Time Out of Mind (1947) - full transcript

- Yes, this
is how I remember it.

This stretch of sea and rock and beach

that is Thunder Point
on the coast of Maine.

This is how I remember it
on that day in July 1889,

the day the clipper
ship Rainbow came home.

There on the hill stood the house,

solid and austere as
the men who'd built it.

Men of the sea, fathers and sons,

the Christopher Fortunes.

I'd gone out to get some lobsters,

Chris's favorite kind.



He'd shown me where to find them

the day after mother and I
had arrived from England.

And now Chris was coming
home from his first voyage.

Home to his father, to
his sister, Clarissa.

To me.

For days, my mother,
who's the housekeeper,

had kept us all scurrying,
preparing the celebration dinner

for the return of a Fortune ship.

The Rainbow was due in port that morning.

Annie the cook would be in a tizzy,

grumbling at Jake, the fish
boy and Penny, the maid.

I hurried up to the house.

Chris was coming home.

- Kate, I thought
you'd never get back.



- Oh, I'm sorry, mother.

Hello, Jake.
- Hello.

- Don't stand there yapping.

Give me those lobsters. The Rainbow's in.

- Already?

- Yeah, saw her drop
her hook in the harbor

about an hour ago.

- Captain and Rissa have
already gone down the warp.

- Gracious, the biscuits!
Where's the yeast?

- Well, it ain't in my hair. Go get it.

- Had a nice haul this morning,
about 800 pounds rock cod.

- 800 Pounds?

Jake, that'll make you a heap of money.

- About $11 if I sell 'em all.

- And you know, you can make even more

if you could salt down the
ones you can't sell now.

- That's what I've been figuring.

I'm gonna build me a salt house

soon as I can scrape up enough money.

- Getting a regular old
money grabber, Jake.

- A man has to, Kate,

if his heart set on the things he wants.

- Unless he's one of those lucky ones.

Does no more and get born to him.

- Are you inferring that--

- Not inferring anything.

Just that my old man never
coddled me in cotton wool.

- You know perfectly well
that Chris didn't want to go.

But when they forced him,

he signed on the Rainbow
as an ordinary seaman.

No favors asked.

- Hey.
- They're here?

- Going around the front.

Better start some hot water.

- Hot water?

- And they'll be needing some old sheets.

- Old sheets, George?

- For bandages.

Kate, go fetch Mr. Christopher's razor.

- Mr. Christopher's razor?

- The doctor'll be wanting it.

Jake, go give 'em a
hand with the stretcher.

- George, what's happened?

- Why, it's Mr. Christopher.

- I'll put him in mother's old room.

- Put him in his own room.

- Rissa, what happened?

- Not now, Kate. We've got to fix his bed.

- And then what did the
say?

- Oh, nothing much.

Ran into dirty weather,

storm blew out most of the
top zone, rigging in gear,

whipping around like a pack
of snakes with the itch.

- Gracious, they might
all have been killed.

- Uh-huh. But only Chris got it.

Nasty whack on the back of his head.

Didn't come to yet.

- Poor lad.

- He didn't wanna go to sea. Remember?

- There just ain't no salt water in him.

- Oh but, Annie, the Fortunes
have always been sailing men.

The captain, his father
and his father's father.

It's only natural the
captain would expect Chris

to go to sea.

- It ain't natural. A man can
only do what he's cut out for.

- Penny, hot water.

Mother, the bandages.

- How is he?

- I don't know. I haven't seen him yet.

Well, Jake?

- I don't know what
the doctor said, but...

he don't look so good to me.

- I won't be needing those things.

The less he's disturbed now, the better.

- What do you think, Doctor?

- It's hard to say.

I'd like to have a talk with the crew

and find out exactly how
it happened, and when.

If it's skull fracture,
it might be very serious.

The concussion is
definitely severe, but...

- You can be frank with me, Doctor.

- He's a sick boy. A very sick boy.

But until the symptoms are more
defined, we needn't despair.

Yes, Rissa?

- Isn't there anything we can
do for you now, Dr. William?

- Nothing now. I'll drop in tonight.

The important thing now is rest and quiet.

- And then where did you stop, Mr. Adams?

- Hawaii.

- Oh, you must have found
it a very exotic island,

profused with strange,
sweet-smelling flowers.

- Oh, no, Miss Clarissa.
- No?

- I was on watch.

- Oh.

I'm very sorry, but you'll
have to excuse me, Mr. Adams.

- Certainly, Miss Clarissa.
- I only be a moment.

- Clarissa.

- Yes, Father.

- Aren't you going to play for us?

- I'm sorry, but I'm
terribly out of practice.

- You always played when we have company.

Mr. Adams.

- Yes, sir.

- I'm sure Mr. Adams will be delighted

to turn your pages for you.

- Of course, sir.

- Very well, Father.

- Tradition or no tradition,

it just ain't human with
poor Chris upstairs.

- They're hard bitten men, the
Fortunes. They always were.

