The play's the thing

THE MAN’S VOICE. When you stop talking, Sandor, for sixty consecutive seconds, there’s something wrong.

TURAI. I was just thinking how extraordinarily difficult it is to begin a play. The eternal problem of how to introduce your principal characters.

ADAM. I suppose it must be hard.

TURAI. It is—devilish hard. Up goes the curtain, there is a hush all over the theatre, people come on the stage. Then what? It’s an eternity—sometimes as much as a quarter of an hour before the audience finds out who’s who and what they are all up to.

MANSKY. I never saw such a fellow. Can’t you forget the theatre for a single minute?

TURAI. No. That’s why I’m such a great dramatist.

MANSKY. You can’t be happy for half an hour unless you’re talking shop. Life isn’t all theatre.

TURAI. Yes, it is—if you write plays. You know what Alphonse Daudet says in his Memoirs? When he stood by his father’s death-bed, all he could think of was what a wonderful scene it would make for the stage.

MANSKY. It’s silly to let your job become an obsession.

TURAI. Well, that’s the theatre. Either you master it or it masters you. And of all the brain-racking things in the world, beginning a play is the worst. That’s where your technique comes in, my boy. Take this scene here, for instance. We three—Curtain goes up on three ordinary men in ordinary dinner jackets. How is anybody to know even that this room we’re sitting in is a room in a castle? And how are they to know who we are? If this were a play we would have to start jabbering about a lot of thoroughly uninteresting things until the audience gradually found out who we were.

MANSKY. Well? Why not?

TURAI. Think how much simpler it would be if we were to cut out all that stuff and just introduce ourselves? [He rises and addresses the audience.] Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. We three arrived to-night to spend a couple of weeks at this castle. We’ve just left the dining-room where we did ourselves remarkably well with some excellent champagne. My name is Sandor Turai. I am a playwright. I have been a playwright for thirty years. I make a very good thing of it. I bow and step back leaving the stage to you.

MANSKY. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mansky—I, too, am a playwright, and this gentleman’s life-long collaborator. We are probably the best-known firm in the business.

TURAI. Come to Mansky and Turai for all comedies, farces and operettas. Satisfaction guaranteed.

MANSKY. I, too, make a very good thing out of it.

TURAI. Which brings us—

MANSKY. —to the remaining member of the trio.

ADAM. The last and least. I, ladies and gentlemen, am Albert Adam. I am twenty-five years old and I compose music.

TURAI. Very good music, too.

ADAM. I have done the score for the latest operetta by these two kind gentlemen. My first effort. They discovered me. They got me invited to this castle. Regardless of expense, they bought me a complete wardrobe. Without them I am a complete nonentity. I have no parents, no reputation, and no money.

TURAI. But—you’re young.

MANSKY. And gifted.

ADAM. And in love with the prima donna.

TURAI. Don’t bother to tell them that. An audience takes it for granted that the young composer is in love with the prima donna. It’s tradition.

ADAM. Thank heaven.

TURAI. [Again addressing the audience.] Isn’t that the simplest way to begin a play?

MANSKY. Very crude. If that were all there was to it, any fool could write plays.

TURAI. A great many do. But you see how absurdly easy it is—All you have to do is—

MANSKY. All right, all right, all right. For heaven’s sake, stop talking shop. I’ve had enough. Save it for to-morrow.

TURAI. Perhaps you’re right. Yes, it’s a treat to get a couple of hours off for a change. Wonderful, that trip in the car—Italy!... And here we are, free at last from the stuffy world of behind the scenes, out of the reach of thin-skinned actors and thick-skinned managers. All the year I’ve looked forward to these two weeks. A princely host and a house full of smart people—just what men like ourselves need to inspire us. And, mark this, my friends, nothing to worry about—for our job is done. [He goes to the window, opens it, steps on to the balcony and speaks from there.] The operetta is finished and off our minds. And, moreover, it is summer. The weather is perfect, the night is gorgeous, the sea—is the sea, and the dinner was good. [He comes back into the room.] Yes, we must remember it. It’s been a great day. August the 20th.

MANSKY. Friday.

TURAI. What of it?

MANSKY. I wish it wasn’t.

TURAI. Don’t be such an old woman!

MANSKY. No one ought to arrive anywhere on a Friday.

ADAM. [Dreamily.] What difference does it make—Friday, Saturday, Sunday—Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter—life’s always wonderful.

TURAI. [Crosses to Adam.] My unlucky day is Tuesday. Among other things—[To Mansky.] you were born on a Tuesday.

MANSKY. Well, look at it for yourself. Here’s to-day’s little bag of bad luck. San Martino—mid-day—violent thunderstorm followed by blow-out. Set us back an hour. Fiero—early afternoon—ran over dog, surrounded by angry multitude, had to scatter money to every one in sight to keep from getting mobbed. More delay, and we reach here at ten instead of eight. Friday. And when we arrive, who is out? Our princely host. Who else? Everybody. All gone off on a picnic. Friday. And the beautiful, the one and only, the most vitally important member of the whole house party—our adorable prima donna—where is she? Also off on a picnic. Is she expected home to-night? No. When is she expected? No one knows. Friday.

