder is born to Clyde, 
he acts separately from the background, which keeps changing 
after him, either dashing in a mad tempo when the background 
is slow, then falling when there is no reason to fall, then 
unsteady on a rock, then transformed into stone-like 
motionlessness in the midst of a busy street.
 
With the aid of the technical use of transparencies this 
effect of an inharmony between the actions of Clyde and his 
surroundings can be attained. Around him is first his room, 
then a street in busy movement, or the lake, or the mean 
dwelling of Roberta, or the summer residence of Sondra at 
Twelfth Lake, or the machines in the factory, or running 
trains, or the stormy sea, in each setting of which he 
moves, his movements being discordant with the scene.
 
And the same with the sounds. These are likewise distorted, 
and a whisper becomes the whistle of a storm, and the storm 
cries out "Kill", or the whistle of the storm becomes the 
movement of the street, the wheels of a streetcar, the cries 
of a crowd, the horns of motorcars, and all beat out the 
word: "Kill! Kill!" And the street noises become the roar 
of the factory machines, and the machines also roar out 
"Kill! Kill!"
 
Or the roar of the machines descends to a low whisper and 
it whispers again: "Kill! Kill!" And at this moment a 
pleasant, unemotional voice slowly reads the newspaper 
article: Fifteen years ago a similar accident occurred, but 
the body of the man was never found.
 

14.
And at the climax of this symphony of madness Clyde jumps 
out of his nightmare, perspiring, dishevelled, excited. He 
runs to a telephone booth and calls up Roberta. Through the 
phone he speaks to her in a hoarse voice. 

"This is Clyde." 

He tries to put tenderness into his voice but in his effort 
there is too much affection. His voice, through the phone, 
sounds loving and soft; it seems unbelievable that a man in 
his state of frenzy could be so kind. 

"I'll come to you, Roberta darling. You must wait for me two 
days. The 3rd of July I'll meet you at 15th Station at 
eleven o'clock, and we'll go rowing on the lake, and we'll 
get married, we'll get married." 

And with trembling hand Clyde hangs up the receiver, and he 
leans against the wall, so as not to fall, while Roberta's 
sorrowful face lights up in trust and happiness.
 

REEL 10
 
 
1.
On a small railway station, away from the crowds of people, 
Roberta is sitting on her trunk.
 

2.
Clyde is seen coming along a side street leading to the 
station. He is walking slowly, carefully, making himself 
inconspicuous behind the trucks of baggage, pausing behind 
large baskets -- he sees Roberta and, concealed, watches 
her.
 

3.
Roberta is pale and thin. She looks pathetic, and is 
dressed in a new, homemade costume. Her hat is also new. 

Clyde's face expresses both shame and dislike. Nevertheless, 
he takes a few steps forward, so that she may catch sight 
of him.
 
Roberta sees him. A happy look comes into her face and she 
goes to the ticket office to buy her ticket. And as she 
leaves the office --

Clyde approaches it, and buys his own ticket. 

She watches him, notices his light-grey suit, his new straw 
hat, the highly polished shoes, his grip and his portable 
camera. And a feeling of pride floods her at the sight of 
him. She smiles, and turns her head away from him, 
pretending to be a stranger, as though she did not know him.

Clyde starts, because it seems to him that an old man in a 
worn suit, with a bird cage wrapped up in paper, is looking 
at him with suspicion, not taking his eyes off him.

Clyde's knees are weak, and his hands are trembling. While 
waiting for the train he paces up and down the platform, 
starting nervously at every engine whistle.
 

4.
With a great roar the train pulls in.
 
Roberta gets off her trunk, lifts it. In her present 
condition it is heavy for her. Besides, the day is very hot. 

Clyde sees this, but, turning away, he enters the first 
carriage.
 
Roberta gets into the last carriage.
 

5.
Clyde places his grip on the rack, hiding its initials C.G.
 

6.
Roberta, smiling happily, sits down by the window, in the 
sunlight.


7.
The piston on the engine wheels starts to shadowbox in the 
shadow of the engine on the platform as the train starts to 
move. It leaves the station.
 