- Kate, the coffee.

- Mother.

- Yes, dear.

- Will you reserve the coffee?
I ought to be up with Chris.

- Kate, please. The captain.

- Coffee, sir?
- Thank you.

- Captain Fortune. Oh, Captain Fortune.

- Penny.
- I'm sorry, sir.

But it's Mr. Chris.

He's muttering and he's mumbling,

and I'm afraid to stay alone with him--

- All right, all right.

The doctor will be here shortly.

Now I'll go back to the room.

- Yes, sir.

- Gentlemen, it's nothing. Really nothing.

My coffee.

Kate.

Cream and sugar.

- Mother.

- Chopin?

- No.

No, not Chopin.

Something my brother wrote.

Gentlemen, you will have
to excuse me. Goodnight.

- Goodnight.
- Goodnight, Miss Clarissa.

- The doctor doesn't want anyone

in there right now, Miss Rissa.

- How is he, Penny?

- Well, it was terrible
when he started talking

out of his head.

That's what I tried to tell your father.

It was just awful, Miss Rissa.

- You can go now, Penny.

- There's not much change, Rissa.

He's still in a deep coma,
but nothing alarming as yet.

If he comes to in the next 48 hours,

he's got a pretty good chance.

In the meantime, just watch
him. Watch him carefully.

- I will, Doctor. Of course I will.

- Of course I'm no doctor,

but I'm remembering the
time that old man Simkins

got it in the head with a launching block.

Came to all right in 48 hours,

and then he keeled over,
deader than a mackerel.

- Poor Mr. Chris. Wouldn't it be awful--

- Penny!

When did the doctor say?

- The latest tomorrow morning. Kate.

- I couldn't sleep anymore, Mother.

- Been running yourself ragged

the last couple of days, you ask me.

- I'll take this up to Rissa.

- Won't do you any good.

Sent back her supper
without touching a bite.

- That girl, always playing
the martyr for Chris.

- You know Rissa, Mother. She always will.

- I suppose so.

Even as a child,

she seemed to resent anyone
doing anything for Chris,

but herself.

- You're right, Ms. Fernald.

I can remember her
always snapping at Kate.

- Hello.

Hello, Kate.

- Chris.

Rissa.

Rissa.

- Hello, you two.

- Is that you, Chris?

- How'd you know who it was?

- By the way you came up to the piano.

Same as you always did as a youngster,

kinda awed and hesitant like.

- Badly out of tune?

- Sweet as a nut now.

- Mind if I try?

- Oh, no. Go right ahead.

- Kate.

Come here.

Look.

- Well.

What are we going to tell Rissa?

What are you doing out of bed?

- What does it sound like?

- You know what the doctor
said? He said that--

- I know, I know.

- Please.

- Kate, this will do me more good

than all of doc's medicines.

Listen to this. Something new.

- Kate, you shouldn't have
let him get out of bed.

- But Rissa, it wasn't my fault. I--

- Kate has nothing to do with it.

When I heard Jim tuning the piano,

I simply couldn't stay
in my room any longer.

- But I was planning this
as a surprise for you.

Now you've spoiled it.

- I'm sorry, Rissa. I had no idea.

- All right, I forgive you.

But I want to do something for me.

- Of course, Rissa.

- Play this.

- That old thing I wrote for you?

You should know it by heart.

- Open it, please.

- What's this?

- A letter from Monsieur
Deval about your music.

- Pierre Deval, the
composer? You sent him this?

Rissa, you shouldn't have.

- Why not read what he says?

- "I found your brother's
composition very interesting,

though still vague and sometimes
not quite mature enough

in conception that the
nocturne, nevertheless,

gives proof of a strong musical
talent and imagination."

- Chris, isn't that wonderful?

- He's just trying to be polite, Kate.

This is nothing more than a
childish attempt to write music.

If only I could go to Paris,
study with a man like Deval,

maybe I could do something,
something worthwhile.

All these months at sea.

How I hated it.

The angry hiss of a running sea.

The bloom of the sails.

The scream of the rigging.

Always the double stroke
of the ship's bell.

Two bells.

Four bells. Six bells.

Eight bells.

Hour after hour, day after day.

Then at last, land.

Strange, fascinating ports.

Strange, fascinating people.

They sing. They sing the
wonderful songs of their fathers.

- Well, son, glad to
see you out of your bed.

- Thank you, Father.

I'm feeling much better,
getting stronger every day.

- Fine.

Then I think you might
start indulging yourself

in more strenuous exercise.

It'll stand you in better
stead on your next voyage.

- Father.

- Oh yes, Rissa. I forgot to tell you.

The Rainbow will be sailing
at the end of the month.

- Father, you're not
sending Chris to sea again?

- I am.

- Even after what he happen to him?

- Sailing men must expect
those things, like this.

- But, Father, surely
you must realize by now,

Chris is not a sailing man.

- He's my son.

- He'll never be a sailing man.

