ACT THREE
As the curtain rises it reveals the room lighted up by the electric sconces and candelabra. A large and elaborately painted screen in silver and green has been placed in front of the window. It is painted to suggest an orchard. The screen shuts out the view of the Mediterranean, but to the left and right of it we glimpse the lighted esplanade, and many more twinkling lights than in the first act, for it is early evening. There are two garden chairs in front of the screen in the raised portion of the room; otherwise the scene is unchanged. Mr. Mell, the count’s secretary, and the master of ceremonies, enters at left from the hall. He is a fussy, pale young man with high pitched voice. He wears glasses and is in evening clothes. He is carrying a wicker table, and carrying it with difficulty and discomfort. He places it between the two wicker chairs in front of the screen and stands caressing his hands where the table has cut into them.
MELL. [Calls.] Dwornitschek. [To himself.] Where is that man? [Calls.] Dwornitschek.
DWORNITSCHEK’S VOICE. Coming, sir, coming.
[Dwornitschek enters from the hall, followed by a lackey. They are both in formal, full dress livery of white with knee breeches, and powdered wigs. Dwornitschek carries a book, two letters, a scarf and a woman’s hat. The lackey carries a tall brown hunting hat, whip, gauntlets and a large, luscious peach.]
MELL. Oh, there you are at last. Why are you so late?
DWORNITSCHEK. I fell downstairs, sir.
MELL. Well, that oughtn’t to have taken you long. [He fiddles with the screen.]
DWORNITSCHEK. You should have let me carry those things, Mr. Mell.
MELL. I couldn’t wait. You are so slow.
DWORNITSCHEK. Slow but sure, sir. [He puts things on table.] When I was a lad, my mother used to say....
MELL. I don’t want to hear about your mother.
DWORNITSCHEK. No, sir. Very few people do.
MELL. Have you got all the properties?
DWORNITSCHEK. Props, sir, is the more professional expression.
MELL. I was using the more technical term.... Well, properties or props, have you got them?
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. Book....
MELL. ... Peach....
DWORNITSCHEK. ... Scarf....
MELL. ... Whip....
DWORNITSCHEK. ... Two letters and a pair of gloves.
MELL. Good. [Mops his forehead.] Oh dear, what a headache I’m getting.
DWORNITSCHEK. What you want is an aspirin.
MELL. Have you an aspirin?
DWORNITSCHEK. No, sir.
MELL. You’re a great help.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir. If I might be allowed to say so, you let yourself get too nervous on these festive nights, sir. You worry.
MELL. How can I help worrying, with all the responsibility there is on my shoulders?
DWORNITSCHEK. What I always say is— Never worry too much to-day. Things may be worse to-morrow, and then you can worry twice as hard.
MELL. It does make me so nervous when people want to alter the programme at the last moment. First Miss Szabo says she’s going to sing, then she says she’s going to act.... [He breaks off as Almady enters, goes to Almady.] Good evening, sir, good evening. You are first in the field.
ALMADY. [Grouchily.] Good evening. The others will be here directly. They’re dressing.
MELL. A wonderful shooting party to-day, sir. Capital sport, capital. There is nothing like a good brisk day out in the open with the guns. What a colour it has given you.
ALMADY. I wasn’t there.
MELL. Eh? Oh! Not there?
ALMADY. No. I’ve been in my room all day, writing.
MELL. Pardon my curiosity, but may one ask what you were writing?
ALMADY. No, one may not.
DWORNITSCHEK. [Explaining.] I think the gentleman does not wish to say what he was writing, sir.
MELL. Oh, are you still there?
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. Still here.
MELL. Then go away.
DWORNITSCHEK. Very good, sir. Really I shouldn’t worry, Mr. Mell. Look on the bright side, sir.
MELL. All very well for you. You have no responsibilities, and the guests give you big tips.
DWORNITSCHEK. That is the bright side, sir. [He goes out at left to hall followed by the lackey.]
MELL. A secretary’s life is a dog’s life, Mr. Almady. Work, work, work from morning till night, and never a word of thanks. [Almady takes no notice.] You are very silent, Mr. Almady.
