The Gibson Upright.

by Booth Tarkington.

ACT I

ANDREW GIBSON'S _office in his piano factory where he manufactures "The Gibson Upright." A very plain interior; pleasant to the eye, yet distinctly an office in a factory, and without luxuries; altogether utilitarian.

Against the wall on our right is a roll-top desk, open, very neat, and in the centre of the writing pad a fresh rose stands in a gla.s.s of water. Near by is a long, plain table and upon it a very neat arrangement of correspondence and a couple of ledgers.

Against the walls are a dozen plain cane-seated chairs. Near the centre of the room is a sample of the Gibson upright piano in light wood. There is a large safe, showing the word "Gibson," and there are filing cases. In the rear wall there is a door with the upper half of opaque gla.s.s, which shows "Mr.

Gibson" in reverse; and near this door is a water filter upon a stand. In the wall upon our left is a plain wooden door. The rear door opens into the factory; the other into a hall that leads to the street.

Upon the walls are several posters, one showing "The Gibson Upright"--a happy family, including children and a grandparent, exclaiming with joy at sight of this instrument. Another shows a concert singer singing widely beside "The Gibson Upright,"

with an accompanist seated. Another shows a semi-colossal millionaire, and a workingman of similar size in paper cap and ap.r.o.n, shaking hands across "The Gibson Upright," and, printed: "$188.00--The Price for the Millionaire, the Same for Plain John Smith--$188.00." This poster and the others all show the slogan: "How Cheap, BUT How Good!"

Nothing is new in this room, but everything is clean and accurately in order. The arrangement is symmetrical.

As the curtain rises_ NORA GORODNA _is seen at work on the sample "Gibson Upright." The front is not removed; but through the top of the piano she is adjusting something with a small wrench._ NORA _is a fine-looking young woman, not over twenty-six; she wears a plain smock over a dark dress. As she is a piano tester in the factory she is dressed neither so roughly as a working woman nor perhaps so fashionably as a stenographer. She is serious and somewhat preoccupied. From somewhere come the sounds of several pianos being tuned. After a moment_ NORA _goes thoughtfully to the desk and looks at the rose in the gla.s.s; then lifts the gla.s.s as if to inhale the odour of the rose, but abruptly alters her decision and sets the gla.s.s down without doing so. She returns quickly and decisively to her work at the piano, as if she had made a determination.

A bell at the door on our left rings._ NORA _goes to the door and opens it._

NORA: Good morning, Mr. Mifflin.

MIFFLIN [_entering_]: Good morning, Miss Gorodna.

[MIFFLIN _is a beaming man of forty, with gold-rimmed eyegla.s.ses and a somewhat grizzled beard which has been, a week or so ago, a neatly trimmed Vand.y.k.e. He wears a "cutaway suit,"

not much pressed, not new; a derby hat, a standing collar, and a "four-in-hand" dark tie; hard, round cuffs, not link cuffs.

He carries a folded umbrella, not a fashionable one; wears no gloves; and has two or three old magazines and a newspaper under his arm._]

MIFFLIN: I believe I'm here just to the hour, Miss Gorodna.

NORA: Mr. Gibson has been very nice about it. He told me he would give you the interview for your article. He's in the factory--trying to settle some things he _can't_ settle. I'll let him know you're here.

[_She goes out by the door into the factory._ MIFFLIN, _smiling with benevolent antic.i.p.ation, places his umbrella and hat on a chair, then takes his fountain pen and a pencil from his pocket, smilingly decides to use the pencil, sharpens it without going to a wastebasket over by the desk; then beamingly looks about the room. He is about to strike a chord on the piano, seems alarmed by the idea, moves away from it, dusts the lapel of his coat, adjusts his collar, studies the posters, shakes his head over them as if they were not to his taste, goes to the desk, and after studying it smiles at the rose and gives it a kittenish peck with his forefinger._ NORA _comes back and_ MIFFLIN _turns to her with his benevolent smile._]

NORA [_going back to her work at the piano_]: He'll be right here.