- He's still my son.

- If only you would let him go to Paris,

let him study his music.

- The Fortunes were never
tinklers on the piano.

- Father, you're not
going to destroy Chris.

You're not going to destroy
him like you did Mother.

- Riss!
- You did.

And you know you did.

You tried to force her into
your mold and you crushed her.

There's no heart in you, only
flint. Cold, jagged flint.

- Chris.

Chris, please come home.

- Is that another order
from Captain Fortune?

- He's getting suspicious about Rissa.

He's asking questions.

- What did you tell him?

- Nothing.

- Might just as well have
told him the whole story.

There's no use, Kate. Rissa
will come back empty handed.

And when the Rainbow sails the
morning after Thanksgiving,

I'll be on the quarter deck,

all fussed up in my brand new uniform.

Future captain, Christopher Fortune Ill.

- Why do you give up so easily?

- Because I know my Aunt
Linda. I know my whole family.

She's a Fortune

and all Fortunes are cut
out of the same cloth.

Rissa might just as well have stayed here

and asked my father for the
money to run away from home

and take me, the musical genius, to Paris.

- You're behaving like a child tonight.

- Why shouldn't I? I'm always
being treated like one.

- I'm sorry.

It's getting cold and you're not well.

- I'm fine, Kate. I feel wonderful.

Nothing like the sea air.

Nothing like it to toughen up a man.

Isn't that what my father always says?

- Listen.

Can you hear him?

- What?

- He's working his old
magic again tonight.

Beating on the Tom Toms, calling
to the rain and the winds

to come and lash the sea into a fury.

The old Indian chief.

I can always hear him,

ever since you first told me the legend.

You can hear him too, can't you, Chris?

- Yes, Kate. I can hear him now.

I'm going to die.

I'm gonna die when I go
out in the Rainbow again.

- Chris, don't say that.

- I don't mean dying in the easy way.

A man can live and still
be dead. Dead here inside.

Dead to all the things he needs to live.

Wind and the rains. The Sea
and the skies. The Tom Toms.

I can still hear them
tonight, but I'm afraid.

I'm afraid I won't hear them much longer.

- Kate, didn't Chris tell you

where he was going this afternoon?

- Yes, sir. To Captain McGregor's
for his navigation lesson.

- I met Captain McGregor in
town. Chris never got there.

What's troubling you, Kate?

- Nothing, sir. That is, it's
so unusual for Chris to--.

- Chris is behaving very unusual lately.

- Wine, sir?

- Kate, sit down.

Why did Rissa go to Boston?

- She went to visit Ms. Melinda, sir.

- Strange she couldn't have
waited another 10 days.

Surely she remembers

that her Aunt Melinda always
spends Thanksgiving with us.

The whole family does.

Didn't she tell you why she
had to go in such a hurry?

- No, sir. She didn't.

Anything else, sir?

- That's all.

- Oh, thank you very much.

- There's your sailor boy, Captain,

all dressed up and ready
for the bounding Maine.

Seems like he'd wait
for your sail tomorrow.

- I wonder if this time he's
going to bring along his piano.

- Well, there's plenty of
room in your cabin for it.

If you don't mind
doubling up with the crew.

- Oh, Abigail. Did
George go to the station?

- Yes, sir. About half an hour ago.

- Chris, if Aunt Linda's on that train,

we're really in a mess.

- What are you talking about?

- I should've told you
before now. I lied to you.

I lied to Aunt Linda about the
money and about everything.

- Clarissa, will you please talk--

- Not now. Just pray.

- Kate, please. Won't you sit
down and have your dinner?

- Later, Mother.

- But you haven't had
a thing to eat all day.

- And all day yesterday
and the day before that.

Look at her, she as pinched
and drawn as a lovesick calf.

- Penny, what's the matter?
Don't you like my turkey?

- Oh, it's wonderful, Annie.

- Then stuff your mouth with it.

- Hello, everybody. Happy Thanksgiving.

- Jake Bullard.

We didn't think you were
ever gonna get here.

You just go right over there and sit down

and I'll fix you a plate
with all the trimmings.

Just way I know you like it.

- Oh, thanks penny.

But I got some business with Kate first.

If you don't mind.

- Oh, no. Of course I don't mind.

Why should I? After all, I'm only the--

- Penny! Your turkey.

- When did you get back from Portland?

- A little while ago.

I got a good price from
the cannery for my fish.

- That's fine, Jake.

- I saw a nice boat
for sale, mighty cheap.

A little run down, but I can fix her up.

- Why are you trying to humiliate me?

- Oh, but Kate, I ain't.

- Then why don't you tell
me what you've decided?

Why are you waiting for me to ask?

- After all, Kate,

you don't go giving
away this kind of money

without doing little figuring.

- Jake, you're not.

You're merely loaning the
money to Chris and Rissa.

- That's as good as giving it away.

I notice his rich aunt
wasn't giving any away.

I don't know why I should.