TURAI. Oh, she’ll be back.

MANSKY. Well, that won’t spoil Friday’s record, because it’s Saturday now.

ADAM. And I’ve got to wait a whole night before I see her. It’s cruel.

MANSKY. Just Friday.

TURAI. Well, now listen to me. I’ll give you my version of the day’s proceedings. Friday, San Martino—mid-day—capital luncheon including some really drinkable coffee. During the meal, a few passing drops of rain. Result: perfect roads—no dust. Fiero—early afternoon— Injured a dog and for a while it looked as though the populace were about to injure us. But our Friday good luck held. The dog made a miraculous recovery and when last seen was sitting up and taking nourishment. And a few insignificant coins, judiciously distributed, made the populace our friends for life. To resume. We arrived here some hours late, but—what a bit of luck that was. Everybody away, nobody in the house to expect tired men to make conversation. Furthermore we dine on a picturesque terrace of a wonderful old Italian castle and are given as fine a curried chicken as I ever tasted.

MANSKY. I loathe curry.

TURAI. And in conclusion, let me tell you the crowning piece of good fortune of this magical Friday. [He indicates the door to the bedroom at left.] The next room to this is Ilona’s.

ADAM. What!

TURAI. Yes, through that door is the room of the beautiful, the one and only. And having a pull with the butler, I managed to get this suite for ourselves. There’s luck for you.

MANSKY. For him.

TURAI. And for us. We profit indirectly. When a composer is happy he writes song-hits. When a prima donna is happy, she stops singing off the key. And the librettists gather royalties from the resulting triumph.

MANSKY. Sordid brute. You’ve no poetry in your soul.

TURAI. But I have a balance in my bank—much more satisfactory. As for Ilona being away, that’s good luck too. Think of the pleasant surprise she will get. It is night. The little darling comes home from her picnic. All unsuspecting, she goes to her little room, sinks upon her little bed—

MANSKY. Why on earth must everything always be so little?

TURAI. Why not?

MANSKY. Damned sentimentalism. I know the house well. She has a huge room and an enormous bed.

TURAI. Immaterial. Quite immaterial. The point is that she comes home, all unsuspecting. She doesn’t know we’re here. [Adam who has been sitting dreamily at the piano begins playing softly.] She doesn’t know we’ve brought the finished operetta with us. She doesn’t know I’m going to sing her the waltz song from Act Two—

MANSKY. God help her!

TURAI. ... the world-famous waltz—[Mansky looks at him skeptically] at least, it’s not world-famous yet, but it’s bound to become so ... anyway, the ravishing theme-waltz upon which this infant genius has poured out all the treasure of his love-bewitched soul....

MANSKY. Be quiet—never praise a composer. It unsettles him. [Rises. Looks at watch.] Do you know it’s after three—I have been thinking and I’ve got an idea.

TURAI. Beginner’s luck.

MANSKY. Let’s go to bed. You can do any singing you want to-morrow. If they’re not home yet, it means they’re staying out all night. I know the ways of this house. We’ve been up since five and I’m all in. Three hundred miles are chasing themselves through my head. As for your infant genius with the love-bewitched soul, he’s asleep already.

ADAM. [Who has been nodding over the piano, awakens with a start.] I’m not.

TURAI. I’ve no objection to postponing the surprise-party. Suppose we wake her with the waltz.

ADAM. If only she doesn’t find out before.

TURAI. That’s all right. I particularly told my friend the butler that nobody must know of our arrival till to-morrow morning. The butler is a very important man. He practically runs this house.

ADAM. [Rising.] Then I’m going to take a bath.

TURAI. I don’t follow your logic. What has the importance of the butler to do with taking baths?

ADAM. I hate logic. [Starts toward the door at right, but stops to gaze out of the window.]

TURAI. Do you really intend to bathe at this hour?

ADAM. Yes.

TURAI. In the sea?

ADAM. [Stands by balcony door.] No. In the tub. [The sound of a distant orchestra is heard playing Toselli’s Serenade.] When you’re tired and sleepy and looking forward to something particularly nice, it’s wonderful to lie in luke-warm water with your eyes closed.

TURAI. Hear! Hear! [Sits in large armchair.] Well—Do as you please, infant. When an artist is working he must pamper himself. [To Mansky.] You have to humor these composers. Did you ever know his grandmother?

MANSKY. I had not that pleasure.

TURAI. [Adam comes down the steps and sits down again.] She brought him up when his parents died. She was about so high. The littlest old woman I ever saw in my life.

ADAM. Tiny, wasn’t she?

TURAI. And the very opposite of this dreamy boy. Always hustling, always on the go. It’s her fault that our young friend here has always remained such an unsophisticated babe. She not only mothered him—she smothered him with her love. She was like a little witch in a fairy-tale guarding hidden treasure. I’ll never forget the day she brought him to me, for the first time.