8.
The wheels of the train beat out their usual rhythm, and to 
Roberta they sing joyfully. She likens it to the rhythm of 
the wedding march. She smiles up at the sun, the fields, 
the rivulets that fly past.
 

9. 
Clyde is sitting in a dark corner of the compartment. He is 
quite near the engine, and its roar, its hiss and the chime 
of its bells fill him with dread -- their sounds appear dark 
and sinister to him -- and in their rhythm he can only hear 
the awful word "Kill -- Kill --"
 
 
10.
The rhythm of the wedding march, the joyous beat, struggles 
with the rhythm of death. "Kill -- Kill --" beats the engine 
to Clyde. Full of hope is the rhythm to Roberta. The 
conflict rises, the tension grows faster, faster -- until, 
suddenly --
 
 
11.
A long and piercing whistle of the engine.
 
The rhythm ceases and the train stops at a station. Clyde 
gets out of the first carriage. Roberta gets out of the last 
one.

By different paths they leave the station, and meet in a 
deserted alley, where there are no passers-by.
 

12.
Clyde smiles, and the artificial, difficult smile makes his 
face look like a mask.
 
Roberta is radiant, and trustingly she approaches him. "We 
could get married here. There's a mission down the street. 
What do you think?" asks Roberta. 

And Clyde listens to her, and in listening he hears the 
voice of the preacher at the mission. The cadences intoned 
are as the singsong of the mission of his youth, and as he 
listens it changes to the singing of a hymn, and the thin 
voices of bystanders take it up as in his youth, and this 
fills him at once with a great shame and disgust and the 
desire to move further away.
 
"No, let's wait till Sharon, after we've been to the lakes,"
he answers.
 
And Roberta is so happy she does not think of opposing him, 
nor does his conduct seem peculiar to her, and she follows 
him.


13
A large bus is travelling along a wooded road, it slows 
down at the turns and enters second gear as it goes up the 
hills.
 

14.
Roberta and Clyde are sitting side by side in the bus. 

Roberta is bright with joy and, even in her simple costume, 
looks like a bride on her way to the altar. 

Clyde's face is also smiling, but his knees tremble and he 
is unable to calm himself.
 
The bus conductor approaches with the tickets. Clyde 
purchases two, exactly counting his money.
 

15.
The bus plunges into a deep forest. Its wheels cross the 
quick-running streams, its noise frightens the young rabbits 
and chipmunks as they run across the road, its horn echoes 
loud in the forest.
 

16.
The bus conductor asks him: "First time here?" 

But Clyde, in his nervousness, is unable to answer. 

"Yes, we're here for the first time," Roberta answers for 
him.
 
"Going to the lake at Big Bittern?" asks the conductor. 

And suddenly Clyde breaks into the conductor's question, 
apparently for no reason at all. "Tell me, are there many 
people there today?" 

And, having asked this strange question, Clyde, embarrassed, 
does not hear the conductor's answer to it.
 

17 
The surface of Big Bittern.
 
Pools of the inky black surface of the silent water. The 
dark reflection of the pines.
 
Boats trembling on the motionless surface of the water. 
Their gunwales against a rude landing stage at the foot of 
steps rising to the small hotel. The beautiful panorama of 
the lake.
 

18.
Standing by the landing stage are Clyde and Roberta. They 
have just descended from the bus.
 
"How pretty -- how beautiful it is!" exclaims Roberta. 

Suddenly the hotel proprietor appears from behind the bus. 
Sprung into view as if by magic, he busily praises the 
weather, greets his guests.
 
Clyde notices that there are few people about and none to be 
seen upon the lake. Too late, he notices that the proprietor, 
praising his kitchen, has taken his grip from him and that 
Roberta is following the proprietor into the hotel. He makes 
a movement as if to get the grip back, but thinks better of 
it, and with a strange, hypnotised step, follows them.
 

