[Mell is appalled at the prospect of having to get a “face” but he dutifully makes a notation of it in his little book.]
TURAI. Oh—my dear fellow. [All go back to places.]
ADAM. [Impatiently.] We’re wasting time. Let’s get on.
TURAI. Sh! Sh! We’ve only a few minutes more.
ADAM. No more interruptions.
MELL. Thank God!
ILONA. Where were we? Oh, yes. Come here and let me kiss that beautiful classic brow. [Kisses him on forehead.]
ALMADY. That’s not a kiss. That’s a tip.
MANSKY. Surely that line is a trifle vulgar.
TURAI. It’s vulgar because it’s spoken by a vulgar man.
MANSKY. The speaker is a count.
TURAI. But a dull-witted bounder, for all that. He’s the sort of man who would say things like that. Don’t you start trying to teach Sardou how to write dialogue.
ALMADY. [Furious.] For God’s sake, are we going to rehearse?
TURAI. Yes—go on, please.
ALMADY. That’s not a kiss. That’s a tip.
ILONA. Don’t shout like that.
ALMADY. I will shout. I’m a squeezed lemon. That’s what I am—a lemon. The whole world shall know I’m a lemon. [Falls sobbing at her feet.]
[Mansky whispers something to Adam. Adam smiles happily and whispers back. They shake hands.]
TURAI. Please—please— What’s the matter?
MANSKY. Nothing. I was merely saying to Adam that I think that word “lemon” is all wrong.
TURAI. I think it’s excellent. Absolutely in character. The speaker is a big lemon-and-peach man from Saint Sulpice de la Grande Parmentière, and he naturally goes to the orchard for his similes. Try to realize that he’s practically an imbecile with virtually no vocabulary.
[Almady looks up from Ilona’s lap and registers indignation.]
[Prompting.] ‘Please, please’— [To Ilona.] From you, my dear. [To Almady.] You’re crying. [Almady sobs.]
ILONA. Please, please. Don’t cry. I can’t bear it. You know how fond I am of you. [She goes to table where peach is.]
ALMADY. Those nights of love—those flaming, wonderful nights! Have you forgotten them so completely? [He stands up, and starts to touch the peach.]
ILONA. Stop! Control yourself.
ALMADY. [Gazing at peach.] You ask me to control myself—when I look at that? At that perfect shape. The rose flush of that skin. [Starts to touch peach.] Just to stroke it....
ILONA. Hands off.
ALMADY. [Snatching up the peach, holds it in one hand and with the other strokes it voluptuously.] My God! How round it is! How smooth, how velvety—and how fragrant! [Raises it to his mouth.]
ILONA. You mustn’t bite it. [She snatches his hand.]
[Mansky gives a shriek and goes into fits of laughter. Adam stretches his arms out to Mansky and roars. Adam slaps Mansky on the back, Mansky laughing uninterruptedly. Almady turns away furiously. Ilona turns away, ashamed.]
MANSKY. [Putting his arm around Adam’s shoulder, still laughing.] Heavens! What fools we’ve been!
ADAM. Haven’t we?
MELL. [Eagerly.] Won’t you tell me the joke?
ADAM. You wouldn’t understand.
ILONA. What are you two so amused about?
TURAI. [Curtly.] Come, come. We’re wasting time. Let’s get on.
MANSKY. Yes, get on. I want to hear this. Round, smooth, velvety and fragrant.
ADAM. And you mustn’t bite.
ILONA. You mustn’t bite it.
ALMADY. I must—I am so hungry.
[Adam and Mansky go on laughing. Mell laughs too, but with a puzzled look, as much as to say “I’m joining in, but I really don’t understand.”]
ALMADY. [Sits.] Ah well! I see I am nothing to you any more.
ILONA. Oh, for goodness sake! I swear that no man— [Breaks off, unable to go on.]
TURAI. [Prompting.] No man who has ever come into my life ...
ILONA. ... has meant so much to me as you. From the top of your head to the soles of your feet you are a man.
TURAI. I think we might cut that last bit.
ALMADY. Why?
TURAI. Well, I mean to say.... A little too explicit, don’t you think? Rather too obvious a sexual implication. A wee bit coarse, perhaps, yes? We must consider the feelings of the audience. [To Mell.] Will there be any young girls there to-night?
MELL. Oh, yes, indeed.
TURAI. Then we must cut it. They may bring their parents. Instead suppose we say—“I love you, even though you are only a poor imitation of a man.” [Almady registers rage.] Go on. [To Almady.] “My God! I suffer....”
ALMADY. [Bitterly.] My God! I suffer like a sick horse. [To Turai.] Look here, that ought to come out.
TURAI. Why?
ALMADY. How could anyone speak of himself so vulgarly?