ADAM. My goodness, I was scared that day.

TURAI. So was I. This little half-portion of a woman fixed me with blazing eyes and fairly hissed: “This boy is a genius. You must hear his work.” [Pensively.] His mother was a gentle, beautiful woman.

ADAM. I hardly remember her.

TURAI. I can see her—very clearly—still.... [He rises and goes to Adam whom he pats affectionately on the shoulder.] Ah, well, you’re going to escape the struggles most young artists have before they reach the top. No wasting of time and brain and nerve-energy for you. You’ve got a very clever man behind you, pushing you on.

[Music stops.]

MANSKY. [Significantly.] Two clever men.

TURAI. Two? [Laughs.] Ah, yes, of course, two. [To Adam.] So run away and have your bath and sleep and dream and love and enjoy this beautiful world and all that there is in it. Happiness will make your music all the sweeter.

MANSKY. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, encouraging him to be a dreamer. He should be learning by this time that life isn’t all music and roses and happiness.

TURAI. Why be in such a hurry to teach him that?

MANSKY. I’m not in a hurry.

TURAI. Then why must he be in a hurry to learn it?

ADAM. [Who has run up the steps at right, pauses at the door.] This is my room, eh?

TURAI. Whose else could it be? Have you forgotten who is sleeping or about to be sleeping on the other side of that wall? [He indicates the left wall.]

ADAM. I should say I haven’t.

TURAI. It’s rather a good situation. Lovers—and separated by a wall. Like Pyramus and Thisbe. What is that speech of Pyramus’s? [Speaking to the left wall.]

MANSKY. [Impatiently.] Shop again! Always shop!

ADAM. And what about you two?

TURAI. We’re all right. Our room is on the other side of yours.

ADAM. Are you sharing a room?

TURAI. We have to. Real collaborators never separate for a moment, or the most priceless ideas might be lost forever. Besides, I talk in my sleep. I’m told that’s when I say some of my best things. Mansky is a light sleeper, and he wakes up and jots them down. [Mansky rises indignantly.]

ADAM. I think I’m going to like this place. Well, gentlemen, before I go, one last word. I am very fond of both of you. I am finding life very beautiful. And I am very happy. [Adam goes out. Once again the distant orchestra is heard. This time playing the Brise Argentine.]

TURAI. Which startling utterance seems to call for a glass of very old brandy. [He crosses to the bell rope on left wall and pulls it.]

MANSKY. Make it two.

TURAI. It’s nice to see the boy so happy. Now I’m on the shady side of fifty, I find myself full of parental affection and nobody to lavish it on. [Reflectively.] Yes ... his mother was a gentle, beautiful woman. [He goes up to window, and looks down the cliff.] They’re still dancing down there on the hotel terrace. With spot-lights on the dancers. With that dark blue sky in the background and the coloured lights on the water, that wouldn’t make a bad setting for a first act finale. [Mansky who has just taken a cigarette from his case, snaps it shut with irritation.] Yes, I’m coming to think the boy’s right and life is beautiful.

MANSKY. Sandor.

TURAI. Yes?

MANSKY. I didn’t like to tell you before, though it really belongs to Friday, too.

TURAI. Tell me what?

MANSKY. [Sits on bench with the unconscious relish of the confirmed pessimist.] Something rather unpleasant. A little piece of news. Rather unpleasant. [The music has stopped. Turai who has been at the window, turns toward Mansky.]

TURAI. You’re a queer chap. Just when a man’s feeling happy for five minutes you have to come along and take the joy out of life.

MANSKY. It concerns you, too. It’s rather unpleasant.

TURAI. [Going to Mansky—speaks ironically.] Well, come on, old friend. Ruin my evening. What is it?

MANSKY. I was looking in the visitors’ book downstairs, and I saw a certain name. [Puffs cigarette.] Yes, it’s rather unpleasant.

TURAI. Don’t sit there, making my flesh creep. What name did you see in the visitors’ book?

MANSKY. Almady.

TURAI. The actor?

MANSKY. Yes.

TURAI. He’s here?

MANSKY. He is.

TURAI. H’m. This is, as you say, rather unpleasant.

MANSKY. You realize what this means?

TURAI. It means that you’re thoroughly happy.

MANSKY. Not at all. I may be a pessimist, but unfortunately I’m a tender-hearted pessimist. When I am proved right, I do not enjoy the fact. The fact is that Mr. Almady is here.

TURAI. But how? Why? He hasn’t been invited here for ten years. I always understood he spent his summers with his wife and children at Lake Balaton.

MANSKY. I suppose he fished for an invitation. He probably had his reasons.

TURAI. Does our young friend know anything about that business?

MANSKY. He hasn’t an inkling of the part Mr. Almady has played in his fiancée’s life.

TURAI. Well, hang it all, it wasn’t so much of a part. What does it amount to? When she was starting on the stage he gave her lessons in voice production. And then—well, it was just the usual business—the romantic leading actor and the little pupil. The sort of thing that lasts a couple of months at the outside. And, besides, it was all over and done with long ago.

