Act Two
As the curtain rises a clock in the hall is heard to strike six. Golden sunlight pours in the windows. The Mediterranean is as blue as tradition has painted it. Sandor Turai, now jauntily attired in white flannels is seated in the armchair at the center, with the loose leaves of a manuscript before him. As the clock stops striking, the door at left to the hall is opened by Dwornitschek, who comes down to Turai, bringing a newspaper on a salver. Dwornitschek is followed by two lackeys in livery, each carrying an enormous silver tray piled high with Turai’s breakfast. During the dialogue that follows, the lackeys place the breakfast upon the long table at the right. This done, one of them stands at attention while the other goes up to the window, opens it, steps out on the balcony and lowers an awning which shuts off some of the now too brilliant sunlight.
DWORNITSCHEK. Good morning, sir.
TURAI. Good morning. What’s this?
DWORNITSCHEK. Morning paper, sir.
TURAI. You’ve read it, of course?
DWORNITSCHEK. Oh yes, sir.
TURAI. Anything about me in it?
DWORNITSCHEK. No, sir.
TURAI. Then take it away.
[Dwornitschek gives salver with the newspaper to one of the lackeys and motions both off.]
DWORNITSCHEK. Let me see, sir, I think it was ham, eggs, cold chicken, smoked salmon, cold beef, bacon, butter, milk, honey, jam and rolls that you ordered, was it not?
TURAI. Quite right.
DWORNITSCHEK. And tea with lemon.
TURAI. [With revulsion.] Not lemon!
DWORNITSCHEK. There’s rum, sir—or cognac, if you prefer.
TURAI. Pardon my emotion—I loathe lemons.
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir. Many people do. I had an aunt—
TURAI. Suppose we don’t talk about your aunt just for the moment.
DWORNITSCHEK. Very good, sir.
TURAI. Later on, perhaps.
DWORNITSCHEK. At any time that suits you, sir.
TURAI. You must make allowances for the artistic temperament. When I have been sitting up all night writing, I somehow don’t feel in the vein for discussing other people’s aunts. You understand, don’t you?
DWORNITSCHEK. I quite understand, sir.
[Turai has risen and crossed to the table, upon which he has put the manuscript. He now goes round to the right side where his place is set, he examines the breakfast with evident satisfaction. He lifts the covers from several silver dishes, looks at their contents with pleasure, and smiles at Dwornitschek with approval.]
TURAI. You’re really a wonderful fellow. How on earth did you manage not to forget anything?
DWORNITSCHEK. It was a labour of love, sir. My heart is in that breakfast.
TURAI. [Sitting down.] Your heart, too? [After he has taken a sip of tea.] Ah! that puts new life into a man.
DWORNITSCHEK. You must have had very little sleep, sir.
TURAI. Not much.
DWORNITSCHEK. I hadn’t any.
TURAI. Yes, I remember you told me you were essentially a hibernating animal.
DWORNITSCHEK. Nobody else is stirring as yet. This is the time when I sometimes manage to lie down myself for a few moments.
TURAI. Then you will get some sleep, after all?
DWORNITSCHEK. Just forty winks, sir. That’s the advantage of being by the sea. Gentlemen stay in bed till noon. Very different from the mountains.
TURAI. [Who throughout this dialogue is eating and drinking with relish and satisfaction.] They get up early in the mountains, eh?
DWORNITSCHEK. At about five or four-thirty. They like to go climbing. But there’s always a bright side, sir; they go to bed at nine.
TURAI. You know, you’re broadening my mind tremendously. Every time I see you, I learn something new.
DWORNITSCHEK. If it’s not a liberty, sir, I should like to say something.
TURAI. I’ll bet it’s something good. Go on.
DWORNITSCHEK. You ought to take more care of your health, sir. You don’t get enough sleep.
TURAI. I don’t?!
DWORNITSCHEK. And you smoke too much, sir. I found at least fifty cigarette-butts in the ashtray in the library.
TURAI. Wrong. Thirty-seven.
DWORNITSCHEK. Too many, sir.
TURAI. What’s your daily allowance?
DWORNITSCHEK. Fifteen, sir.
TURAI. You’ll live to be a hundred.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you—is that a medical opinion, sir?
TURAI. No—just a hope. This weary world needs men like you.
DWORNITSCHEK. No, no, sir. Like you.
TURAI. Well, shall we say like both of us?
DWORNITSCHEK. Would it be a liberty, sir, if I expressed the opinion that you have a heart of gold?
TURAI. Not at all. Thank you very much.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.
TURAI. No, no. Thank YOU.
DWORNITSCHEK. It’s the way you take an interest that touches a man, sir. I wish there was something I could do for you.
TURAI. At the moment, I think the best thing you can do for me is to leave me alone. And if anyone asks for me, tell them I’m sleeping and must not be disturbed. Understand?
DWORNITSCHEK. Oh, yes, indeed, sir.
[Dwornitschek starts to exit. Turai stops him. Turai pantomimes “Wait a minute. I must remember your name.” He registers despair. Dwornitschek smiles indulgently and whispers “Dwornitschek.”]
TURAI. Thank you.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank you, sir.
[He goes out at the left to hall.]
[Turai rises, listens at staircase, then goes to the telephone and takes up the receiver.]
TURAI. Hello. Will you give me Miss Ilona Szabo’s room?
[He waits. Telephone bell rings loudly in the room at the left. After a pause it rings again.]
ILONA’S VOICE. [Sleepily.] YES???
TURAI. [Speaks into telephone, very mildly.] Hello.
ILONA’S VOICE. HELLO!!!
TURAI. [Softly.] Hello.
ILONA’S VOICE. WHO’S THAT?