I work hard for that money.

- Jake, you knew you weren't
going to lend me that money

when I asked you.

- No, kid. I didn't, then.

- Then what made you change your mind?

- Oh,

lots of things.

You.

Chris.

- What do you--

If you don't take that silly
smirk off your face, I'll...

- Clarissa, darling.

- Aunt Melinda.

Excuse me a minute.

So good of you to come, Aunt Linda.

Dora, what a pleasant surprise.

- You can thank your Aunt Linda.
She insisted on my coming.

- Poor dear. She was all
known for Thanksgiving.

- Father's in Europe, on business.

- Hello, Aunt Linda.

- Chris.

Amazing.

In that uniform you're the
image of your grandfather.

- Hello, Chris.

- How do you do?

- You don't remember me?

It was in Boston.

- Oh. Oh, yes. Of course I do. But...

- The night Rissa and I were graduating

from finishing school.

Remember now?

- Oh, fiddlesticks. She's Dora Drake.

- Dora.

- No wonder you didn't recognize her.

Four years ago she was a
little squirt with freckles,

and you don't have to tell her

that now she's a gorgeous
creature because she knows it.

Come on. We've got to
change. I'm starving.

- I'll show you to your rooms.

- Mr. Christopher.

- Oh, yes, Penny?

- There's someone here to see you.

- Who?

- Well, he told me not to
say, but it's very important.

- Where is he?

- He's out in the old hall.

- Oh, Penny, tell my
father Aunt Linda's here.

- Yes, Mr. Christopher.

- Hello, Jake.

- Chris.

- Did you wanna see me?

- Yeah. If you can spare a moment.

- Of course. What is it?

- Here's your money?

- My money?

- Yep. $2,000.

That ought be enough to
get you and Rissa to Paris

if you don't go too highfalutin.

- Rissa asked you for money?

- Oh, now don't tell me you
didn't know that Kate asked me.

- She shouldn't have.

- Yeah, that's what I always say.

No man worth his salt'll ever
hide behind a woman's skirts.

Easy, boy. Here.

You don't wanna break those
piano fingers of yours.

Besides, you got company.

You wouldn't want them
to see you take a licking

from the local fish boy.

Count it, Chris. $2,000.

If you need anymore, just let Kate know.

- Christopher, you know the
Drakes? The Wellington Drakes?

- I believe so. They're
in banking or something.

- Uh-huh. And tons of money.

- So I've heard.

- Lovely girl that Dora, isn't she?

- Charming.

- You know, I think she likes Chris.

- Oh, well that's very nice.

- Why, it's perfect.

Will solve a lot of your problems.

- Linda, I have no problems.

- Christopher, I'm not going
to let you send the Rainbow

to sea without a penny's
worth of insurance.

- But, my dear, the Rainbow is insured.

I renewed the policy only last week.

- Then I was right.

I was right in not letting
Rissa have the money.

I had a feeling something was
fishy about the whole thing.

- Rissa asked you for money?

- Yes. To cover the insurance.

- Rissa asked you for money for me?

- No wonder she begged me tonight

not to say anything to you.

Christopher, what in heaven's name

would Rissa want with $10,000?

- Penny?
- Yes, sir.

- Please, Christopher. You have guests.

- Tell Ms. Clarissa that I
want to see her immediately.

- Yes, sir.
- Nevermind, Penny.

- All right. Nevermind.

- You don't know how I envy you, Chris,

going to all those far away places.

It must be so enchanting, so romantic.

- Yes, very.

- But I wish it didn't
have to be for so long.

I mean your trip, of course.

- You're very kind.

- Where have you been? I thought
you were never coming down.

Oh, I'm sorry. This is Kate.
Kate Fernald, Ms. Dora Drake.

- How do you do?

- Oh, Rissa's told me so
much about you, Ms. Fernald.

- Really?

Chris, this is our waltz.
You'll excuse us, won't you?

- Why, of course.

- Kate, I've never seen you act so rudely.

- It's no time for politeness.

- Really, Kate?

- Captain Rogers.

Chris, you do trust me, don't you?

- Of course, but you're
acting so strangely.

- And I've never asked you to
do anything that wasn't right.

Right for you I mean.

- I said, I trusted you.

- Chris,

this is goodbye.

Jake is waiting.

He's going to take you
and Rissa to the station.

- She took that money from Jake.

I told her I didn't want it.

- Chris, wait.

Come.

Chris--

- You should never have asked Jake.

- But it's only money, Chris.
It'll get you to Paris.

Take it and go.

There's still time.

It's your only chance.

Your last chance to live your own life,

to do the things that mean life to you.

Don't throw it away.

Don't let anything stop you now.

Duty, loyalty, false pride.

Nothing is important now.

Nothing matters but you, Chris. Only you.

- You're right, Kate. You're always right.

Goodbye, Kate.

- Goodbye, Chris.

- I'm all tuckered out. I'm
going to bed. Goodnight.