[GIBSON _appears in the open doorway, speaking with crisp determination to someone not seen._]

GIBSON: That's my last word on it; that's in accordance with the agreement you signed two weeks ago.

A HARSH VOICE: We don't care nothin' about no agreement!

GIBSON: That's all!

[_He comes in. He is a man of thirty-something; well but not clubbishly dressed; an intelligent, thoughtful face; a man of affairs. Just now he is exercising some self-control over irritations which have become habitual, but he is not uncordial, merely quiet, during his greeting of_ MIFFLIN.]

NORA: This is Mr. Mifflin, Mr. Gibson.

GIBSON: How do you do, Mr. Mifflin.

MIFFLIN [_heartily, as they shake hands_]: I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Gibson! I hope you don't mind my not writing to you myself for this interview.

GIBSON: Not at all!

MIFFLIN [_taking a chair_]: I heard Miss Gorodna speak at a meeting two nights ago--

GIBSON: Yes?

MIFFLIN: And learning that she was one of your employees I asked her to speak to you about it for me.

GIBSON: I see.

MIFFLIN: Now, in the first place, Mr. Gibson--

[_There is a telephone on_ GIBSON'S _desk; its bell rings._]

GIBSON: Excuse me a moment!

[_At the telephone_]: h.e.l.lo!... Yes--Gibson.... Oh, h.e.l.lo, McCombs!...

Yes. I want you to buy it.... I want you to buy all of that grade wire you can lay your hands on. Get it now and go quick. All you can get; I don't care if it's a three years' supply. There'll be a shortage within a month.... No; I don't want any more of the celluloid mixture.... No, I don't want it. They can't make a figure good enough. I've got my own formula for keys and we're going to make our own mixture.... I'm going to have my own plant for it right here. I can make it just under fifty per cent, better than I can buy it.... Wait a minute! I want you to get hold of that lot of felt over in Newark; the syndicate's after it, but I want you to beat them to it. Don't go to Johnson. You go to Hendricks--he's Johnson's brother-in-law. You tell him as my purchasing agent you've come to finish the talk I had with him the other night.

You'll find that does it.... All right. Wait! Call me up to-morrow afternoon; I'm on the track of a stock of that bra.s.s we've been using.

We may get three-eighths of a cent off on it. I'll know by that time.

All right!... All right! [_Then he hangs up the receiver and turns to_ MIFFLIN.] Where do you propose to publish this interview, Mr. Mifflin?

MIFFLIN [_cheerily_]: Oh, I shall select one of the popular magazines in sympathy with my point of view in these matters. You probably know my articles. Numbers of them have been translated. One called "Cooperation and Brotherhood" has been printed in thirteen languages and dialects, including the Scandinavian. But I expect this to be my star article.

GIBSON: Why?

MIFFLIN: Because your factory here is so often called a model factory.

"_The_ model factory!" [_He repeats the phrase with unction._]

GIBSON [_wearily_]: Yes, model because it has the most labour trouble!

MIFFLIN [_enthusiastically_]: That is the real reason why it will be my star article. As you may know from my other articles this problem is where I am in my element.

GIBSON: Yes; I understood so from Miss Gorodna.

[_Giving him an inimical glance,_ NORA _closes the top of piano, and moves to go._ GIBSON _checks her with a slight gesture._]

GIBSON: Would you mind staying, Miss Gorodna? Miss Gorodna knows more about one side of this factory than I do, I'm afraid, Mr. Mifflin. We may need her for reference, especially as she seems to be the ringleader of the insurgents.

MIFFLIN [_with jovial reproach_]: Now, now! Before we come to that, Mr.

Gibson, suppose we get at the origin of this interesting product. [_He waves to the sample piano._] Let's see! I understand it was never your own creation, Mr. Gibson; that you inherited this factory from your father.

GIBSON: Oh, no, I didn't.

NORA [_challenging_]: _What!_ [_She checks herself._] I beg your pardon!