ALMADY. I sometimes find it soothing to be silent. Try it yourself one of these days ... I take it the concert begins directly after dinner?
MELL. Immediately following the serving of coffee.
ALMADY. And when does this—this play of ours come on?
MELL. It is the last item on the programme. The place of honour.
ALMADY. Bah! [Walks away upstage.]
MELL. Sir? [Follows him.]
ALMADY. [Absorbed in his part which he is studying.] Nothing.
MELL. Miss Szabo tells me that no scenery is required but two elegant chairs and one elegant table.
ALMADY. Is that an elegant table?
MELL. Well, really—no. But what can one expect in a garden? Oh—if only the scene had been an interior—there’s some perfectly lovely furniture in the Count’s room—genuine Louis the Fifteenth. A very elegant period, Louis the Fifteenth.
ALMADY. I don’t care a damn. They’re all the same to me. Louis the Fifteenth or Louis the Fourteenth or Louis the Seventeenth.
MELL. But there isn’t a Louis the Seventeenth, and I’ve often wondered why. Why, I’ve wondered, should there be a Louis the Sixteenth and a Louis the Eighteenth, but not a Louis the Seventeenth?
ALMADY. [Exasperated.] Oh, God. Ask a furniture dealer.
MELL. I did. I’m always asking furniture dealers. But they only know as far as Louis the Sixteenth. That’s where the Louis stop for furniture dealers. Whenever I say Louis the Seventeenth they say you mean the Sixteenth, and I say no, I don’t mean Louis the Sixteenth, I mean Louis the Seventeenth and.... [Breaks off and mops his brow.] I’m afraid I’m talking a great deal, sir.
ALMADY. Oh, you’ve noticed that?
MELL. The fact is, Mr. Almady, I’m all of a twitter.
ALMADY. What have you got to be nervous about?
MELL. I’m always like this on these big nights. You see I’m responsible for everything and its terribly wearing on the nerves. [During this long speech of Mell’s, Almady becomes bored and walks away, Mell suddenly aware that he is talking to the air, follows him.] I’m stage manager, property man and prompter. I turn the music, show the ladies to their seats, hand bouquets onto the stage—and I’m expected always to applaud at the right moment. I assure you I have often gone to bed after one of these entertainments with my hands so tender I could scarcely hold my toothbrush. [Almady does not answer.] You will pardon me for mentioning it, sir, but you don’t seem quite your merry old self to-night.
ALMADY. I’m as cheerful as any man would be whose brain had been addled from studying an infernal part all day.
MELL. But I thought you said you had spent the day writing?
ALMADY. Yes, I—I always memorize a part by writing it out.
MELL. What energy! What enthusiasm! Have you a nice part?
ALMADY. No. Rotten.
MELL. Dear, dear, dear! You’ll feel better when you hear the applause. We’re great applauders here. We don’t care how bad an actor is—
ALMADY. [Offended; moves away.] Thank you.
MELL. [Follows.] I beg your pardon. I—I don’t mean it like that. [Goes to door of Ilona’s room and knocks.] Miss Szabo, please. Miss Szabo, please. Beginners, please.
[Enter Ilona in evening dress.]
[Enter Adam right, in dress clothes.]
ILONA. Well, we seem to be all here. [Almady bows.]
MELL. Good evening, Miss Szabo, good evening, good evening.
ILONA. Well, we may as well begin.
ALMADY. Wouldn’t it be as well to wait for Mr. Turai? [Bitterly.] Seeing that he is being so kind as to give us his invaluable assistance.
ILONA. He’ll be here directly. Where is the prompter?
MELL. Present. Present.
ILONA. Here’s the script. [Hands it to him.]
MELL. [Goes to stage.] I hope this extemporé set meets with your approval? [Pointing to screen.] A little idea quite of my own.
ILONA. Charming. [To Adam sincerely, deeply concerned.] Albert—you seem—you seem—very quiet—this evening.
[Mell sits.]