- Goodnight, Linda.

- Are you coming?

- Yes, Aunt Linda. Goodnight,
Captain. What a lovely party.

- Thank you, my dear. Goodnight.

Oh, Penny.

- Yes, sir.

- Tell my son and daughter

that I want to see them
in my study at once.

- Yes, sir.

- Sir.

Chris and Rissa have left.

- They left?

Where did they go?

- Paris.

- You knew about this?

- Yes, sir.

- And you helped
them? Helped them against me?

- Yes, sir.

- Kate, you grew up in this house.

I've come to look up upon you
as one of my own children.

What you've done to me is even worse

than what my own children have done.

I think I deserve better of you.

- There was
three endless, lonesome years.

The years Chris and Rissa were in Paris.

It seemed like eternity.

Time out of mind.

They wrote every once in a while.

A letter from Rissa,
birthday card from Chris,

but not a single word to their father.

It was like the captain not to
show how deeply he was hurt.

His proud frame began to
sag, his face withered.

His heart sickened. But he said nothing.

He'd never talked to anyone
since the night they left.

Then one day it came, that letter

that Chris had written to his father.

I knew it was a little silly of me,

keeping Chris's room in perfect order.

How would I explain it
to Penny and the others?

I used to slip in there at nights.

But it was Chris's room.

Everything in it spoke to me of Chris.

That willow whistle he'd made
when he was a little boy.

I can still hear the funny little tunes

he used to play on it.

Months had passed.

I hadn't heard a word from him,

nor from Rissa for that matter.

Since the day the captain
burned that letter,

the silence became more
and more unbearable.

I couldn't understand
why they didn't write.

I was hoping that someday
I'd answer the front door

and there they'd be.

Then came the cablegram.

- Kate, this just came for the captain.

It's a cable. It might be from Paris.

- Captain, there's a cable for you.

Shall I read it to you?

"Regret to inform you
your ship, the Rainbow,

total wreck of its oars, all hands lost.

Letter following with full details."

Oh, Captain, how terrible.

Captain?

He died as he'd lived,

cold,

bleak,

hard.

It wasn't until the following
winter that we had word

that Chris and Rissa were coming home.

Mother and I went down to
the station to meet them.

Rissa.

- Kate, darling.

- Oh, Rissa darling. This is wonderful.

- Just a minute.

This is my turn.

Gosh, Kate. It's good to see you again.

- Mama Fernald.

- It's good to see you too, Chris.

- George.

- I'm so glad you're home.

- Thank you.

- Hello, Mrs. Fernald.

- Mr. Christopher, I'd
hardly have known you

with that mustache.

- Well, people grow up, you know.

- And George, you old coot, how are you?

- Just as spry as a fiddle.
- Thank you, sir.

- Christopher.

How do you do?

- Kate, surely you remember Dora.

- Of course. How do you do, Ms. Drake?

- Well, Kate, what do you mean Ms. Drake?

Dora is now Mrs. Christopher Fortune.

- How stupid of me.

- But, Kate, you must have known.

When they were married in
Paris, Chris wrote to father.

- Your father burned that letter.

He never opened it, Rissa.

Christopher, darling,
you must be starving.

You didn't eat a thing on the train.

But I know Kate will fix
us a wonderful luncheon.

Won't you, Kate?

- Yes, ma'am.

- Why, it's perfectly ridiculous.

You hibernating in a
dreadful place like this.

My dear, Boston can be
wonderfully gay in the winter.

- Sure. Come on, Rissa.

You can help me rattle around

in our father's 33 room mansion.

If it won't crowd you too much.

- Is this what you wanted, ma'am?

- Yes. Thank you, Penny.

For you, Dear. A little
present for my father.

Wait, let me open it for you.

Thank you, Penny.

Kate, would you hold this please?

- First New York appearance of...

- Well, you might let me
know what you think of it.

- It's very flattering, but
may I ask what this is for?

- The first New York
performance of your concerto.

The one you played in Paris.

- Dora, you're not really serious.

- But, darling, I am.

Father had everything arranged
for the 28th of next month.

- But they'll laugh me out of New York.

- They liked you in Paris, Chris.

- Her father arranged that too.

- Oh, Chris, don't be such a fool,

throwing away your one big chance.

- You mean you're big chance, Dora.

You show me off to all
your hoity-toity friends

like a monkey on the stick.

You know I didn't earn the right

to play my concerto in New York.

It was arranged for me.

It was bought for me or
rather for you, my dear.

Well, I'm sorry, but you'll
have to find yourself another...

another monkey on the stick

To you, Rainbow.

Hello, Kate. Nice of you to join me.

Come on, sit down. I'll pour you a drink.

- No, thank you.

- Mind if I have one?

- Chris, you're being
stubborn about that concert.

She's quite right.

It is your big chance.

- Kate, for once, mind your own business.

Wait.

I'm sorry.

- You've no need to be.

- No,

it's not only that way.