TURAI. The unfeeling brute who has aroused you from your slumber is known to the police as Sandor Turai.
ILONA’S VOICE. [Changing in a flash, delighted.] Sandor! Dear old Sandor!
TURAI. Well, and how’s the prima donna?
ILONA’S VOICE. Where are you speaking from?
TURAI. Next door.
ILONA’S VOICE. What!
TURAI. I thought you’d be surprised. I’m in the next room.
ILONA’S VOICE. How on earth?...
TURAI. My dear little Ilona, let’s postpone the explanations. I want to see you at once—immediately.
ILONA’S VOICE. [Anxiously.] You’re frightening me. What is it?
TURAI. [Deliberately puts down the receiver and speaks toward the wall.] Don’t get alarmed. [Lights cigarette at piano.] Come in here at once. This minute.
ILONA’S VOICE. This minute?
TURAI. This very minute. [Taps door at left.] Open this door. Put something on.
ILONA’S VOICE. What?
TURAI. Anything you have.
ILONA’S VOICE. Do what? I can’t hear. There must be something wrong with the telephone.
TURAI. [Goes to the wall.] Put something on and come in here at once. Can you hear better now?
ILONA’S VOICE. Yes, I can hear beautifully now.
TURAI. Good.
ILONA’S VOICE. I’ll be right in. [Turai goes back to the telephone and hangs up the receiver. There is a short pause. Then the door at left to bedroom is thrown open and Ilona Szabo enters. She is an extraordinarily beautiful, blonde young woman. Having just got out of bed and slipped a flimsy alluring negligee over her nightie, she is somewhat dishevelled. Her golden hair is awry. Moreover she is, at the moment, more than anxious, her apprehension and fright are close to panic.] Sandor—what is it? I feel something terrible has happened. What’s the matter? When did you get here?
TURAI. [Calmly.] Sit down, my dear. You and I have got to do some quick talking.
ILONA. But what’s happened? For heaven’s sake, tell me!
TURAI. Sit down.
ILONA. Why?
TURAI. Because if you don’t sit down now, you’ll sit down later on when you hear what I’ve got to say—and you’ll sit down hard. Better do it gracefully while you can.
[He pushes her gently into the armchair at center.]
ILONA. I don’t understand.
TURAI. You will. My dear little Ilona, in spite of the fact that you are engaged to my young friend Adam, you are still carrying on an affair with Mr. Almady.
ILONA. [With indignation.] It’s an outrageous lie.
TURAI. Good! I thought you were going to say it was none of my business.
ILONA. I couldn’t say that, because you’re Albert’s guardian, guide, philosopher and friend and God knows what else. And you’re a friend of mine and write plays for me. So I simply say that it’s a lie.
TURAI. I’m glad you do, because it’s an observation which I can answer. I’ve been in this room since last night and the walls in this new wing are as thin as paper.
ILONA. [Looks at walls. As the truth dawns upon her she is horrified.] Good God!
TURAI. Lemon. [Ilona hides her face.] Lemon.... Church steeple. Well, dear Ilona. Suppose we talk this over? Something’s got to be done—and done quickly.
ILONA. If you heard, you heard what I said too.
TURAI. Every word.
ILONA. Then you know that I told him to get out—and he’s getting out to-day. At twelve o’clock. So, if you don’t say anything—and of course you won’t....
TURAI. Not quite so fast, please. If the thing were as simple as that, you would never have known from me that I had overheard you. I regret to say matters are much more unpleasant.
ILONA. [Sinking back in chair.] My God! You don’t mean?...
TURAI. I see you’ve guessed.
ILONA. Did—did—I can’t say it.
TURAI. I will say it for you. Yes, the boy did hear it, too.
ILONA. [Looks at Turai.] God!... He’s here then?
TURAI. He is here.
ILONA. Where?
TURAI. Sh! He’s up in Mansky’s room—asleep. And last night he was in this room—awake.
ILONA. [Rises, goes toward her room.] I’ll take veronal, all there is in my bottle.
TURAI. That’s not enough.
ILONA. [Turns.] Ten ounces.
TURAI. I was not referring to the veronal. I mean suicide is no solution.
ILONA. There isn’t any solution that I could survive. [Dramatically.] There are only two things I can possibly do—kill myself or deny the whole story.
TURAI. Deny the whole story? Do you suppose if it were just a question of telling lies, I would have troubled you? I’d have told them myself long ago.
ILONA. Then we come back to the veronal.
TURAI. Exactly. We come back to the veronal—and find it safely tucked away in its bottle.
ILONA. Well, what do you suggest?
TURAI. I have my plan. And all I ask of you is not to hinder it.
ILONA. [Almost crying.] You know I worship Albert. If anybody knows that, you do. I’ve been a different woman since I met him. He looks on me as a saint. [Turai gives her a quick ironic glance.] And he’s right. I have turned into a saint since I began to love him. It was the only thing I wanted to do in life—to keep straight for his sake. I was so happy. [She sinks into armchair crying.] I love him so.
TURAI. And yet you can’t be true to him.
ILONA. [Indignantly.] You’ve no right to say that. It was nothing but my damned sentimentality. You know very well that affair with that beast Almady didn’t last a couple of months. First he gave me breathing lessons and taught me how to throw my voice—
TURAI. [With a significant glance.] Yes, he taught you that, all right.
ILONA. I’m just a victim of my kind heart. I thought I was rid of him, but he got himself invited here. And he’s always bursting into tears. A woman hates to see a man cry. He stuck to me like a leech. [Rises and stalks about hysterically.] But why on earth would I want to start in with him again? I give you my word, Sandor, that last night was simply—like the last dying vibrations of a high note.
TURAI. You’d have done better to stop vibrating a little earlier. Still, there it is. What we’ve got to do now is—get you out of the mess.