ADAM. Oh, no, not a bit. A little tired, that’s all. We had rather a long motor drive and I didn’t get much sleep last night— Please don’t think— [Breaks off as Mell shows signs of impatience.] I’m afraid our friend the secretary is getting restive.
ILONA. What on earth is the matter?
MELL. I’m all of a twitter.
ILONA. Well, do simmer down. [To Adam, who has sat down.] Surely you’re not going to stay for this rehearsal?
ADAM. If you don’t mind.
ILONA. Oh, I don’t mind. But you’ll be thoroughly bored. A silly little French piece. You’ll be seeing it after dinner. I should have thought once would have been enough.
ADAM. Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Turai asked me to stay and help out till he came. And I promised him I would.
ILONA. Just as you please. [Very nervous.] Can’t we begin? Are the props here?
MELL. Nothing is ever missing when I am the property man. There they all are—on the table. [Points to table. Mell picks up scarf and hat and helps Ilona.]
ILONA. [Takes book and letter.] Those are yours. [Almady pockets the peach and the remaining letter.] Now then—let’s start. The Countess—that’s me—discovered alone. Seated in chair, reading book. [Sits down.] [To Almady.] You’re not on yet. [Almady stalks off to the left.]
MELL. Do we go on now?
ILONA. Don’t ask so many questions. Yes, go on. [She reads book.]
MELL. [Reading from the script.] Curtain rises on a glorious garden. Period Louis the Fifteenth.
ILONA. You don’t have to read that.
MELL. [Doubtfully.] I always have.
ILONA. You only have to give the actors the spoken lines.
MELL. Now, I never knew that before— Now, that’s very interesting. [He looks stupidly at script.]
ALMADY. [Coming down.] What on earth’s the matter now?
ILONA. I’m afraid Mr. Mell is not much of a prompter.
ADAM. [Taking script from Mell.] It’s all right—let me hold the book.
ILONA. No.
ALMADY. [Simultaneously.] No, no.
ILONA. You mustn’t.
ADAM. What do you mean?
ILONA. I won’t have it—
ADAM. Why not?
MELL. [To Adam, offended, sarcastically.] No doubt Miss Szabo means that it is beneath the dignity of such an important person. Please give me the book.
ADAM. Do stop fussing. Can’t you see you make them nervous.
MELL. Make them nervous? What about my nervousness?
ADAM. I tell you I’ll hold the book. And you can do it for the performance. Does that satisfy you?
MELL. [Deeply offended.] Oh, quite. Oh, perfectly—
ILONA. [To Adam.] Now you’ve hurt the poor man’s feelings. You’ve insulted him—
MELL. Madam, I’m a secretary. I spend all my time receiving insults.
ILONA. Oh?— Well, let’s begin. [To Almady.] You’re off. [Again Almady stalks to left.] Countess discovered seated in armchair, reading book. [Takes up book. Almady is wearing the brown hat, gauntlets and carrying the riding whip.]
ADAM. [Prompting.] What a silly—
ILONA. [Speaking her lines.] What a silly story. [Closes book.] Just like all novels.
ADAM. What can I do—
ILONA. [Yawning.] What can I do to kill the time? The Count is always out riding. Paris seems very far away amidst these sleepy fields of Normandy.
ADAM. Hoof-beats heard off— [Mell imitates hoof-beats, by beating his thighs with his hands.]
ILONA. Hark! I hear him coming— Can this be my husband? Surely he went off on his horse to visit our old tenant, honest Jacques Benoit.
[Mell makes the hoof-beats louder and louder. Almady comes into the scene dramatically, ominously, but his entrance is completely ruined by Mell continuing the hoof-beats. Almady stamps his feet impatiently and at last Mell stops.]
ALMADY. So, madame!
ILONA. Why, what is the matter? Why do you frown, my dear Count?
ALMADY. Why do I frown? That, madame, you will learn—and speedily, as sure as my name is Count—Count— [He can’t remember his name.]
ADAM. [Prompting.] Maurice du Veyrier—
ALMADY. As sure as my name is Count Maurice du Veyrier de la Grande Contumace Saint Emilion.