19. 
Open, the white pages of the hotel register stare 
threateningly at him.
 
Clyde grows paler; setting himself, he signs a fictitious 
name -- Carl Golden -- keeping his initials (C.G.) and 
adding and wife. Roberta, noting this, feels a pang of joy 
that she hides before those in the hotel. 

"It's very hot. I'll leave my hat and jacket here -- we'll 
be coming back early," says Roberta and she leaves both on a
hanger in the hall.
 
 
20.
Losing his head and ignoring these incidents, Clyde takes 
his grip from the surprised proprietor and goes towards the 
boat stand. As he places the grip in a boat, he explains to 
the man: "We have our lunch in it." 

Too preoccupied to note a remark by the boatman, he helps 
Roberta in and, taking hold of the oars, pulls off from the 
shore.
 

21.
Thick pine forests line the shore, and behind them are to 
be seen the tops of the hills. 

The water of the lake is calm and dark.
 
"What peace, what tranquillity" -- says Roberta. 

Rowing, then stopping, Clyde listens to this silence, looks 
about him. There is no one around.
 

22.
As the boat glides into the darkness of the lake, so Clyde 
glides into the darkness of his thoughts. Two voices 
struggle with him -- one: "Kill -- kill!" the echo of his 
dark resolve, the frantic cry of all his hopes of Sondra and 
society; the other: "Don't -- don't kill!" the expression of 
his weakness and his fears, of his sadness for Roberta and 
his shame before her. In the scenes that follow, these 
voices ripple in the waves that lap from the oars against 
the boat; they whisper in the beating of his heart; they 
comment, underscoring, upon the memories and alarums that 
pass through his mind; each ever struggling with the other 
for mastery, first one dominating, then weakening before the 
onset of its rival.
 
They murmur as he pauses on his oars to ask: "Did you speak 
to anyone in the hotel?" 

"No. Why do you ask?" 

"Nothing. I thought maybe you might have met someone."
 
 
23.
The voices shudder as Roberta smiles and shakes her head in 
answer, playfully letting her hand fall into the water.
 
"It isn't cold," she says.
 
Clyde stops rowing and also feels the water. But his hand 
springs back as though it had received an electric shock.
 
 
24. 
As he photographs her, they preoccupy him. While they 
picnic, or pick water lilies, they possess him. As he jumps 
ashore a moment to put down his grip, they rise and torment 
him.
 
 
25.
"Kill -- kill," and Roberta, happy, freshened by her faith 
in him, is radiant with the joy of living. "Don't kill -- 
don't kill," and as the boat drifts almost soundlessly by 
the dark pines and Clyde's face is racked by the struggle 
within him, there rises the long-drawn-out booming cry of a 
water bird.
 
 
26.
"Kill -- kill" triumphs and there passes through his mind 
the memory of his mother. "Baby -- baby" comes his childhood 
and as "Don't kill -- don't kill" rises he hears "Baby boy 
-- baby boy" in the so different voice of Sondra, and at the 
image of Sondra and the thought of all that surrounds her 
"Kill -- kill" grows harder and insistent, and with the 
thought of Roberta importunate it grows still harsher and 
shriller, and then the face of Roberta now, aglow with faith 
in him and her great relief, and the sight of the hair he 
has so loved to caress and "Don't -- don't kill" grows and 
tenderly supplants the other and now is calm and firm and 
final. Ending the conflict. Sondra is lost forever. Never, 
never now will he have the courage to kill Roberta.
 
 
27.
And we see Clyde as he sits in blank despair and the misery 
of renunciation. He raises his face from his hands.

An oar drags in the water. In his left hand he holds the 
camera.
 
And Clyde's face is so wild with misery and so stricken by 
the struggle that has passed behind it that Roberta crawls 
anxiously towards him and takes his hand in hers.
 

28.
Clyde opens his eyes suddenly and sees near him her anxious, 
tender face. With an involuntary movement of revulsion he 
pulls back his hand and jumps up quick