ILONA. [Runs across to Turai and throws herself on her knees, clasping him beseechingly.] Sandor! Sandor darling! Do you really think you can?
TURAI. Yes, I can. But don’t think I’m doing it for your sake, my dear; not for the sake of your beautiful eyes. You deserve to be drawn and quartered. I’m doing it for that poor decent boy who still retains a few ideals in this unpleasant world. Yes, my dear Ilona, I think I must ask you to be a little ashamed of yourself.
ILONA. [Bitterly.] Don’t worry. [Rises.] I am. What can I do?
TURAI. [Goes to telephone.] I am just going to tell you. And you won’t enjoy it. Still, good medicine’s rarely pleasant. [Picks up receiver.] Hello. [To Ilona.] What’s the number of Almady’s room?
ILONA. [Apprehensively.] What do you want with him?
TURAI. [Into the telephone.] Give me Mr. Almady’s room, please. [Pause.] Never mind about all that, my good man. I don’t care what instructions he left—call him. And go on ringing till he answers. It’s a matter of life and death.
ILONA. What are you doing?
TURAI. [In telephone.] Mr. Almady? Yes, yes, I know you gave instructions.... Will you please be quiet for a moment?... This is Sandor Turai speaking. Here in the new wing.... Last night, by car.... Good morning—you were awake already! Capital! Would you mind coming here at once. Room number four.... Yes, I mean NOW, right away.... Yes, matter of life and death was what I said, but I made a slight error. I should have said a matter of death—Yes, yes, this very minute—right. [He hangs up the receiver. Ilona starts to go.] Where are you off to?
ILONA. If Almady is coming here?...
TURAI. You will kindly stay just where you were.
ILONA. [Looking toward Albert’s bedroom at right, crying.] He looked on me as a saint. He thought I was everything that was fine and pure. He called me his Madonna.
TURAI. You should have thought of that a long time ago.
ILONA. Tell me—what did Albert say?
TURAI. I wouldn’t ask that if I were you.
ILONA. God! What was the plan you said you had?... Can’t you speak?
TURAI. Patience.
ILONA. It’s too cruel.... Just because I hate hurting people’s feelings.... [She breaks off as a knock sounds on the door left to hall.]
TURAI. Come in.
[Almady, who enters is also in a state of nervous apprehension. He is attired in elaborate, not to say loud, house pajamas. A tall and but recently handsome man, now well into middle age. Almady is first, last and always the actor. He dramatizes every moment of his existence. He does not walk, he struts; he does not talk, he declaims.]
ALMADY. Good morning. [Sees Ilona, surprised.] Hullo. You here?
TURAI. Yes, she’s here.
ALMADY. But what’s the matter? Has something happened?
ILONA. Oh, do sit down.
TURAI. [Grimly.] He’ll sit down quite soon enough. I’m not afraid of his not sitting down.
ALMADY. [To Turai.] You’ll forgive me if I seem nervous....
TURAI. Glass of brandy?
ALMADY. Thank you. [Deliberately.] Never in the morning.
TURAI. Mr. Almady, you are a married man and the father of a family. And you are forcing your attentions on another man’s fiancée.
ALMADY. [Indignantly.] It’s an outrageous lie.
TURAI. Good. I thought you were going to say it was none of my business. You would have been quite right. But a lie—no, I’m afraid that won’t do.
ALMADY. [Aggressively.] Mr. Turai, I would have you know—
TURAI. Shut up!
ALMADY. [Outraged.] “Shut up!”
TURAI. [Significantly.] Lemon! [Almady sits down abruptly.] I told you he’d sit down. [Almady looks at the left wall.] Yes, quite right. It’s as thin as paper.
ALMADY. [Rises.] Now come, Mr. Turai, between two gentlemen....
TURAI. I beg your pardon?
ALMADY. As one gentleman to another, I ask your discretion....
TURAI. Sit down.
ALMADY. [Sitting down anxiously.] Why? Is there something else coming?
TURAI. [Crosses to right and listens at staircase.] Yes, there is something else coming. Are you sitting down?
ALMADY. Yes.
TURAI. Then listen. I wasn’t the only one who heard everything. Her fiancé was in this room with me at the time, and his hearing is excellent.
ALMADY. [Strangling.] Brandy!
TURAI. [Pouring it out.] In the morning? [Gives Almady the brandy.]
ALMADY. I always take it in the morning. [He gulps it down.]
ILONA. Well, what are you going to do now, you miserable idiot, you? You see what you’ve done. You’ve driven me to suicide. Oh God! I shall die. I shall die!
ALMADY. [Rising melodramatically.] I’ll die with you!
ILONA. I don’t want you! I’m going to die alone.
ALMADY. [Pompously.] I am ready to give him satisfaction.
TURAI. That’s the last straw. [As Almady starts to speak.] I’ll tell you what you are going to do. You are going to do just as I order.
ALMADY. [Starting up.] Order?
TURAI. Sit down.
[Almady sits down.]
ILONA. Yes—order. [To Turai—rapidly.] Tell us, please. Never mind how much he rants.
ALMADY. [Indignantly.] Rants! You dare to criticise my diction?
TURAI. Oh! Damn your diction! Just thank your stars that I’m going to get you out of this. A married man! Father of a family. With four children at home—four little lemons! [Almady rises.] One word from you, and this telegram, all ready and written, goes off to your wife.
[Almady looks again at wall and groans.]
ILONA. Look at him. Don’t look at the wall. Last night was the time to have done that.
TURAI. In that room next door—last night—something occurred.
ILONA. [Ashamed.] Yes, yes, please. We know what occurred.
TURAI. That is just what you don’t know. You are now going to hear. What occurred was the rehearsal of a play. Do you grasp my meaning?