ILONA. You frighten me, Maurice.
ALMADY. It is your guilty conscience that frightens you, madame.
ADAM. Traitress.
[Ilona starts and looks at him nervously.]
[Adam rises.]
Traitress! No doubt you supposed me a credulous imbecile whom it was simple to hoodwink—
[Enter Turai and Mansky, both in evening dress from the right. Ilona and Almady confused by their guilt, for the moment believe that Adam is accusing them.]
ALMADY. [Very embarrassed.] No doubt—you—I—
ADAM. [Still prompting.] You thought that any story would do for me? You imagined that I was fool enough to swallow anything——
TURAI. [Coming down, horrified, thinking that Adam is making a scene.] What!!!!!
ADAM. Shhhh!— [Goes on prompting.] No doubt you supposed me a credulous fool—
TURAI. [Relieved; he grasps the situation.] O-oh! [Takes the script from him.] Let me have that script.
ADAM. Why? [To Ilona.] Aren’t I prompting well?
ILONA. No.
ALMADY. [Simultaneously.] No.
ADAM. [Ruffled.] Nothing like being frank.
MELL. [Goes to Adam and pats his shoulder.] Don’t take it to heart. Even I wasn’t good enough for them.
ADAM. Perhaps you’ll tell me where I went wrong?
TURAI. Don’t ask so many questions. [Seats himself in Mell’s place.] I’ll take on this job.
MELL. [To Adam.] Everybody is so rude.
TURAI. [Looking at script.] All right. From where you stopped.
ALMADY. [Glibly.] Traitress, you have deceived me. I have long had my suspicions. I have now in my possession the proofs. No doubt you supposed me a credulous imbecile whom it was simple to hoodwink. You thought that any story would do for me? You imagined that I was fool enough to swallow anything. Let me tell you, madame, that you are mistaken. For a long time I have suspected that there was something behind all these rides of yours with our neighbor the Marquis Jean François Gilette de la Tour d’Argent. Day after day, for hours at a time, you have made a practice of riding with him on the road from Duvernois Sur Saône to Saint Sulpice de la Grande Parmentière—and slowly at that!
ILONA. It’s a lie. Who told you?
ALMADY. Silence, woman! The proofs are in my pocket. Mon Dieu, is there no gratitude in this world? When I married you, who were you? A nobody. Your father, Brigadier-General Pierre Jean Bourmond de la Seconde-Chaumière-Rambouillet, fell in battle at Grande-Lagruyère Sur Marne, and you eked out a scanty living as a seamstress at your mother’s home in the village of Saint Genevieve, in the Department of Seine et Oise. So, madame! And then what happened? I came. I gave you name, rank, and wealth such as you had never dreamed of. You became Madame La Countess du Veyrier de la Grande Contumace Saint Emilion. I bestowed upon you not only my estates in Pardubien-Grand-Amanoir, but also my two castles in Challenges-Debicourt de la Romanée and at Rivalieux-Quandamouzières Sur Vantera-aux Alpes Maritimes. [He stops exhausted.]
TURAI. Don’t stop. What’s wrong? [Almady takes off his hat and gloves, puts the whip down on the table, and, stepping out of character comes down to Turai.]
ALMADY. It’s these damned French names, they’re perfectly frightful.
TURAI. I don’t see what we can do about it.
ALMADY. You surely don’t need them all?
TURAI. They’re in the script.
ALMADY. But I’ll go mad trying to memorize them. Titles with six hyphens in them and names of places with a dozen ‘aux’ and ‘de la’s’ and ‘sur’s.’ And, damn it, they’re all in my part. [Choking with fury.] It’s deadly. At least, let’s leave out that second castle.
TURAI. [Coldly.] My dear fellow, have you no sense of dramatic construction? If he had given her only one castle, the audience would think her perfectly justified in deceiving him. If he had given her three, they would look on him as a purse-proud fool who didn’t deserve a faithful wife. No, two is exactly the right number. You can’t beat Sardou when it comes to technique. Go on please.