I'm sorry I disappointed you.

- You didn't disappoint me, Chris.

- But I did. I did.

You had great hopes for me.

You made me go to Paris.

You wanted me to come
back a great musician.

I tried. I tried desperately.

Three years I sweated and slaved.

Three years I filled pages and
pages with wonderful music.

- Chris, what's happened to you?

Why are you so unhappy?

Why are you so bitter?

- Oh, that's right.

You haven't heard my great masterpiece.

The concerto in E minor.

Well, come on. I'll play it.

I shall make my first American
appearance before you.

Here.

You be the judge. And don't
applaud until I tell you.

Well, how do you like it?

- It's very beautiful.

- It's magnificent.

It was magnificent when
the great Debussy wrote it.

- You mean you didn't write it, Chris?

- Write it?

I couldn't even steal it properly.

Of course the notes are there,

but it has none of his
poetry, none of his soul.

That's what makes a man's music his own.

- You once wrote music that was your own.

- My music.

No, Kate.

I know now there is no
music in me. Not anymore.

I'm nothing.

I'm nothing but the pampered
darling of rich man's daughter.

Oh, Kate. Kate.

I'm sinking.

I'm sinking deeper and deeper

into a morass of money and luxury.

And funny thing, I don't care.

I don't care about anything anymore.

Sure, I'll be Dora's monkey on a stick

and I'll play that concert for her.

And how I'll play it.

Stop crying!

I don't want anybody crying over me.

I didn't want anybody's pity.

- Good evening, Mr. Lieberman.

- Good evening.

- Hey, Slim. What time
will it be over tonight?

- About quarter to 11, Mike.

- I'll tell Fritz to
reserve a table for you

for then, Mr. Lieberman.

- It might be sooner.

- Oh, another one of those things?

Who's on the griddle this evening?

- Oh, some new musical
genius. Christopher Fortune.

He's papa-in-law hires the horse,

so I've gotta listen to some
concerto he thinks he wrote.

- See you later.
- Goodnight.

- Dora, there he is.

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

- How do you do, sir?

- How do you do? Enjoying music?

- Beautiful.

- My dear Mr. Lieberman.

- Oh, Mrs. Fortune. How do you do?

- I was afraid you wouldn't make it.

- It's my job, you know.

- You remember my sister-in-law,
Ms. Clarissa Fortune.

- How do you do?

- How do you do? I do hope you'll like it.

- Rissa, you mustn't try
to influence Mr. Lieberman.

Oh, just a minute.

Father.
- Hmm? Oh, excuse me.

- Oh, yes. Certainly.

- Father, this is Mr. Lieberman.

- Oh, Lieberman the newspaper man?

- The music critic.

- Then of course you'll
join us at Del Monico's.

A little champagne supper

to celebrate my son-in-law's triumph.

- You are very kind,

but I've already accepted
another invitation.

Excuse me.

Goodnight.

- Goodnight, sir.

- Father. Father, you might
have let Mr. Lieberman decide

about Chris's triumph.

- The old boy better make it a triumph

if he knows which side
his bread's buttered.

- Professor Stern.
- Yes.

- Have you seen Mr. Fortune?

- No, I haven't.
- I can't find him.

- Can't find him?

- Excuse me

Pete, have you seen Mr. Fortune?

- Yeah. Went out about a half an hour ago.

Said he wanted a breath of fresh air.

- Fresh air?

- Because you stole him for a moment,

I have a hunch it wasn't fresh air.

- Why the soup and fish and
the ivory tickler, McGonigle?

Going fancy?

- Good customer. One of
them artists practicing up

on his concerto.

- You mean the thing he's playing now?

Never be popular.

- Mr. Fortune.

- Hi there, Bill.

Just limbering up.

- But the intermission is
over. The audience is waiting.

- Oh, my public.

They're waiting for me.

Mustn't keep 'em waiting.
That's not polite. Is it, Bill?

- Please, Mr. Fortune.

- Just a minute, my
friend. Forgot something.

- Oh, no, no. I wouldn't if I were you.

- But you're not me.

Come on, Bill.

- What's holding him up?

- I don't know.

- I hope nothing's wrong.

- I'm going to find out.

- Oh, sit down, will you?

- Dora, I'm afraid.

I'm terribly afraid something
has happened to Chris.

- Oh, but darling, we'd have heard by now.

- I wish I could take it as calmly as you.

- How can you say that,
Rissa? You know I'm worried.

After all, I do love Chris.

Perhaps even more than you realize,

but can you understand

why he should want to
humiliate us like this?

- Dora, remember what Dr.
Weber said about the accident?

The symptoms might not
appear until years later.

Something has been wrong
with Chris for a long time.

His tension, his drinking, his--

- The morning papers
you ordered. Just came.

- Well?
- On the front page.

- "Drunken pianist walks out on concert,

own concerto too much for him."

It's outrageous. I'll never
dare show my face again.

- Dora. You're really not
worried about Chris at all.