MANSKY. Apparently it is not over and done with.

TURAI. Rot! Because by pure chance he happens to be in the same house?

MANSKY. It isn’t pure chance. It’s impure intention. Use your intelligence, man. Ilona was Almady’s discovery—he taught her all she knows.

TURAI. That’s a thing of the past. Ilona’s intelligent. She’s in love and she’s engaged to be married. And you know how whole-heartedly, how passionately, an actress can be engaged when she is engaged to be married. I’m bound to say I’m not remarkably enthusiastic about this match, but if it makes the boy happy that’s the main thing. My dear chap, you’re crazy. She wouldn’t be such a fool ... with a worn-out elderly actor—a father of a family—with four children. She’s got too much sense.

MANSKY. I never said a word about that. I merely said I had seen his name in the visitors’ book. That means he is staying here. Is that pleasant? No. It is unpleasant. That was all I said. I now say something more. We ought to have wired Ilona that we were coming to-night.

TURAI. I admit it. You’re right again. So be happy. Never surprise a woman. Always wire her in plenty of time. On several occasions in a longish life I have prepared a joyful surprise for a woman, and every time I was the one surprised. The telegraph was invented for no other purpose than that women should not get surprises. [There is a knock at the door left.] Come in. [A footman enters from the hall. He is an elderly man in blue livery.] What do you want?

FOOTMAN. What do you want, sir? You rang, sir.

TURAI. Oh, yes. Cognac.

FOOTMAN. Any particular brand, sir?

TURAI. [To Mansky.] Do me a favor, old man, and go up and keep Albert talking for a few minutes. I want to have a few words with this fellow.

MANSKY. Don’t drink both the brandies. [Mansky goes out through door at right.]

TURAI. What’s your name?

FOOTMAN. Mine, sir?

TURAI. Yes, yours.

FOOTMAN. Johann Dwornitschek, sir.

TURAI. Johann?

FOOTMAN. Dwornitschek.

TURAI. Ah—Age?

DWORNITSCHEK. Fifty-two, sir.

TURAI. Born?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir.

TURAI. I should have said, where were you born?

DWORNITSCHEK. Podmokly. In Tcheko-Slovakia, sir.

TURAI. Nice place?

DWORNITSCHEK. No, sir.

TURAI. Ah—married?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir, thank you, sir.

TURAI. Wife living?

DWORNITSCHEK. Well, in a sense.... She ran away with a soldier two years ago, sir—thank you, sir.

TURAI. Don’t thank me—thank the soldier. You’re new here, I think?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir.

TURAI. When did you come?

DWORNITSCHEK. Last summer, sir.

TURAI. Thank you.

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.

TURAI. No, no. Thank you. You’ve answered my questions most patiently.

DWORNITSCHEK. Excuse me, sir, would it be taking a liberty if I enquired why?...

TURAI. Why I have asked those questions? Not at all. You’ll find that out later on. But don’t alarm yourself. I’m not a detective. Now—Johann Dwornitschek. Here are more questions. That room next door there is Miss Ilona Szabo’s? [He indicates the door at left to bedroom.]

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir.

TURAI. Has she been gone long?

DWORNITSCHEK. I have not seen her come in, sir.

TURAI. Did you see her go out?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. They left at six o’clock this afternoon.

TURAI. They? Who?

DWORNITSCHEK. The entire house-party, sir, including the master. They were going to San Pietro, I think, sir.

TURAI. Is that far?

DWORNITSCHEK. The yacht would take them there in about an hour and a half. Twenty-six persons in all, sir. Supper served on board. A nice cold collation, sir.

TURAI. When do you expect them back?

DWORNITSCHEK. Well, sir—they took a considerable quantity of liquor with them.

TURAI. The question I asked was “When do you expect them back?”

DWORNITSCHEK. That is the question I’m answering, sir. Hardly before to-morrow morning at the earliest.

TURAI. I see. Who’s in the party?

DWORNITSCHEK. The core or center of it, if I may use the expression, sir....

TURAI. Certainly you may use the expression. It’s a beautiful expression.

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir. The core or center of it is an American family, distant relatives of the master. Every time a holiday comes around, they insist on a picnic.

TURAI. What holiday is to-day?

DWORNITSCHEK. I don’t know, sir. They have two every week here. They always go off at night in the big yacht. They’re quite wild about the young lady. She sings for them on the yacht. With the gypsy band.

TURAI. Oh, they have gypsies, too?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. Four pieces. From the Hotel. But they’re not much good. No—A gypsy’s not at his best, sir, on the water. Gypsies need solid ground.

TURAI. Solid ground—yes, of course. Well, passing over the subject of gypsies for a moment, if you don’t mind—

DWORNITSCHEK. Oh, no, sir.

TURAI. Well, then lightly passing over the subject of gypsies, do you know a Mr. Almady?

DWORNITSCHEK. Oh yes, indeed, sir. I know Mr. Almady. I know Mr. Almady very well. He has been here three days.