ILONA. In the middle of the night?
TURAI. In the middle of the night.
ALMADY. How do you mean—the rehearsal of a play?
TURAI. Your very loud remarks, so loud that they actually penetrated the wall—were dialogue from a play. Now, do you understand?
ILONA. I do. [To Almady.] Don’t you—idiot? [Rises.] It’s the most marvelous, wonderful idea, you old darling....
[She is just about to embrace Turai, when she stops in consternation.]
TURAI. What’s the matter?
ILONA. It’s no good. He’d never believe it.
TURAI. Why wouldn’t he believe it?
ILONA. Where on earth is there a play with lines in it like those?
TURAI. Where? [Picking up pile of papers from the table.] Here.
ILONA. What do you mean?
TURAI. [Pointing.] Here you are. Here’s the play. This is it.
ILONA. Who wrote it?
TURAI. I did. Don’t stare at me, my dear child, with those starry eyes of blue. [Sits on bench.] Rather ask when I wrote it.
ILONA. When could you have written it?
TURAI. This morning—between four and six. After all, one is either a playwright or one isn’t. Half of it I heard through the wall; the other half I wrote to fit. In this life, everyone has to fight with his own weapons. My weapon is the pen! And, on this occasion I hope it will prove considerably mightier than the sword. I am feeling this morning like an acrobat, who for once has the chance to use his skill to save a life. I don’t suppose any play has ever yet been written with such purely altruistic motives. Well, there you are. There’s the play. Read it—learn it and play it.
[He gives her the manuscript.]
ILONA. Play it?
TURAI. Naturally you must play it. How else can you make him believe without a shadow of doubt that what you were saying last night was just dialogue? Off you go. Dress rehearsal early this evening. Opening to-night.
ALMADY. To-night? But where?
TURAI. At the concert, of course. After dinner in the ballroom. [To Ilona.] You’re down on the programme already for something or other.
ILONA. A couple of songs. [Contemptuously.] He’s to recite some poems.
TURAI. Then there’ll be a slight change in the programme. He’ll act with you instead—a one-act play.
ILONA. [Looking at script.] But how on earth can I learn all this by to-night?
[Almady goes to window.]
TURAI. Well, really! Last night you knew it well enough. [Almady sighs deeply.] What’s the matter with you?
ALMADY. [Comes down.] Mr. Turai, that was a sigh of relief. Do you know my wife?
TURAI. I do. Didn’t I tell you that it was a matter of death?
ALMADY. How can I ever thank you?
[He holds out his hand. Turai ignores it.]
TURAI. Don’t bother to try. If you think I’m doing this for your sake, my good man, you’re greatly mistaken. Unfortunately, my life-saving apparatus is so constructed that you automatically have to be rescued, too.
ILONA. Oh, but listen....
TURAI. Now what is it?
ILONA. What earthly reason could we have had for rehearsing at three in the morning?
TURAI. That’s what I ask myself, but I answer myself—quite simple. You had to play the thing to-night. You’d lost a lot of time on a picnic. Every moment was precious. You were so conscientious that when you came home you insisted on rehearsing even though it was three o’clock in the morning.
ILONA. Well, we’d better go and start studying at once. I’m a very slow study.
TURAI. One minute. Don’t get excited. Who’s supposed to be running this concert?
ILONA. The Count’s secretary, Mr. Mell.
TURAI. We must notify him of this change in the programme. [Goes to telephone.] Hello.... Give me Mr. Mell’s room, please.
ILONA. But he’ll be asleep.
TURAI. Oh no, my dear. Not after this telephone bell has rung once or twice. [He hands Ilona the receiver.] There you are—ladies first.
ILONA. [Taking telephone.] But what am I to say?
TURAI. Keep calm. I’ll prompt you.
ILONA. Hello! Is that Mr. Mell? Yes, it is early, isn’t it?
[She looks at Turai for directions.]
TURAI. Good morning.
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] Good morning.
TURAI. How did you sleep?
ILONA. [Her hand over the receiver.] I can’t say that. The poor man is furious.
TURAI. [Shrugging.] Use your own judgment, then.
ILONA. [Into the telephone in her most seductive manner.] Dear Mr. Mell! [Coos.] I’m so dreadfully sorry to wake you up at this hour, but I wanted to tell you that there will be a little change in the programme to-night. I’m sure the Count will be pleased. I’m sure you will be pleased. I’m sure the audience will be pleased.
TURAI. Unanimous.
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] Instead of working alone, I’m going to appear with Mr. Almady. Yes, Mr. Almady. In an extremely witty, charming, brilliant little duologue. [Turai bows. Ilona listens at the telephone for a moment. Then she turns to Turai and asks, as if she were still speaking to Mell.] What kind of a play is it?
TURAI. French.
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] French. [As before.] Who wrote it?
TURAI. Geraldy.
ILONA. Geraldy, I believe.... [Pause.] Oh, isn’t that nice!
TURAI. [Apprehensive.] What’s nice?
ILONA. [Hand over receiver.] He says he knows every line that Geraldy ever wrote.
TURAI. Then it’s by Sardou.
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] No, I’m sorry. I’ve just been looking at the script again. It’s not by Geraldy; it’s by Sardou.
TURAI. The Great Sardou.
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] The Great Sardou!... Indeed?
TURAI. How is he up on Sardou?
ILONA. [Covering receiver.] He says the only thing of Sardou’s he knows is Hedda Gabbler.
TURAI. [Delighted.] That’s the man for us!
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] That’s the man for us.
TURAI. No, no, no! That last remark was supposed to be confidential.
ILONA. Good-bye, and thank you so much, Mr. Mell. You’ve been so sweet.... Oh, of course—as if we’d dream of having anybody but you as a prompter!... The title?