You're worried about the newspaper,

your friends and your father's friends.

- And why shouldn't I be?
What have I done to Chris?

I've babied him, endured his tantrums,

made everything easy for him

only because I looked
forward to last night.

I wanted to share his success.

I wanted to be proud of him.
Well, I am proud of him.

Very proud. And I hope you are too.

- No, I'm not. There must be a reason.

- There is. A very simple reason.

Chris is a child, a
selfish, ungrateful child.

- Dora.

- Rissa, I'm through.

I'm through playing nursemaid to Chris.

And I have no intention of sitting around,

waiting for him to pick
himself up out of the gutter.

- How can you be so callous?

- Oh, Rissa, stop fooling yourself.

Stop wasting your life

trying to make your brother
something that he can never be.

- If you don't mind,
I'd like to go to bed.

- Yes, Kate. Goodnight.
- Goodnight.

- Rissa, don't bury yourself
in that ghastly house.

Why don't you sell it or come with me?

We could do Europe together.
London, Paris, Vienna.

Well, how about it?

No?

- Kate.

Kate. She's even locked the kitchen door.

Jake, I don't like
this. Something's wrong.

Why don't she answer?

- Maybe she ain't here.

- She must be.

We saw the light in the
hallway as we drove up.

Kate.

Kate.

- She can't be here. She'd answer by now.

- Well, there must be
somebody in the house.

- Annie, what are you doing here?

- Well, we're about to ask you.

- You shouldn't have come, either of you.

- But, Kate, we got worried about you.

It's past 10 now,

and we expected you
back for supper at six.

Why are you still here?

- I changed my mind.

- Changed your mind?

- I have a right to
change my mind. Haven't I?

- Well, there's no reason
to get ornery about it.

- Jake, please. This has got--

- Kate, what's got into you?

- A lot of things lately
and I don't like it.

- Sorry, Annie.

- Well then, come on.

We'll get some supper into you
and then you'll be all right.

- No, Annie, I've got to stay here.

I've got a lot of work to do.

- It'll keep till tomorrow now, won't it?

- No, Jake. It's gotta be done tonight.

Mother wired me that Rissa
wanted the furniture inventory.

It's important for the sale.

It's gotta be ready by tomorrow.

- I won't let you stay here alone.

- Annie, you know I was never a scary kid.

- No, you weren't, but
you're acting like a kid now.

A silly, stubborn kid if you ask me.

- I didn't ask you. I
didn't ask you to come here.

Now will you please both
go and leave me alone.

- Say, you are an (unintelligible).

- Now, leave her be.
You'll only make it worse.

- You sure you'll be all right?

- Yes, I think so.

What are you worrying about?
Of course I'll be all right.

Goodnight.

- Goodnight.

Jake, I'm getting worried about Kate.

She hasn't been the same
since poor Chris disappeared.

- Well neither would you be

if you'd sat around for
months, moaning and pining.

- Well, that wife of his
ain't pining over him.

The gall of her.

Gallivanting about Europe,

and then wanting a divorce from
him because he deserted her.

The hussy.

- Kate.

Kate.

How dare you lock me in there?

Well, where is it? Didn't you bring it?

- Chris, I was going to--

- Where is it? Where is it?

But I told you to get more.

- I was afraid to. People
in the town will talk.

- Let 'em. Let 'em heads off.

I can do is I please in my own house.

- Chris. Nobody, nobody must
know you got back here today.

Not yet.

- Why not? What do I care?

- Chris, please.

- Stay away from me.

And don't you dare ever
lock me in there again.

- Morning, Kate. Nice morning, isn't it?

- Yes, it is.

- You oughta be having your
breakfast out in the terrace.

- I might.

- I wouldn't mind having
a cup of coffee myself.

- Jake, why did you come here?

- To bring you this.

So happened I stopped by the tavern.

Old man Walter says if I was
coming by to drop this off.

Says you was in a hurry for it.

He wasn't sure one bottle'd be enough.

Now, you know, Kate, if
you're expecting company,

I can always get you more of this stuff.

- Stop it.

Stop it. There's nothing in there.

- You're lying.

- Listen to me. You've gotta
get a hold of yourself.

- Get out on my way.

- No.
- I said get outta my way.

- No!

- Drop that chair.

- Sure, fish boy. Right over your filthy--

- Jake, you shouldn't have.

- Well, he hit you.

- He doesn't know what
he's doing. He's sick.

- He's drunk.

- Because he's sick.

- Kate, stop fooling
yourself. He's no good.

He never was. He never will be.

- He will be.
- He hasn't got it in him.

- He has, Jake. He has.
All he needs is a chance.

- He'll only throw it away.

- I won't let him.

- Kate, you can't
stop him now. Not anymore.

He'll drag you down with him.

- I don't care. Without him
I don't care what happens.

Now go, Jake. Leave me with him.

Go and tell everybody
that Chris has come home.