[Almady goes up hopelessly and replaces his hat and gloves and takes up the whip.]
ALMADY. I made you a countess and a wealthy woman. And what return do I get? You betray me—yes, madame, betray me—with my best friend and nearest neighbor, the Marquis Jean François Gilette de la Tour d’Argent, lord of Perigord des Champignons and Saint Sulpice de la Grand Parmentière. [He breaks off, and removes hat and gloves as before.] My God, it’s enough to give a fellow apoplexy.
TURAI. [Surprised.] I beg your pardon? That doesn’t seem to be in the script.
ALMADY. [Down to Turai as before.] I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s these names.
TURAI. Well, I’m always open to suggestions. What would you like to call the gentleman?
ALMADY. Foche or Briand—or something short like that.
TURAI. [Sarcastically.] Perhaps—Vichy! Get on, please. [Almady goes upstage more hopeless than before.]
ILONA. [Nervously.] Oh, do let’s get on. Count, you have said enough.
TURAI. So he seems to think.
ILONA. I will not endure these shameful accusations. You are insulting the woman who bears your name.
ALMADY. [Again taking off hat and gloves and puts down the whip.] It’s a damned shame.
TURAI. What is?
ALMADY. I always have to say the whole infernal thing from beginning to end, and she just says “your name.”
TURAI. [Coldly.] We’re wasting time.
ALMADY. Another word, madame, and I produce the proof.
ILONA. [Laughing.] The proof? One is amused. One smiles.
ALMADY. [Takes stage and turns.] A smile which I will make to die upon your lips. Behold! The proof! [He fuddles in his coat-tail pocket from which he belatedly takes the peach with a sinister flourish.]
ILONA. [With insincere terror.] Ah, gracious heaven! The peach! [Sits.]
ALMADY. [Lays peach on table.] Yes, madame, the peach. The first peach that ripened on the lovingly cherished, early-blooming, richly bearing, East Indian dwarf peach trees in my orchard at Simarineux de la Pomme d’Api, making a triumphant entry into the world days ahead of any other peach in the whole of France. [He turns and glares at Turai resentfully, Turai pays no attention, so he resumes his part.] You know what a passionate fruit-grower I am. You know that I have tended this peach from its first budding—cared for it—watched over it—wrapped it about with my love—kept a diary about it—and awaited its ripening like the coming of a Messiah. And what happens? This afternoon I go out riding. I am proceeding at a gentle jog-trot—
[Mell imitates hoof-beats as before. Almady is incensed by his stupidity. Mell subsides abashed, and Almady resumes.]
I am proceeding at a gentle jog-trot from Duvernois Sur Saône to Saint Sulpice de la Grand Parmentière— [He breaks off with an anguished look at Turai.]
TURAI. [Coldly.] Along the high road—
ALMADY. Along the high road. And whom should I see there, tripping along, but Juliette—your maid. I speak to her. She betrays embarrassment at seeing me. She stammers and ties her apron-strings in a knot. I ask her where she is going. Terrified, she bursts into tears and whispers, ‘My lady sent me to the Marquis Jean François Gilette de la Tour d’Argent’—curse him!
TURAI. Right. This time that was in the script.
ALMADY. Why, I ask the girl, did your mistress send you to the Marquis? And then suddenly, happening to look closer, I see that she is trying desperately to hide a little parcel from me. I take it from her, I open it, and what do I see? [Points to peach.] That peach! The King of Peaches, the apple of my eye—my pride and joy, my firstborn, the supreme peach from the orchards of Simarineux de la Pomme d’Api—the last word in stoneless fruit which I have been guarding since birth like a baby sister— And, as if this were not enough, wrapped round that glorious specimen of its kind, I discover a letter. [He fuddles in his inside coat-pocket, draws out a letter, sees it is the wrong one, replaces it hastily, and draws forth the proper one.] This letter [He reads.] “My beloved. This is the first peach that has ripened in France this year. I send it to you. Eat it reverently.” [He holds the letter under her nose.] There!
ILONA. Are you trying to make me smell it?