TURAI. Here in the castle?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. In the old wing facing the park.

TURAI. That would be on this floor?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir, on this floor.

TURAI. And—he’s one of the yachting party, you say?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir, along with the young lady.

TURAI. What do you mean, along with the young lady?

DWORNITSCHEK. Well, sir, he escorted her to the boat. They’re—you might say—sort of partners.

TURAI. How partners?

DWORNITSCHEK. I mean, sir—well, working together—like—like—as it were, partners.

TURAI. I see. You mean partners.

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. Partners. Mr. Almady gives recitations on the boat.

TURAI. How do you know that?

DWORNITSCHEK. They took me with them, sir, last Tuesday.

TURAI. Tuesday? It would be Tuesday.

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir—Tuesday.

TURAI. All right—Thank you....

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?

TURAI. Yes, that will be all.

DWORNITSCHEK. Excuse me, sir, but you said that I would find out later on....

TURAI. Why I began by asking you all those personal questions.

DWORNITSCHEK. Exactly, sir.

TURAI. Quite simple. It’s a little matter of psychology. When you want a man to speak the truth, begin by making him tell you all about himself. It gives him a feeling of responsibility and makes him afraid to lie, later on. That’s from a detective-play by Mansky and Turai. You can take the tip as some slight return for your trouble.

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you very much, sir.

TURAI. Don’t mention it.

DWORNITSCHEK. And which shall I bring you, sir?

TURAI. Which? What which?

DWORNITSCHEK. Which brand of cognac?

TURAI. Which brands have you?

DWORNITSCHEK. All the best brands, sir. Hennessey, Three Star Martel, Biscuit, Dubouche, Rivière—Gardrat.... [A door is heard to slam somewhere at left.] Excuse me, sir. I rather think ... if you would be good enough to remain quite quiet for just one moment ... I rather fancy that’s the young lady coming back now. [They listen. From the adjoining room at the left a soprano voice is heard singing casually but clearly a well-known aria from an operetta.] Yes, sir. That’s the young lady all right.

TURAI. [Going up toward the door at right.] It is. It’s she. Splendid. Then never mind the cognac. Champagne is clearly indicated. My favorite brand—Mumm’s Cordon Rouge. See that it’s iced and hurry it along. Look sharp, man!

DWORNITSCHEK. You wish it here—sir?

TURAI. [Going out at right.] Of course. Of course.

DWORNITSCHEK. Very good, sir. [Exit Dwornitschek. He goes out through the door at left to the hall. The singing grows louder.]

TURAI’S VOICE. [In the room at right.] Hey! Stop that bath. You haven’t time for baths now. She’s back! Sh! Hurry up. Quick, both of you. [The voices of Mansky and Adam are also heard.] I tell you she is. She’s in her room. Do be quick. I’ve ordered champagne. Here, I’ll help you dress. [The door at the right is closed from the outside. From inside the adjoining room on the left the singing continues until interrupted by Almady’s Voice raised in protest.]

ALMADY’S VOICE. What do you mean by this singing? I believe you’re doing it just to annoy me. [She trills a few notes.] You’re trying to torture me.

ILONA’S VOICE. Well—it’s pretty cool to come walking into my bedroom at this hour.

ALMADY’S VOICE. I came with you.

ILONA’S VOICE. Now, listen. Everything’s over and ended. I’ve put you out of my life forever. I’m engaged to be married and I intend to be a good little wife. You’ve no right to behave like this.

ALMADY’S VOICE. No right? I, who made you? I, with whom you have lived so many hours of madness—wonderful, unforgettable—

ILONA’S VOICE. Not unforgettable at all. Watch how quickly I’m going to forget them. Do go away, and leave me alone. Don’t touch me. [A pause.] Stop. I won’t let you kiss me. Can’t you understand my fiancé will be arriving any day now?

ALMADY’S VOICE. I’ll kill him.

ILONA’S VOICE. You’ll do nothing of the kind. [Almady sobs loudly.] Oh, stop crying! The idea—a grown-up man, the father of a family, with four children.

ALMADY’S VOICE. But I love you so, Ilona. And you throw me over for another man. Don’t you love me—still—just a little?

ILONA’S VOICE. You’re nothing but a great big baby. Cheer up, do. That’s better. All right, then, you may kiss me. [A pause while they kiss.] What are you doing? Don’t take off your coat.

ALMADY’S VOICE. I must. I want to say goodbye.

ILONA’S VOICE. Well, you don’t need to say it in your shirt-sleeves. [Pause.] Now run away and let me get some sleep. I’m worn out.

ALMADY’S VOICE. I’m only waiting till you’re in bed. Is there anything to drink here?

ILONA’S VOICE. You’ll find it in the ante-room. Take the whole bottle if you want to—but go. [Pause. Shouting.] Look on the sideboard. And stay where you are till I’ve got my nightie on. Don’t come in and don’t look. [There is a silence during which the door right is opened and Turai, Adam, and Mansky tiptoe in like three mischievous boys. They speak in whispers as they cross to the door to Ilona’s bedroom.]