TURAI. A tooth for a tooth!
ILONA. [Into the telephone.] A truth....
TURAI. Tooth, tooth.
ILONA. A tooth for a tooth.... Yes, isn’t it? Quite snappy. [Coos.] Good-bye. [She hangs up receiver and turns to Turai.] Why a French piece?
TURAI. Merely to ensure that nobody will know who wrote it. That’s the beauty of French literature—there’s such a lot of it. Besides, one has one’s conscience. I’ve stolen so much from the French in my time that it’s only fair I should give them something for a change. And now that everything seems to be working out all right, let me say with all the emphasis at my disposal—get out. Go and study! [To Almady.] And—so that no one will recognize my handwriting—you have got to copy out the script.
ALMADY. All of it?
TURAI. From beginning to end.
ALMADY. You think of everything.
TURAI. Unlike a certain Southern fruit.
ILONA. [Who has been looking through the script.] Oh, but this isn’t right.
TURAI. What isn’t?
ILONA. This line. You make me say “Your kiss is revolting to me.” What I really said was....
TURAI. “That was your old kiss. Sweet and burning like hot punch.” I know. My memory is excellent. But fortunately we got the boy out of the room before you got that far.
ALMADY. And may I be permitted to inquire why my kiss should be described as revolting?
TURAI. The line occurs in the second part of the play, where I was relying on my native inspiration.
ALMADY. You call my kiss revolting? I wish to know why.
TURAI. That is how I see it. I am the author of this play, and that is my opinion of your kiss.
[Almady goes up stage in a huff.]
ILONA. I do think you might have made some noise to warn us. Why couldn’t you have coughed or something?
TURAI. Suppose I had, what should I have been able to do now? You overlook the fact that your very first words, my dear Ilona, left no room for misunderstanding. If I had stopped you then nothing could have averted the tragedy.
ALMADY. [Coming down mollified.] What a brain!
TURAI. You flatter me!
ILONA. No, he doesn’t. He’s right for once. Did this idea come to you the moment you heard us?
TURAI. No, I got it from you.
ILONA. From us?
TURAI. Yes, stupid of me, I admit. You see, I always assume the best of my fellowmen. And just for a minute I did think that you really were acting. Later on, I realized my mistake.
ILONA. You thought we were acting. Why?
TURAI. Because it all sounded so artificial. No ring of conviction. I refer particularly to the more erotic passages.
ILONA. I don’t wonder. Considering I don’t care one little bit for the man....
ALMADY. What’s that?
ILONA. You heard.
ALMADY. You don’t love me?
ILONA. No.
ALMADY. [Furious.] So you were lying.
ILONA. Yes.
ALMADY. Just to get rid of me?
ILONA. [With loathing, vehemently.] Yes. I hate the sight of you!
ALMADY. [Bitterly.] Serpent!
ILONA. I’d like to murder you!
ALMADY. [Bursts into ludicrous sobs.]
ILONA. My God!—this is the limit!
TURAI. If you want to cry all over anyone, cry all over me. I like it. It’s like a tonic to me.
ALMADY. What made you realize that we were not acting?
TURAI. The disgusting, sloppy way you began carrying on. No author living would dare put slush like that in the mouth of an actor who was supposed to be making love.
ALMADY. Sloppy?
TURAI. Beyond words.
ALMADY. [With indignation.] Allow me to inform you—
TURAI. Shut up!
ALMADY. [His dignity collapsing.] Oh, very well.
TURAI. My friends may be here any minute now. Please go and study your parts. [To Ilona, who has been turning over the leaves of the script.] That’s a bit you’ll have to learn particularly well.
ILONA. Which?
TURAI. [Pointing to manuscript.] These lines here. This loathsome series of speeches—the ones we overheard last night. [Points.] From there to there.
[Almady looks at script.]
ILONA. [Reads.] Odd—I hardly remember—
TURAI. I do. Nor is your fiancé likely to have forgotten.
ILONA. [Reading.] “I worship you. I adore you. I love you as the church steeple loves the cloud that settles on its summit.” [Almady turns away, embarrassed.] Just words!
ALMADY. [Takes script.] “You have used me up and squeezed me like a lemon.”
ILONA. [Takes script.] Yes, now I remember—
ALMADY. It’s all down, word for word.
[Turai takes script.]
TURAI. Yes, the passage is underlined in red ink. Three pages—here—from page sixteen. It goes on “Come here and let me kiss that beautiful classic brow”—and then—this is the worst bit, here—this mad outburst of sensuality—[Reads rapidly.] “When I look at that—at the perfect shape. The rose flush of that skin—Just to stroke it!...”
ILONA. Yes, but I....
TURAI. I know, I know. [Reads.] “Hands off!” you said. But he couldn’t have obeyed you for he goes on “My God! How round it is! How smooth! How velvety!” And then I’m afraid he must have got very close indeed for he adds, “And how fragrant.” That’s right, isn’t it?
ALMADY. Quite right. It was fragrant.
ILONA. But I....
TURAI. No, my dear, you did not. There was a complete silence until you exclaimed, “You mustn’t bite....” [Both turn away.] Yes, I should think you would be ashamed of yourselves. [He gives Ilona the script.] All right, then; copy it out and learn it. If you ever studied parts in your lives, study these. We’ll have the dress rehearsal at seven-thirty sharp, here in this room. I’ll give you a run through. And after dinner, first performance. And now—?
ILONA. Out we go, eh?
TURAI. You took the words out of my mouth. And don’t forget, we’ve not seen each other for three months.
ILONA. All right—three months.
ALMADY. [Going out.] A colossal brain!
[They bow.]
TURAI. I thank you.