Tell Rissa, tell his wife.
Tell them that I love him.

Tell them that this time
I'm going to fight for him.

Tell them, but get out.

Get out!

- Kate.

Kate, will you come here a minute?

It's finished.

This is the last movement.

The last page.

- Good morning, Mr. Lieberman.

- Morning.
- Where to, sir?

- The office.
- Yes, sir.

- Mike.

Mike.

- Yes, sir.

- What's this?

- What's what?

- This.
- Ain't it yours?

- Since when do I write
music on wallpaper?

- Oh, somebody must have forgotten it.

- You'd better hang onto it.

You'll have some idiot screaming after it.

Hurry up. I'm late.

- Yes, sir.

- Mike.
- Yes, sir.

- To Mr. Sterns.

- Symphony Hall.

- No, his apartment.

- Yes, sir.

- Good.

Very good.

- What's it called again?

- New England symphony.

- Yeah. You know, there is
the feel of New England in it.

The sea, the ships and the
granite of its bleak hills.

- Modest fellow, that composer,
not to put his name on it.

- Modest composer. There's no such animal.

Alfred, you know, this is
some kind of monkey business.

Why out of all the
handsome cabs in New York

should that score just happened
to have been lost in my cab?

- Pardon me, sir, but
there's a Ms. Fernald

who insists upon seeing Mr. Lieberman.

She says it's about something
she had forgotten in your cab.

- Now we shall see. What
did I tell you? Send her in.

- Strange, a lady composer.

- And strange, as she should
happen to know I'm here.

- I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Lieberman.

- That's Mr. Lieberman.

- Oh.

- Haven't we met before someplace?

- I don't think so.

I should have remembered
you, Mr. Lieberman.

- Allow me to compliment you
on your symphony, Ms. Fernald.

- You played it?

- Isn't that what you wanted?

- And you liked it? Both of you?

- Very much.

- I'm sure. Mr. Stern'll
be pleased to hear more

of what you've written.

- But I didn't write it.

- Then who did it?

- What does it matter?

If only you promise to play it.

- I would be glad to.

But natural I've got to know
the name of the composer.

- You'd better tell him or I will.

- It was written by Christopher Fortune.

- Have a good day, Ms. Fernald.

- But you said you liked it.

- I said good day, Ms. Fernald.

- Alfred,

come here.

Come here.

Play me that passage in the last movement.

You know, the one that you
thought was so beautiful.

- Of course, Jake wrote
you that I was here.

- No, he didn't. Mr. Williams did.

- Mr. Williams?

- Yes. He seemed a little disturbed.

And the piano he had paid
for had not been delivered.

So I thought I would
come up and find out why.

- Rissa, I'm sorry. I...

- Oh, you don't have to
be Chris. Not about me.

But I'm sure your wife
would be glad to know

that you're here.

- She knows. I cabled her

that I would not contest the divorce.

- Well then, I don't suppose
you want to come to Boston

with me.

- Rissa, please. You don't understand.

- I understand perfectly.

This is what Kate always wanted.

This is what she planned and schemed for

ever since we were children,

to take you away from me, to
have you only for herself.

- That's not true.

The only thing that Kate had
always planned and schemed for,

as you say, was our
happiness, yours and mine.

Surely you know that.

- Goodbye, Chris. Good luck to you.

Good luck to both of you.

- Rissa.

Chris, she doesn't understand.

- She will, Kate. She will.

- Good evening, Mr Lieberman.
- Good evening.

- How much time is there?

- A few minutes.

- Mike, run over the Fritz'.
Tell him I've changed my mind.

I want Shabbly 86 with the squabs

and crepe suzettes for four.

Tell him I'll be over
right after the concert.

- I'm sorry, Mr. Lieberman.
I ain't got time now.

- What's that?

- A box seat. For the concert.

- You, going to a concert?

- Sure. Wasn't it in my
cab you found the music?

See you inside.

- Isn't this strange, Kate.

Same room. Pictures are the same.

Even the wax flowers in that funny vase.

And yet how different it is tonight.

The last time I was here,

everything looked dark and hopeless.

- Dear Chris.

- I know that now I could never
have gone through with it.

- Don't think about it anymore.

- They may not like my music tonight,

but that's not important.

Even if I should never
write another note of music,

that's not important either.

- Of course, it's important.

- Kate,

all those years in Paris,

I knew I had made a mistake.

You don't know how desperate I was

when I saw you at the station,

because I couldn't tell you
then how I felt about you.

Please.

Let me tell you now.

I love you.

- Good luck.

- Mr. Lieberman, trouble.

You see that greasy
little runt over there?

The one that gets paid
for hissing and clapping?

Well, he's here with some other buyers.

And he's up to no good if you ask me.

- Dora.

I warn you.

Don't touch that handkerchief.

Don't try and fool me.

I know what you're up to.

And so does a certain Mr. Lieberman.

You remember Mr. Lieberman, Dora?

He writes for the newspapers.