TURAI. Hush! She’s gone to bed.

ADAM. Do you think she’s asleep already?

TURAI. I doubt it. Come on. Faces to the wall as close as you can get. [They group themselves in a row as near the wall as the furniture will permit.]

TURAI. [Whispers.] Ready? Now ... Ilona, Ilona, Ilona ... take the time from me. [Raises his hand like a conductor; at the same moment Almady’s voice is heard.]

ALMADY’S VOICE. I worship you—I adore you. [The three are riveted where they stand, transfixed with amazement.]

ILONA’S VOICE. Are you starting all over again?

ALMADY’S VOICE. Yes, I am. All over again. I love you as the church steeple loves the cloud that settles above it and floats away with the first passing breeze. I can’t go on living without you. Not a week, not a day, not an hour. [The three men turn simultaneously.]

ILONA’S VOICE. [contemptuously.] Just words.

ALMADY’S VOICE. It’s the truth. I’m crazy about you. And you—you’ve used me up and squeezed me like a lemon, and now you want to throw me away.

ILONA’S VOICE. I don’t want to throw you away, silly. Where’s the sense in raving like this? Oh, come on, then. Come here and let me kiss your beautiful classic brow.

ADAM. She said—did you hear what she said?

ALMADY’S VOICE. That’s not a kiss—that’s a tip—Nothing but a paltry tip.

MANSKY. [Sinks into chair.]

ILONA’S VOICE. Don’t shout like that.

ALMADY’S VOICE. I will shout. I’m a squeezed lemon. That’s what I am—[Sobs.] A lemon! The whole world shall know that I’m a lemon.

ILONA’S VOICE. Get off your knees. And, oh, please, do stop crying. I can’t bear it. You know how fond I am of you. [Turai and Mansky clap their hands to their heads. Adam collapses on the piano stool.]

ALMADY’S VOICE. Those nights of love—those flaming wonderful nights! Have you forgotten them so completely?

ADAM. [Looking up.] That’s Almady.

MANSKY. You can’t be sure.

TURAI. [Turns to Mansky.] Don’t be an ass. Don’t try to deceive a musician about a voice! There’s no use talking—the thing’s a tragedy and we’ve got to face it.

MANSKY. Friday!

ILONA’S VOICE. Stop! Control yourself.

ALMADY’S VOICE. You ask me to control myself—when I look at that—at that perfect shape. The rose flush of that skin.

ILONA’S VOICE. Hands off!

ALMADY’S VOICE. My God! How round it is! How smooth, how velvety—and how fragrant. [A pause.]

ILONA’S VOICE. Don’t bite!

ALMADY’S VOICE. I must—I am so hungry....

TURAI. [To Adam and patting him on the shoulder.] I think you had better go, old man. Go and turn in in our room.

ADAM. [Bitterly.] And I thought she was a Madonna. Holding her in his arms—stroking—[rising in sudden fury and rushing to the door.] God, I could kill him!

TURAI. [Restraining him.] Steady, old man, steady. [Adam covers his ears with his hands.]

ALMADY’S VOICE. Ah, well! I see I am nothing to you any more.

ILONA’S VOICE. Oh, for goodness sake. I swear that no man has ever meant so much to me as you. From the top of your head to the soles of your feet you are a man! Who should know that better than I?

TURAI. Come, come, my boy—let’s get out of this.

MANSKY. [Goes to Adam.] Come on, old chap. You’re going to sleep in our room. [Turai and Mansky lead him to stairway.]

ADAM. Sleep! [He goes out at right. Turai and Mansky are on the landing.]

ILONA’S VOICE. Oh! Don’t look so pathetic.... Well, come here—kiss me.

MANSKY. I was right— We ought to have sent a telegram. [He goes out at right. Turai comes down to table, lights a cigarette and sits on edge of table.]

ALMADY’S VOICE. I want you to remember that kiss forever.

ILONA’S VOICE. It was your old kiss. Sweet and burning—like hot punch. But do be a dear and go away now. It was mad of you to come here. If my fiancé ever hears of this I’ll kill myself. Oh, damn my idiotic sentimentality for getting me into this mess. You must leave here to-morrow on the first train. He’ll be here any day now. [Turai shifts uneasily.] Every day I’ve been expecting a telegram. [Turai groans.] Get out, I tell you, get out!

ALMADY’S VOICE. If you insist, dear heart, so be it! Your word is law. I am going to bed now. Farewell, dear heart. But grant me one last kiss.

TURAI. [To himself.] Damn all fools who don’t know when they’ve had enough.

ILONA’S VOICE. Go now—

ALMADY’S VOICE. So be it. Good-night, dear heart.

ILONA’S VOICE. Good-night, you baby. [Silence. A door is heard closing.]

TURAI. [To himself.] At last! Good-night, dear heart! [After a moment he sits down in armchair. Pause. Mansky re-enters.]