ALMADY. I am. For even if you were shameless enough to deny your writing you cannot deny your perfume. Or are you proposing to deny it?
ILONA. No.
ALMADY. Ha! Then you admit it?
ILONA. Yes.
ALMADY. You sent him this peach?
ILONA. Yes!
ALMADY. [Again takes off his hat and gloves. To Turai.] It’s simply rank injustice. I’ve got to say yard-long speeches at the top of my voice, and all her part consists of is little exclamations like ‘oh!’ ‘no!’ and ‘yes!’
TURAI. Yes—I noticed that myself. These short crisp speeches are characteristic of Sardou’s women! It can’t be helped. Go on, please.
ALMADY. [Goes back, puts on hat and gloves, more miserable than ever.] So! You accept from me everything—love, name, rank, riches, estates—two castles—and then you go about the place sending my most cherished fruit to your lover!
ILONA. [Rises, tragically.] No.
ALMADY. You have the effrontery to pretend that the Marquis is not your lover?
ILONA. Yes.
ALMADY. You mean he is?
ILONA. No.
ALMADY. You mean he is not?
ILONA. [Triumphantly.] Yes.
ALMADY. [With a theatrical laugh.] A likely story. Madame, I am a fruit-grower, the leading amateur horticulturist in France and President of the Paris Peach Club. I know—I say, I know—that one does not give fruit like this save where one has first given—the heart. Madame, I despise you.
ILONA. You consider conduct like mine despicable?
ALMADY. I do.
ILONA. Good! Then I have one little question to ask you. In the early Spring of this year there ripened in your orchard the first crop of white-heart cherries. To whom did you send those cherries?
ALMADY. [Turns away embarrassed.] To my mother. The Dowager Countess du Veyrier de la Grande Contumace Saint Emilion.
ILONA. Indeed? To your mother? Then permit me to show you something. You are not the only one who has discovered an interesting letter. [Takes letter from table.] Smell that! Do you recognize the perfume? [Holds it under his nose.]
MELL. [To Adam.] What a situation! Sardou at his best. There’s no one like him.
ILONA. The perfume is that of Mademoiselle Emilienne, première danseuse at the Folies Bergères, whom you honor with your friendship and protection.
ALMADY. How—how did you get this?
ILONA. Never mind. Always remember letters are like sped arrows. You never can tell where they are going to drop.
MELL. [Applauds vigorously, to Adam.] An epigram.
ILONA. Read it, please.
ALMADY. [Reading.] “My dearest. This morning that doddering old idiot of a count of mine—”
ILONA. You notice how your divinity writes of you? Go on!
ALMADY. [Reading.] —“that doddering old idiot of a count of mine sent me a basket of cherries. Did I tell you he was a famous fruit grower? He says these are the first cherries that have ripened in France this year and he sends them to me as a token of his love. Drop in this evening, darling, and we’ll eat the old fool’s cherries together. Your loving Emilienne, P. S. Ring twice as usual!” [He sobs.]
ILONA. You see, what you do to me, I do to you. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a peach for a cherry.
ALMADY. [Brokenly.] Yes. It’s true.
ILONA. And now, leave my garden. This very afternoon I pack my boxes and go back to my mother. And if you will question my maid you will find that I told her to hang about till you came by—to blush and stammer—and finally to give you the letter and the peach. [She breaks into stage laughter.] Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
ALMADY. Well, I must face it. I’ve lost.
ILONA. You’ve lost me.
ALMADY. [Kneeling.] Yvonne! Don’t say that. See! I beg your forgiveness on my knees ... overlook this one false step.
ILONA. The idea! A count, and an elderly count—grovelling like that. [Almady gets up and turns away.] All the same, you have touched me. So I will forgive you. But you are not to get off without punishment. Firstly, I forbid you to eat this peach.
ALMADY. My God! Not that!
ILONA. [Firmly.] Yes.
ALMADY. So be it.
ILONA. Secondly, you will permit me to go to Paris alone—
ALMADY. [Despairingly.] Yvonne!
ILONA. Not a word. Either you trust me or you do not! If you do, I will return. If not, not.