TURAI. We went into all that just now. Just what a cattle-raiser would say.
ALMADY. But he’s a fruit-raiser!
TURAI. Cattle, too. Cattle as a side line.
ILONA. Don’t look so pathetic.... Well, come here. Kiss me. You donkey.
ALMADY. [Furiously to Turai.] It’s too much.... Horse and donkey.
ADAM. [Aside to Mansky.] This is where I went out. How funny it seems now.
TURAI. [Looks at script.] We’re getting near the end now. They kiss here. [Almady starts to kiss Ilona.]
ILONA. [Pushing him away.] Oh, never mind the kiss. Kiss over.
ALMADY. [Offended.] Just as you please. I want you to remember that kiss for ever.
ILONA. Your kiss is revolting to me.
ALMADY. [Despairingly—To Turai.] Does that stay in?
TURAI. My dear fellow, we can’t cut everything.
ALMADY. But a line like that’s so damned personal. The audience will loathe me.
MANSKY. It beats me why on earth you ever chose a part like this.
[Almady looks toward Turai in mute appeal, but Turai is adamant and metes out no mercy.]
TURAI. [With subtle mockery.] Yes. It’s no business of mine, but I must say I can’t understand that, either. It doesn’t help to cut lines here and there. It’s the whole part. The character’s a bounder and a fool.
MANSKY. The author must have loathed this fellow. [To Turai.] You notice that, Sandor, don’t you?
TURAI. [Ironically.] Of course, I noticed it.
ILONA. Do let’s get to the end. [Rises.] Mademoiselle Emilienne describes you as an old fool. [Almady glares.]
TURAI. [Prompting.] And so I am.
ALMADY. And so I am, Yvonne. [Furious.] So I am.
MANSKY. You certainly are.
ILONA. [Sincerely.] It’s disgusting that a man of your age should persecute a woman, and by playing on her sense of gratitude seek to obtain a love which she would never bestow as a free gift.
ADAM. [Crossing down to Turai and whispering.] Uncle Sandor—will you give me your word of honor that Ilona shall never know how shamefully I suspected her?
TURAI. Don’t be childish.
ADAM. If ever she found out—she’d never look at me again.
TURAI. I’ll never tell her.
ILONA. Please don’t interrupt any more.
ADAM. [Bows elaborately and says with meaning.] Forgive me. [Ilona accepts his apology with an affectionate gesture, and when his back is turned it is she who is mutely asking his forgiveness.]
TURAI. Go on!
ILONA. Think of your wife. Think of your children.
ALMADY. [Turns away.] My children!
ILONA. What would your son say? Your son, a highly respected colonel in the Dragoons.
[This is too much. The Actor in Almady is crushed. He comes down to Turai brokenly and speaks supplicatingly.]
ALMADY. Mr. Turai.
TURAI. [Amiably.] Yes?
ALMADY. It’s just a suggestion, but couldn’t we say lieutenant there?
TURAI. I’m afraid not. You see it was “general” in the text.
ALMADY. [Wildly.] My son a general?
ILONA. [To Turai.] How far back can I go?
TURAI. At the most a major.
ILONA. [Quickly.] Very well. Your son, a highly respected major in the Dragoons.
ALMADY. You are right, Yvonne. The shock would kill him. [Almady breaks off, evidently unwilling to speak his next line. But Turai prompts him relentlessly.]
TURAI. A ridiculous old petticoat-chaser.
ALMADY. [Speaking the lines almost sotto voce in a casual offhand manner.] A ridiculous old petticoat-chaser, that’s what I am. Bah!
TURAI. Oh, come, Mr. Almady. Not so tamely, please. More life. Once more.
ALMADY. [Comes down to Turai and says the line with petulance and irritation.] A ridiculous old petticoat-chaser, that’s what I am. Bah!
TURAI. [Relentlessly.] Still not quite strong enough. More gusto. More sincerity.
ALMADY. [Shouts the line to relieve his fury.] A RIDICULOUS OLD PETTICOAT-CHASER, THAT’S WHAT I AM. BAH!
TURAI. [Coldly.] Once more, please.
ALMADY. [Shouting to the full limit of his vocal chords in wild desperation.] A RIDICULOUS OLD PETTICOAT-CHASER, THAT’S WHAT I AM. BAH!
TURAI. [With approval.] Fine—that’s it. Now read it that way at the performance. [Almady returns upstage completely crushed and beaten.]
ALMADY. [Genuinely.] I promise you I shall never again make myself obnoxious to this woman who loves another man and is sick and tired of me. Never, never again.
ILONA. [Briskly.] Never again?
ALMADY. [Briskly.] Never again.
ILONA. Then, Maurice, I will be generous. I will not go to Paris, and you may eat the peach.