MANSKY. [With a gesture of inquiry toward Ilona’s room.] This silence—what does it mean?

TURAI. This silence is a highly moral silence. The baritone hero has departed. And the fair heroine has deposited herself in bed.

MANSKY. After depositing us in the worst mess in my whole experience. Wasn’t it awful?

TURAI. Awful!

MANSKY. Smooth, round, fragrant! And he wanted to bi— oh, my God! [He sits.]

TURAI. Ten minutes ago we were three happy men. That poor boy! How is he?

MANSKY. I got him to bed. Poor little Pyramus. A jolly wall, that, isn’t it? Church Steeple! Lemon! The damned fool.

TURAI. I can’t look him in the face. That little old grandmother of his—she’d let me have it with her broomstick if she were here.

MANSKY. It’s certainly the most appalling mess. You got it through your pull with the butler! Marvelous luck! Pyramus and Thisbe! “Oh sweet wall!” Well, I hope you’re satisfied!

TURAI. Oh, go to the devil.

MANSKY. I don’t want to be unkind, but whichever way you look at it you’re to blame for this catastrophe. Why the deuce was it necessary to put the boy next door to his lady-love? Friendship is friendship, but there are limits.

TURAI. I was merely trying to be sympathetic and helpful. I meant well.

MANSKY. Never mean “well.” It’s fatal. See what’s happened as a result. Bride gone—love gone—waltz gone—operetta gone. All a total loss. On the other hand, the dog didn’t die and the coffee was good. Well, Friday has certainly made a nice clean, efficient job of it this time!

TURAI. I’m only thinking about that boy.

MANSKY. And I’m also thinking about our operetta. The lady kissed the lemon’s classic brow. After this, can you see her playing the part?

TURAI. Do stop jabbering about that side of it. I’m only interested in the boy. Did he say anything?

MANSKY. Plenty. I wish I hadn’t heard it.

TURAI. What did he say?

MANSKY. One of his remarks was “I’ll tear up the score and kill Ilona.” The round and fragrant one. And the problem that presents itself to me is this: if he tears up his music and kills the prima donna, what sort of a first night shall we have?

TURAI. [Thinks a moment, then with emphasis.] We’ll have a first night. I promise you that.

MANSKY. What, after all this?

TURAI. Yes, after all this. Don’t worry, we’ll have a first night all right.

MANSKY. With that music?

TURAI. With that music and that composer and that prima donna. And I’ll tell you some other things. We’ll have a hit, a wedding, and a happy ending.

MANSKY. Well, of all the optimists! It’s just a suggestion, but wouldn’t it be a good idea if you were to mention just what you propose to do. This is where Sandor Turai, famous for his happy endings, had better try to surpass himself. [Turns toward stairs.] Get busy, my play-writing genius, and let’s see how good you are.

TURAI. One can but do one’s best. [Mansky goes out at right. A clock in the hall is heard to strike four. Turai takes a blank sheet of music from the piano. He paces up and down in deep thought, occasionally glancing toward Ilona’s room. He jots down a few words. Mansky re-enters.] Well, how is he?

MANSKY. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. That’s bad. He didn’t even answer my question.

TURAI. What did you ask him?

MANSKY. I said: [Plaintively.] “Feeling better now?”

TURAI. What did you expect him to answer to a damn fool question like that?

MANSKY. Well, have you solved the problem?

TURAI. If I have I’m not going to tell you. You’ve ruined enough good ideas of mine already with your collaboration. This time I mean to work alone. Without a partner. [Goes to table. Sits on bench.] All I ask of you is a little information. There are a few facts I require.

MANSKY. [Huffily.] That’s all I’m good for, is it?

TURAI. That’s all. Where are Almady’s wife and family now?

MANSKY. At Lake Balaton, I believe.

TURAI. Lake Balaton. Address?

MANSKY. Verona Cottage.

TURAI. [Putting it down.] Verona Cottage. What’s Ilona’s mother’s name?

MANSKY. Adele,—Alma, something.

TURAI. Well, it begins with an A?

MANSKY. Yes, I know that.

TURAI. Thank God! Mrs. A. Szabo. What’s her address?

MANSKY. 70 Elizabeth Avenue, Fured.

TURAI. Would she be there now?

MANSKY. [Petulantly.] Oh God! How should I know? But, listen—[Points to Ilona’s room.] My own humble suggestion would be to wake her up now and have a little chat.

TURAI. What about?

MANSKY. [Starting across.] I’ll rout her out. [Goes left.]

TURAI. [Excitedly.] For heaven’s sake, no! The only thing a woman can do is deny everything. What could she deny? Could she unsay those words of hers? Gloss over that mad sensual outburst? Explain her half-hearted resistance? Of course, she might point out that it was nice of her to forbid the man to bite. No, I can’t quite see where denials come in.

MANSKY. Women have lots of other tricks. Falling on their knees—fainting—bursting into tears—laughing hysterically—or just going rigid all over.