ALMADY. Oh, heavens! And how long do you expect to stay in Paris?
ILONA. A week. [Short pause.]
ALMADY. [Suddenly bursting out.] No! I can’t live without you. I worship you. I adore you. I love you as the church steeple loves the cloud that settles on its summit, only to be wafted away by the first passing breeze. I can’t live without you. Not a week, not a day. Not an hour.
ILONA. Just words. [At the word “church steeple” Mansky and Adam have exchanged a glance of utter astonishment.]
MANSKY. [Rises.] But ... but ... but.... Just one moment.... What was that you said?
ILONA. I beg your pardon?
TURAI. Now, listen, please. We can’t have these interruptions. Don’t pull them up the moment they’ve got nicely into the swing of it.
MELL. I can’t wait to see how it all ends. [To Adam.] Will she leave him? Or will the memory of their past love prove too strong?
MANSKY. [Goes to Adam—Aside to Adam.] This is devilish queer.
TURAI. Quiet, quiet, please. [To Almady.] All right. Go on. Better go back to “Not a week! Not a day! Not an hour!”
ALMADY. Not a week! Not a day! Not an hour!
ILONA. Just words.
ALMADY. It’s the truth. I’m crazy about you. And you—you have used me up and squeezed me like a lemon, and now you want to throw me away. [At the word “lemon” Mansky and Adam again exchange glances. Mansky gets up, deeply agitated.]
MANSKY. Sandor....
TURAI. What is it?
MANSKY. [To Ilona and Almady.] You’ll excuse me? I have something very urgent to say to Mr. Turai. [He crosses to Turai and drags him over to the corner below the fireplace.] Do you hear what they’re saying?
TURAI. [Feigning non-comprehension.] How do you mean, do I hear what they’re saying?
MANSKY. I mean ... didn’t those last lines sound familiar to you?
TURAI. That’s right. Now you mention it. I did notice something, only I thought it was my fancy.
MANSKY. [To Adam.] Come here. [Mell tries to become a part of the whispered conference, but Adam waves him away, and he withdraws upstage disconsolate.] [To Turai.] I give you my word, Sandor—those lines were syllable for syllable the ones we heard last night through the wall.
TURAI. [Looking at script.] By Jove, you’re right.... This is uncanny.
MANSKY. Go on with the rehearsal, or they will be suspecting something. I want to hear some more. [Mansky takes hold of Adam’s arm. Adam is very excited. Both listen intently.]
TURAI. Well, let’s get on. “Now you want to throw me away.”
ILONA. I don’t want to throw you away, silly, Oh, come on, then. Come here and let me kiss that beautiful classic brow. [Almady goes to her.]
MANSKY. [Shouting out.] Great Heavens!
ILONA. [Jumping.] What’s the matter?
MANSKY. [Whispering.] Listen, you two. They’re saying word for word what we heard them say last night. Do you grasp now what they were doing last night? Rehearsing! Simply going through their lines.
TURAI. [To Mansky.] I must admit ... this has come upon me as a complete surprise.... Really, I’m quite shaken.
ADAM. Imitate me. If I can be perfectly calm, you can.
MANSKY. [Pointing at Turai.] And he never recognized it!
ILONA. Mr. Turai! What’s going on?
ALMADY. Yes. What’s all the discussion about?
TURAI. [To Almady.] Well, it’s like this. Mansky says—and I’m bound to say I agree with him—that for the actual performance to-night you will have to dig up a classic brow from somewhere.
ALMADY. Dig up a classic brow?
TURAI. You see, it’s rather awkward. The script says ... “Kiss that beautiful classic brow.”
ALMADY. Well?
TURAI. Well, you’ll have to get one somewhere.
ALMADY. [Bitterly.] You think my own would not be convincing?
MANSKY. My God, no!
ALMADY. It has been so described.
TURAI. In this play, yes. But, if you’ll pardon my saying so, you wouldn’t suggest that any woman of taste could say such a thing in real life?
ALMADY. [Bitterly.] Very good. No doubt the property man will be able to supply me with a face.