Chapter III: 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.

[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

* * * * *

Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Other spelling has been retained as originally published except for the changes below.

Page 35: “Everyday I’ve been” “Every day I’ve been”
Page 62: “ALMADY. [_To_ ALMADY.]” “ALMADY. [_To_ TURAI.]”
Page 74: “TURAI. My God!” “ILONA. My God!”
Page 111: “put the whip down on the” “puts the whip down on the”
Page 115: “peace that has ripened” “peach that has ripened”
Page 132: “This is to much.” “This is too much.”