TURAI. That might be good enough for you or me. When you’re a middle-aged dramatist, you welcome a chance to do the noble, forgiving business. It’s good theatre. But that boy in there is twenty-five and he isn’t a dramatist. So think again.

MANSKY. [Collapsing hopelessly in armchair.] Then there’s no solution to the problem.

TURAI. There’s a solution to everything—one has only to find it.

MANSKY. By Jove! Rather a good line, that.

TURAI. Not bad. Jot it down. [Mansky does so, on his cuff.] And now the most important thing is—be very tactful and understanding with the boy. Sit by his bed till he falls asleep.

MANSKY. He won’t sleep to-night.

TURAI. Give him something to make him ... he must have sleep. To-morrow’s going to be a big day. One false move and he will be the center of a record scandal. It would break his heart. And on his peace of mind depends....

MANSKY. Our success. Capacity business. A year’s run.

TURAI. Beastly words.

MANSKY. And yet only yesterday—how beautiful they sounded!

TURAI. Go away. I’ll take on this job. [Rises.] Leave everything to me, and base your confidence on past experience. Which shows the moment you stop trying to help me, I can solve anything.

MANSKY. [Bows stiffly and turns toward stairs.] Thank you, my dear fellow.

TURAI. Not at all.

MANSKY. Good-night.

TURAI. Good-night. See you to-morrow. Till then, don’t leave him for an instant. That’s official. I’ve enjoyed our little talk so much. Good-night.

MANSKY. Good-night. [Goes out at right. Turai goes to table, sits and jots down some more notes. There is a knock at door left to hall.]

TURAI. Come in. [Dwornitschek enters with cooler and champagne, four glasses on a tray.]

DWORNITSCHEK. The champagne, sir. Mumm’s Cordon Rouge—just as you ordered.

TURAI. [Motioning it away.] ’M yes. But that was a long time ago. A very long time ago. Since then the world has changed quite a good deal. However, the motto of the Turais is “Never refuse champagne,” so put it down. [Dwornitschek places tray on the table and the cooler on the floor.]

DWORNITSCHEK. Will four glasses be sufficient, sir?

TURAI. Three more than sufficient. [Dwornitschek leaves one glass on the tray before Turai, he places the other three on the table. There is a pause. Turai stares at him.]

DWORNITSCHEK. Something in the expression of your eye, sir, tells me that you are trying to remember my name.

TURAI. Quite right. What is it?

DWORNITSCHEK. Dwornitschek, sir.

TURAI. Still Dwornitschek? Well, well! All right, Dwornitschek, you can go to bed.

DWORNITSCHEK. At what hour would you desire breakfast, sir?

TURAI. What time is it now?—

DWORNITSCHEK. Quarter past four, sir.—

TURAI. Then let us say at seven—or perhaps six.

DWORNITSCHEK. Anything special that you fancy, sir?

TURAI. [In offhand way.] No. Just ham, eggs, cold chicken, smoked salmon, cold beef, bacon, butter, milk, honey, jam, rolls and tea.

DWORNITSCHEK. With lemon?

TURAI. [Shouts with revulsion.] No! [Quietly.] No—with rum.

DWORNITSCHEK. [Starts to go.] Very good, sir. At six precisely.

TURAI. Tell me, Dwornitschek, when do you sleep?

DWORNITSCHEK. In the winter, sir.

TURAI. What are you waiting for?

DWORNITSCHEK. I was wondering if there were any more questions you desired to ask me, sir.

TURAI. No, thank you.

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.

TURAI. No, no, thank YOU.

DWORNITSCHEK. I love being asked questions, sir. It shows that gentlemen take an interest.

TURAI. You mean in Dwornitschek, the man? As opposed to Dwornitschek, the servant?

DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. You are sure you have nothing more to ask, sir? It would be a treat for me.

TURAI. Nothing more, thanks. My stock of knowledge for to-day is complete. I wish it weren’t.

DWORNITSCHEK. Then I will bid you good-night, sir. [Starts to go.]

TURAI. Good-night.... One moment! There is one other thing. Where is the writing paper? And I’d like some telegraph blanks too. And ink, and also a pen.

DWORNITSCHEK. The writing materials are in the library, sir, but I can bring them to you here. [Starts to go.]

TURAI. Don’t bother. I’ll do my writing in the library. It’s a good idea. No chance of being interrupted. [Rises and goes up the first step.]

DWORNITSCHEK. I’ll go and turn on the lights, sir.

TURAI. One moment. [Points to champagne.] That—can come too.

DWORNITSCHEK. Very good, sir. [Takes cooler and one glass.]

TURAI. [Pausing.] After you.

DWORNITSCHEK. Oh no, sir.

TURAI. My dear Dwornitschek, I insist. You’re sure that really is your name?

DWORNITSCHEK. Oh yes, sir.

TURAI. I only wondered. Thank you.

DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.

TURAI. No, no. Thank YOU. [Dwornitschek goes out. Turai puffs his cigarette, gazes for a moment at the wall of Ilona’s room, sighs and then goes out at left as the curtain falls.]