[Almady and Ilona go into her room. Turai sits down and resumes his interrupted breakfast. Throughout the following scene he goes on eating quietly, deliberately, and with a good appetite.]
[Mansky enters at right, also in white flannels, but looking more doleful and dejected than ever.]
MANSKY. Have you been up long?
TURAI. I couldn’t sleep. [He goes on eating.] How’s our infant?
MANSKY. Woke up a moment ago. I left him dressing.
TURAI. You had breakfast yet?
MANSKY. Not a mouthful. Couldn’t touch it. You seem to have no difficulty in putting it away.
TURAI. [With mock sadness.] One must keep up one’s strength.
MANSKY. I’m amazed, and, if I may say so, a little shocked. Sitting there gorging as if nothing had happened. Can’t you realize we’re absolutely ruined? I’m positively ill thinking about it.
TURAI. [Mysteriously.] Shall I let you into a secret, Mansky?
MANSKY. [With excited anticipation.] Yes. Tell me.
TURAI. [With great deliberation.] I am a man who weighs his words. I do not speak lightly. And I say to you solemnly, my friend, [dramatic pause.] that this is the best bit of ham I’ve ever tasted.
MANSKY. [Furious.] Bah!
[Crosses left to a mirror.]
TURAI. [Continuing as before.] Juicy—nutty—positively good. [Solicitously.] Did the boy sleep at all?
MANSKY. He dropped off about daylight out of sheer exhaustion. [Looks in the glass.] I’m pale.
TURAI. Say anything?
MANSKY. Not a word. Just stared at the ceiling. You know, that’s bad.
TURAI. Ceilings aren’t so bad. Walls are much worse.
MANSKY. What I can’t understand is why a magnificent place like this should have walls like tissue-paper.
TURAI. Ah! These are deep waters.
MANSKY. [Irritated.] Do stop eating!
TURAI. But I haven’t finished.
MANSKY. Gobble—gobble—gobble! [Looks in the glass.] My God! I am pale!
TURAI. Suits you. Intellectual pallor.
MANSKY. [Crosses to Turai.] What about that solution you were hinting at last night?
TURAI. There were several possibilities. I considered them all thoroughly in the night watches—while you lay snoring in your bed. Oh yes, I heard you while I was changing my clothes. [Points to the table.] Telegrams, letters, all ready. Finally I hit on the best and simplest plan.
MANSKY. Which is?
TURAI. I’m going to do everything possible to make him break with her.
MANSKY. What for?
TURAI. Because that’s the surest way of bringing them together. If he casts her off forever—in two weeks he’ll be rushing after her and falling at her feet. The lady—after a little coaxing—will allow herself to melt. He will coax a little more. She will melt a little more. Finally she will melt altogether—and the curtain will fall on the lovers’ slow embrace.
MANSKY. [With cumulative contempt.] You thought of that in the night, did you?
TURAI. I did.
MANSKY. All by yourself?
TURAI. All by myself.
MANSKY. Well!!! I’ve noticed all this past year that you’ve been slipping. I realise now, that you’ve completely lost your grip. Our last show died the death simply because you would write psychology into it. And now you’ve become simply drivelling. It’s a great shock to me. Do you know what’s happening? Little by little you’re beginning to think—and that spells ruin for both of us. Haven’t you grasped yet what a frightful knock-down blow last night’s affair was to that boy?
TURAI. Sh! Sh! [Listens, pointing to door right.] Here he is! [Enter Adam. He is also in white flannels. Very solemn and miserable. Pause. He passes them without a word and goes to balcony.] Hullo! Not even a good morning?
ADAM. Oh, good morning.
[Turai rises; Mansky looks longingly at breakfast things.]
MANSKY. [To Adam with his best bed-side manner.] Had breakfast?
ADAM. No.
[Mansky goes above table and sits down; starts to eat.]
TURAI. [To Adam.] Sleep?
ADAM. No.
TURAI. Nor did I. [Adam looks at left wall.] No. Nothing from there. Not another sound. He left and she went to sleep. I didn’t on your account. [To Mansky.] Hullo! Appetite picking up? Appetite picking up?
MANSKY. [Starting guiltily and pushing his plate away.] No. I can’t swallow. Too nervous. I’m a wreck.
TURAI. Try the ham.
ADAM. [Goes to Turai.] I—my dear Uncle Sandor—I don’t want to be a burden to you two any longer—now that my life has been blown to bits.
TURAI. Come, come, come!
ADAM. I mean it. I know what I’m talking about. There’s a great crack in my heart, and—
TURAI. Come now,—be a man. We had enough of that sort of talk last night. Tell me just what is it you want to do?
ADAM. Before anything else, I want to get away from this place.
TURAI. Quite reasonable. And then?
ADAM. Then I’ll tear up the music I wrote for her—tear it into little bits and burn it.
TURAI. Right. And after that?
ADAM. Don’t be so casual. You know I have nobody in the world but you—you two. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have ended things long ago.
TURAI. [To Mansky, who has once more started on the breakfast.] That’s right. Peck a bit.
MANSKY. [Jumping up.] No. It’s no good. Absolutely can’t swallow. I’m a very sick man.
ADAM. You see? I’m to blame for that.
TURAI. Now listen to me, my boy. Sit down. [Adam sits.] What has happened, has happened. It’s over, done with, a thing of the past. And I’m going to say something to you now which no young person will ever believe. You’re twenty-five and you’re gifted. The world’s at your feet. And that world, let me remind you, contains a great many million women.
ADAM. What good are they to me? I only wanted this one. [Rises.] Can’t we get away now—at once. I won’t see her!
TURAI. Oh yes, you will. No scandals, if you please. You arrived here late at night; everybody knows she is your fiancée, you can’t run away this morning. Now, I’m not going to urge—in fact, I—er—positively forbid you to become reconciled to her,—but you must do the sensible thing. In the course of the morning we will go to her and pay our respects, and stay on here another day or two, and we will not breathe a word of what happened last night. You will behave towards her quite nicely and naturally. I know it will hurt. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. But to-day you are a man.
ADAM. Yes. You’re right.
TURAI. Up with the head and out with the chin and damn everybody! That’s the stuff. The day after to-morrow, when we leave, you shall write her a letter, and let yourself go as much as you like. And, no matter how it may hurt, you have finished with that woman forever.
ADAM. [With an effort.] Very well. And if—it should hurt too much, don’t be afraid that I’ll go back to her. I’ll always have pluck enough to put a bullet through my head.
MANSKY. There! See where you have got us to with your psychology.
TURAI. [To Adam.] You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
ADAM. [Smilingly.] It’s all right. It was silly of me to talk nonsense like that. I won’t let you down. You shall be satisfied with me.
MANSKY. [To Adam.] Good. Then you won’t—er—tear anything up?
ADAM. No.
TURAI. You’ll behave towards Ilona as if nothing had happened?
ADAM. Yes. Honour bright.
[He holds out his hand.]
TURAI. [Rises.] I am satisfied.
MANSKY. [Sitting down to breakfast, a completely changed man.] It’s an enormous relief to me to see you getting hold of yourself again so capitally. [Eats rapidly.] Bless my soul, yes, an enormous relief. I really feel a little better.
TURAI. I’m proud of you. [To Mansky.] Haven’t you finished breakfast yet?
MANSKY. [Delighted.] I can swallow.
TURAI. So I notice.
MANSKY. [To Adam.] Come and join me, my boy. You’ll find your appetite steals back, little by little. [To Turai, who is standing beside him.] He’s suffering. He can’t get over it.
TURAI. We must try to make him.
MANSKY. Come on, my boy—just a mouthful. Try a little of this excellent ham.
ADAM. I don’t want any ham.
MANSKY. Well, a slice of chicken, then—and some nice hot tea with a drop of brandy.
ADAM. Oh, all right. [Sits down.]
MANSKY. [To Turai, who is sitting deep in thought.] Well, what’s on your mind?
ADAM. After trying to cheer me up, are you going to be depressed yourself?
MANSKY. Do you know what I think’s the matter with him? He’s got another—
TURAI. You win. Another problem.
MANSKY. Theatre?
TURAI. As always.
MANSKY. Oh, my God!
TURAI. Last night, when we came into this room, I was saying how hard it was to begin a play. I’m now thinking how hard it is to end a second act.
MANSKY. Oh, come and end your breakfast.
TURAI. No, I mean it. It’s worrying me. Take this situation of ours, for instance—just as we did yesterday—We have had a curious experience. We arrived perfectly happy and immediately got a terrible shock—a ghastly disillusionment. We’ve managed to survive it, and we’ve got ourselves in hand again. But, suppose these things had happened not in real life but on the stage—suppose this were not a real room but a painted set—suppose we three were characters in a play who had just passed through the experiences we have passed through—
MANSKY. Well?
TURAI. Well, how would you end the act?
MANSKY. [Impatiently.] My dear fellow! It’s ended already.
TURAI. In a way, yes. But don’t forget that, at the last moment, before the curtain actually falls, you need something more—a new note of suspense—a punch—both, if you can manage it. In fact, just what is implied in that word “Curtain.” Curtain—Curtain. The act must end and yet it must not quite end. The audience’s interest must be snapped up—given a jolt. So, my distinguished collaborator, how about it? You’ve often told me how good you are—try your hand at ending the second act of this dismal adventure of ours.
MANSKY. My dear chap, simplicity itself. Come here. Sit down. [Turai sits at table.] Now then. I’m all for the quiet curtain. One of those charming delicate things the French do so well. You know—sophisticated—lightly sentimental—the smile behind the tear. The three friends sit down to breakfast. Audiences always like to see actors eating. The storm has passed. The skies are still a little dark, but there is sunshine in the heart and all that sort of thing. Let this sink in for a bit—everything very cozy and pleasant. Business of eating—we each have a glass of wine. [They all take up their glasses.] For a moment—silence—their thoughts are busy with what has passed. [Pause.] Capital. And then—[He raises his glass.]—you want a couple of smart lines, spoken with something of a flourish. [Thinks.] Oh, well—[Then as if he had thought of what he wanted to say—to Adam.] My young friend, to-day you have become a man—
TURAI. [Pointing to where he was sitting at the time.] I said that.
MANSKY. For—always remember—
TURAI. Yes, that shows ’em it’s coming.
MANSKY. [Not heeding him.] Always remember that in affairs of the heart it is not the first victory that makes us men, but the first defeat. [Lifts his glass.] To Woman’s Treachery, which has made our child a man! [Raises his hand toward the curtain.] Curtain. [Curtain starts to come down. They put their glasses down on the table, simultaneously, untasted. Mansky smiles complacently.] How’s that?
TURAI. Rotten! [Curtain slowly goes up again.] [Gets up.] Tame. Feeble. Nothing in the nature of a high spot. I’m not saying it isn’t pretty and graceful. Charming even—but it lacks suspense. [Pause.] [To Adam.] How would you do it?
ADAM. I? Feeling as I do now?
TURAI. Give us your idea.
ADAM. [With tremendous intensity.] Very well, I’ll give you my idea. We start from where Mansky gave that toast.
MANSKY. To Woman’s—?
ADAM. [Rises.] Treachery. That’s it. I’d say—“No. I won’t drink any toast.” [Throws glass against the wall smashing it to bits.]
MANSKY. [Approvingly.] Effective.
ADAM. [Rapidly losing control of himself and becoming hysterical.] That woman was not just an incident in my life. She was my first great passion. I promised to act as if nothing had happened. I meant to keep that promise. But when I remember that I gave her my life and that she whispers words of love to another man—and—and kisses another man, that’s such unbearable, burning torture, that the only right solution— [Grabs small game carving knife from table.]
TURAI. [Leaping forward.] Hey! Stop that!
ADAM. [Struggling with him.] No! No!
MANSKY. [Rushing forward.] My God! You weren’t really—
ADAM. [Struggling.] Let me go. I want to die.
[Turai has got knife away from him. He looks at it intently. Adam stands, pale and defiant.]
TURAI. What the devil do you think you’re doing?
ADAM. [Bitterly.] Just—finishing the act. [He sits down. Mansky follows him and sits down, too. Smiles wanly.] Curtain!
[Curtain starts to come down.]
TURAI. [Putting the knife away.] Very bad. [Curtain goes up slowly again.] Quite impossible. Death’s all right for the end of a play, but absolutely no good for a second act. Besides, the scene was too crude. I don’t say the gallery might not like it, but think what the critics would say. They despise melodrama. Suspense is what you want—suspense and then a quick curtain.
MANSKY. And now, I suppose, you could show us how it really ought to be done?
TURAI. [Goes to telephone.] Hello. Will you give me Miss Ilona Szabo’s room, please.
[Bell sounds in Ilona’s room.]
MANSKY. [Starting.] What on earth—?
ILONA’S VOICE. Hello.
TURAI. Hello. Ilona?
ILONA’S VOICE. Yes. Who is that speaking?
TURAI. Don’t you recognize my voice? This is Sandor Turai.
ILONA’S VOICE. Oh, how wonderful! Are you here, then? Where are you speaking from?
TURAI. Yes, I’m right here in the castle. Next door to you. Number four.
ILONA’S VOICE. What a perfectly delightful surprise.
TURAI. We came by car last night. All three of us.
ILONA’S VOICE. You don’t mean Albert, too?
TURAI. Yes—and Mansky, if you think that worth mentioning. We’re all three here in this room, and we’ve brought you the finished script of the operetta.
ILONA’S VOICE. Marvellous! That’s something like a surprise.
TURAI. We were hesitating about waking you so early, but I particularly wanted to see you about something. Can you come in here for a minute?
[Replaces receiver and goes to door. Adam and Mansky stand where they are.]
[Enter Ilona with assumed joy and excitement.]
ILONA. Well, this is wonderful of you all. [She kisses Turai lightly and crosses quickly to Adam who kisses her hands.] What a surprise. Albert darling! This is a surprise. [She hangs onto Adam’s arm.] Sandor! To think that it’s—
TURAI. —three whole months—
ILONA. —three whole months since I’ve seen you. How brown you’re looking. And younger than ever. Let me look at you. Wonderful! [She crosses to Mansky and kisses him on each cheek.] And Mansky—how are you, Mansky dear? I think this is too sweet of you all. You don’t know how I’ve been longing to see you. When did you get here? [She returns to Adam.]
TURAI. [Very gravely.] Just a minute, Ilona. [He looks through door into her room.] Why, Mr. Almady! Of all people! Won’t you come in?
[Enter Almady.]
ALMADY. [Nervously.] Good morning.
TURAI. Fancy finding you here after all these years.
ALMADY. [Pompously.] Passing through. Just passing through. I only wanted to say how-d’you-do to the Count, but they wouldn’t let me go. The—er—the shooting-party you know, and the concert. They insisted on my staying.
ILONA. I was so surprised to see him.
TURAI. Pardon me for disturbing you and possibly casting a slight gloom on what must have been a joyful reunion, but I have something rather important to say.
[Ilona drops Adam’s arm.]
ILONA. [Crosses to Turai.] What do you mean? Nothing—nothing unpleasant, I hope?
TURAI. Yes—extremely unpleasant. [Ilona sits down, terrified. To Almady.] Please. [He motions them to sit down.] Well, then. We arrived here last night— [Long pause.] And just now we were sitting having breakfast—we three— [To Mansky.] Weren’t we?
ADAM. [Puzzled.] Yes.
MANSKY. Well?
TURAI. Keep quite calm, please. We were sitting here, having breakfast—all three of us. [He lowers his voice and speaks very earnestly.] I must entreat you all to hear what I am about to say quite calmly— Don’t lose your heads—
ILONA. For God’s sake—
ALMADY. [Uneasily.] Well? What is it?
TURAI. [Holds up his hand.] Please! [Dead silence.] What I am about to say—and I shall not detain you long now—must almost inevitably have a shattering effect on the lives—both the private and the professional lives—of all us five people. I have asked myself—is it wise to speak? And I have answered myself—wise or not, it is unavoidable. Ilona— [Ilona rises, gasping.] I have a question to ask you— [Breaks off. Dead silence. Then very simply to Mansky.] How’s that for suspense?
MANSKY. Yes. Yes. Well? What now?
TURAI. Nothing. That’s all. [Smiles.] Curtain! [Curtain comes down quickly and rises immediately. He offers Ilona his arm, as the rest of the group breathe again and relax their tension.] We’ve just been having an argument about the proper way to end a second act. [Leads Ilona slowly to door, left to hall, the others following.] I couldn’t resist the temptation to show these colleagues of mine how, by the most simple methods, you can make an act end on a note of suspense. You see—
[He goes out, talking, followed first by Almady, then by Adam and Mansky.]
MANSKY. [Going out; to Adam.] Crazy. Absolutely crazy. Thinks of nothing in the world but the theatre— [The curtain falls again.]