ALMADY. [Hurls himself at the peach.] My God! At last! [Gnaws the peach.]
TURAI. [Rising.] Curtain.
MANSKY. The end?
TURAI. The end.
MANSKY. He really should have given his wife the peach. That would have made a much prettier finish.
TURAI. Oh, my dear fellow! Where’s your sense of character? The man’s selfish to the core. He’d never give his wife peaches.
MANSKY. A very unsympathetic part. Still, he played it well.
TURAI. It fitted him.
MELL. [Dancing about in anguish, pointing to Almady, incoherent with agitation.] Oh! Oh!
TURAI. What’s the matter with you?
MELL. He’s eating the peach! He’s eating the peach! I never dreamed he was going to eat the peach. I shall have to dash out and get another. [He rushes off to the hall.]
ILONA. [Takes off scarf. To Adam, who stands overcome with happiness.] Well, how do you like me in this part?
ADAM. Oh, darling, you were wonderful, simply wonderful. And, if you want to know what I think—this little comedy is worth all Shakespeare put together. [He kisses her hands.]
MANSKY. Oh, no, no, no. The thing dates terribly. When did Sardou write it?
TURAI. I don’t know. What period Sardou is this, Mr. Almady?
ALMADY. I should imagine it was his last work.
MANSKY. Then he must have been a very old man at the time. It’s terrible. He probably wrote it just before he died.
TURAI. Or just after. [To Ilona.] Can I have a minute? Just a few things I’d like to tell you about your part.
ILONA. Yes, yes, I shall be very grateful. [To Mansky and Adam.] Go along. We shan’t be a moment. [They go up the stairs at right.]
MANSKY. What beats me is why an actor who has always played heroes picked a part like that for himself. He must be terribly fond of acting. [Mansky and Adam go out at right.]
TURAI. [To Almady, who is sitting dejectedly at left.] You seem upset.
ALMADY. [Miserably.] Not at all. [He glares at Turai.]
TURAI. So you’ve decided to take the midnight express directly after the performance?
ALMADY. Yes.
TURAI. I think you’re wise. A good, fruity train, highly spoken of by connoisseurs. Well, just to show you the sort of fellows we Turais are, I’ll let you off the major. Ilona, you can say lieutenant.
ALMADY. Even lieutenant seems a little....
TURAI. Good God! We can’t make him a drummer boy.
ALMADY. [Picks up part.] Very well. So be it. I suppose I ought to be thankful for small mercies. [Goes toward door to hall.]
TURAI. Where are you off to?
ALMADY. I’m going to have another go at those infernal French names. But in spite of everything—thank you. [Almady bows and then goes out.]
ILONA. [Going to Turai and embracing him.] Sandor, you’re an angel. Was it awfully difficult, writing that play?
TURAI. Oh, no. That damned peach stumped me for a while. Smooth, round, velvety and fragrant, and you mustn’t bite. It wasn’t easy to get round that. Believe me, there are very few things in this world that are round, smooth, velvety—and respectable.
ILONA. [Turns head away.] Oh—he was talking about my shoulder.
TURAI. [With delicate irony and gazing at her shoulder, then kissing it.] Really? I thought it was your forehead.
ILONA. You’re an old devil—that’s what you are.
TURAI. Just what I expected. Now that it’s all over, everybody else is a gentleman and I’m an old devil. But somehow I don’t think I am. My little Ilona, I have saved a young man a bad heartache. It’s a negative kindness, but is there a positive one that’s better? Yes, on the whole, I think I’m fairly well satisfied with myself. And there’s a little old woman looking at me from somewhere—probably from hell—and her eyes seem to be twinkling, as if she was satisfied, too. It’s unfortunate, that you won’t have me always on hand to.... [Re-enter Mansky and Adam.]
MANSKY. [On the landing, to Adam.] Poor old Turai’s feeling awfully sore about all this. He had a wonderful scheme for bringing you two together, based on what he calls psychology. And now he’s furious because that won’t be needed. [Enter Dwornitschek from hall.]
ADAM. Sh! Ilona will hear you. Let’s drop the subject.
DWORNITSCHEK. [Standing at center.] Dinner is served. [Adam meets Ilona at center. They embrace and kiss lovingly and go out to the hall arm in arm.]
MANSKY. [With self-satisfaction to Turai.] So, my friend, it comes down to this. There are many clever writers, but the most successful of them all is still old man life himself.
TURAI. That’s because he doesn’t have to collaborate with you. [He takes Mansky’s arm. As he passes Dwornitschek he stops and looks at him.]
DWORNITSCHEK. [Smiling.] Dwornitschek, sir.
TURAI. Still Dwornitschek—Thank you.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.
TURAI. No, no, my dear Dwornitschek, thank YOU. [Turai and Mansky go out.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS