Part 1
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_FERENC MOLNAR_
THE PLAY’S THE THING
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_Adapted from the Hungarian By_ P. G. WODEHOUSE
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BRENTANO’S _Publishers_ _New York_
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY CHARLES FROHMAN, INC.
All rights, including stage, motion picture, and amateur production, are reserved. No performance or public reading may be given without the written consent of the author, or his recognized agents. Application should be made to the author, in care of Charles Frohman, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America
_On Thursday, October twenty-first, 1926, at Irving M. Lesser’s Great Neck Playhouse, Great Neck, Long Island, the Charles Frohman Company, Gilbert Miller, Managing Director, presented Holbrook Blinn in THE PLAY’S THE THING by Ferenc Molnar, for the first time on any stage in any language. The play was presented for the first time in New York City under the same auspices at Henry Miller’s Theatre on Wednesday, November the third, 1926. It was produced by Holbrook Blinn with the following cast_:--
SANDOR TURAI HOLBROOK BLINN MANSKY HUBERT DRUCE ALBERT ADAM EDWARD CRANDALL ILONA SZABO CATHERINE DALE OWEN ALMADY REGINALD OWEN JOHANN DWORNITSCHEK RALPH NAIRN MELL CLAUD ALLISTER LACKEYS { STEPHEN KENDAL { JOHN GERARD
THE PLAY’S THE THING
THE CHARACTERS
SANDOR TURAI, A Famous Dramatist MANSKY, His Collaborator ALBERT ADAM, A Young Composer ILONA SZABO, A Prima Donna ALMADY, A Leading Actor JOHANN DWORNITSCHEK, A Footman MELL, The Count’s Secretary TWO LACKEYS.
The action takes place in a room in a castle on the Italian Riviera, on a Saturday in summer.
ACT I--2:00 A. M. ACT II--6:00 A. M. ACT III--7:30 P. M.
THE PLAY’S THE THING
ACT ONE
_As the curtain rises a distant orchestra is heard playing Leoncavallo’s “Mattinata.” The stage is almost dark. The only light comes through two large French windows at the back. Through them we see the moonlit Mediterranean far below, the vague outlines of the precipitous coast, twinkling lights along quays and esplanades, and here and there the faint glow from some lighted window. A lighthouse blinks intermittently in the far distance. Within the dark room three darker shadows loom against the moonlit windows; the lighted ends of three cigarettes prick the blackness. There is a long pause. It is almost embarrassingly long. Just before one wonders if anything is ever going to happen a man’s voice breaks the silence._
THE MAN’S VOICE. When you stop talking, Sandor, for sixty consecutive seconds, there’s something wrong.
[_One of the shadowy forms is seen to rise and cross to the right wall. We hear the click of an electric switch and instantly the stage is flooded with the warm glow of several electric sconces and candelabra lamps. The light reveals a room beautifully furnished in Italian Renaissance. At the back one shallow step leads up to a raised portion which runs the whole width of the room. Behind it are the French windows, now closed, with a balcony beyond them. To the right a short flight of steps leads to a landing and a door to a bedroom suite. To the left one step leads up to a door to the hall and the remainder of the castle. Occupying the right wall of the lower portion of the room is a great fireplace with a corbelled chimney. A long table stands near it. At the left is a grand piano. Below the piano in the left wall is a door to another bedroom. All these doors are closed. Above the piano toward the center is a small stand with a telephone on it. There are comfortable chairs here and there. The ceiling is beamed and carved. The whole room reflects wealth and beauty._
_The speaker, who has just lighted the room, is a large and portly man of middle age. His name is_ MANSKY. _He is in a dinner jacket, as are his two companions_, SANDOR TURAI _seated in the center, and_ ALBERT ADAM _near the piano_. TURAI _is also middle aged, but younger-looking and less portly than_ MANSKY. _A glance shows him to be a man of consequence and dynamic personality. He is wearing a monocle._ ALBERT ADAM _is a dreamy, handsome boy just over the threshold of manhood. The distant orchestra has stopped playing._ MANSKY _reseats himself to the right of_ TURAI, _and speaks again_.]
What’s on your mind, Sandor?
TURAI. I was just thinking how extraordinarily difficult it is to begin a play. The eternal problem of how to introduce your principal characters.
ADAM. I suppose it must be hard.
TURAI. It is--devilish hard. Up goes the curtain, there is a hush all over the theatre, people come on the stage. Then what? It’s an eternity--sometimes as much as a quarter of an hour before the audience finds out who’s who and what they are all up to.
MANSKY. I never saw such a fellow. Can’t you forget the theatre for a single minute?
TURAI. No. That’s why I’m such a great dramatist.
MANSKY. You can’t be happy for half an hour unless you’re talking shop. Life isn’t all theatre.
TURAI. Yes, it is--if you write plays. You know what Alphonse Daudet says in his Memoirs? When he stood by his father’s death-bed, all he could think of was what a wonderful scene it would make for the stage.
MANSKY. It’s silly to let your job become an obsession.
TURAI. Well, that’s the theatre. Either you master it or it masters you. And of all the brain-racking things in the world, beginning a play is the worst. That’s where your technique comes in, my boy. Take this scene here, for instance. We three--Curtain goes up on three ordinary men in ordinary dinner jackets. How is anybody to know even that this room we’re sitting in is a room in a castle? And how are they to know who we are? If this were a play we would have to start jabbering about a lot of thoroughly uninteresting things until the audience gradually found out who we were.
MANSKY. Well? Why not?
TURAI. Think how much simpler it would be if we were to cut out all that stuff and just introduce ourselves? [_He rises and addresses the audience._] Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. We three arrived to-night to spend a couple of weeks at this castle. We’ve just left the dining-room where we did ourselves remarkably well with some excellent champagne. My name is Sandor Turai. I am a playwright. I have been a playwright for thirty years. I make a very good thing of it. I bow and step back leaving the stage to you.
[TURAI _steps back and_ MANSKY _steps forward and addresses the audience_.]
MANSKY. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mansky--I, too, am a playwright, and this gentleman’s life-long collaborator. We are probably the best-known firm in the business.
TURAI. Come to Mansky and Turai for all comedies, farces and operettas. Satisfaction guaranteed.
MANSKY. I, too, make a very good thing out of it.
TURAI. Which brings us--
MANSKY. --to the remaining member of the trio.
[_They indicate_ ADAM _who rises and addresses the audience in similar fashion but with more diffidence and none of their assurance_.]
ADAM. The last _and_ least. I, ladies and gentlemen, am Albert Adam. I am twenty-five years old and I compose music.
TURAI. Very good music, too.
ADAM. I have done the score for the latest operetta by these two kind gentlemen. My first effort. They discovered me. They got me invited to this castle. Regardless of expense, they bought me a complete wardrobe. Without them I am a complete nonentity. I have no parents, no reputation, and no money.
TURAI. But--you’re young.
MANSKY. And gifted.
ADAM. And in love with the prima donna.
TURAI. Don’t bother to tell them that. An audience takes it for granted that the young composer is in love with the prima donna. It’s tradition.
ADAM. Thank heaven.
TURAI. [_Again addressing the audience._] Isn’t that the simplest way to begin a play?
MANSKY. Very crude. If that were all there was to it, any fool could write plays.
TURAI. A great many do. But you see how absurdly easy it is--All you have to do is--
MANSKY. All right, all right, all right. For heaven’s sake, stop talking shop. I’ve had enough. Save it for to-morrow.
TURAI. Perhaps you’re right. Yes, it’s a treat to get a couple of hours off for a change. Wonderful, that trip in the car--Italy!... And here we are, free at last from the stuffy world of behind the scenes, out of the reach of thin-skinned actors and thick-skinned managers. All the year I’ve looked forward to these two weeks. A princely host and a house full of smart people--just what men like ourselves need to inspire us. And, mark this, my friends, nothing to worry about--for our job is done. [_He goes to the window, opens it, steps on to the balcony and speaks from there._] The operetta is finished and off our minds. And, moreover, it is summer. The weather is perfect, the night is gorgeous, the sea--is the sea, and the dinner was good. [_He comes back into the room._] Yes, we must remember it. It’s been a great day. August the 20th.
MANSKY. Friday.
TURAI. What of it?
MANSKY. I wish it wasn’t.
TURAI. Don’t be such an old woman!
MANSKY. No one ought to arrive anywhere on a Friday.
ADAM. [_Dreamily._] What difference does it make--Friday, Saturday, Sunday--Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter--life’s always wonderful.
TURAI. [_Crosses to_ ADAM.] _My_ unlucky day is Tuesday. Among other things--[_To_ MANSKY.] you were born on a Tuesday.
MANSKY. Well, look at it for yourself. Here’s to-day’s little bag of bad luck. San Martino--mid-day--violent thunderstorm followed by blow-out. Set us back an hour. Fiero--early afternoon--ran over dog, surrounded by angry multitude, had to scatter money to every one in sight to keep from getting mobbed. More delay, and we reach here at ten instead of eight. Friday. And when we arrive, who is out? Our princely host. Who else? Everybody. All gone off on a picnic. Friday. And the beautiful, the one and only, the most vitally important member of the whole house party--our adorable prima donna--where is she? Also off on a picnic. Is she expected home to-night? No. When is she expected? No one knows. Friday.
TURAI. Oh, she’ll be back.
MANSKY. Well, that won’t spoil Friday’s record, because it’s Saturday now.
ADAM. And I’ve got to wait a whole night before I see her. It’s cruel.
MANSKY. Just Friday.
TURAI. Well, now listen to _me_. I’ll give you _my_ version of the day’s proceedings. Friday, San Martino--mid-day--capital luncheon including some really drinkable coffee. During the meal, a few passing drops of rain. Result: perfect roads--no dust. Fiero--early afternoon-- Injured a dog and for a while it looked as though the populace were about to injure _us_. But our Friday good luck held. The dog made a miraculous recovery and when last seen was sitting up and taking nourishment. And a few insignificant coins, judiciously distributed, made the populace our friends for life. To resume. We arrived here some hours late, but--what a bit of luck _that_ was. Everybody away, nobody in the house to expect tired men to make conversation. Furthermore we dine on a picturesque terrace of a wonderful old Italian castle and are given as fine a curried chicken as I ever tasted.
MANSKY. I loathe curry.
TURAI. And in conclusion, let me tell you the crowning piece of good fortune of this magical Friday. [_He indicates the door to the bedroom at left._] The next room to this is Ilona’s.
ADAM. What!
TURAI. Yes, through that door is the room of the beautiful, the one and only. And having a pull with the butler, I managed to get this suite for ourselves. There’s luck for you.
MANSKY. For him.
TURAI. And for us. We profit indirectly. When a composer is happy he writes song-hits. When a prima donna is happy, she stops singing off the key. And the librettists gather royalties from the resulting triumph.
MANSKY. Sordid brute. You’ve no poetry in your soul.
TURAI. But I have a balance in my bank--much more satisfactory. As for Ilona being away, that’s good luck too. Think of the pleasant surprise she will get. It is night. The little darling comes home from her picnic. All unsuspecting, she goes to her little room, sinks upon her little bed--
MANSKY. Why on earth must everything always be so little?
TURAI. Why not?
MANSKY. Damned sentimentalism. I know the house well. She has a _huge_ room and an _enormous_ bed.
TURAI. Immaterial. Quite immaterial. The point is that she comes home, all unsuspecting. She doesn’t know we’re here. [ADAM _who has been sitting dreamily at the piano begins playing softly_.] She doesn’t know we’ve brought the finished operetta with us. She doesn’t know I’m going to sing her the waltz song from Act Two--
MANSKY. God help her!
TURAI. ... the world-famous waltz--[MANSKY _looks at him skeptically_] at least, it’s not world-famous yet, but it’s bound to become so ... anyway, the ravishing theme-waltz upon which this infant genius has poured out all the treasure of his love-bewitched soul....
[ADAM _stops playing_.]
MANSKY. Be quiet--never praise a composer. It unsettles him. [_Rises. Looks at watch._] Do you know it’s after three--I have been thinking and I’ve got an idea.
TURAI. Beginner’s luck.
MANSKY. Let’s go to bed. You can do any singing you want to-morrow. If they’re not home yet, it means they’re staying out all night. I know the ways of this house. We’ve been up since five and I’m all in. Three hundred miles are chasing themselves through my head. As for your infant genius with the love-bewitched soul, he’s asleep already.
ADAM. [_Who has been nodding over the piano, awakens with a start._] I’m not.
TURAI. I’ve no objection to postponing the surprise-party. Suppose we _wake_ her with the waltz.
ADAM. If only she doesn’t find out before.
TURAI. That’s all right. I particularly told my friend the butler that nobody must know of our arrival till to-morrow morning. The butler is a very important man. He practically runs this house.
ADAM. [_Rising._] Then I’m going to take a bath.
TURAI. I don’t follow your logic. What has the importance of the butler to do with taking baths?
ADAM. I hate logic. [_Starts toward the door at right, but stops to gaze out of the window._]
TURAI. Do you really intend to bathe at this hour?
ADAM. Yes.
TURAI. In the sea?
ADAM. [_Stands by balcony door._] No. In the tub. [_The sound of a distant orchestra is heard playing Toselli’s Serenade._] When you’re tired and sleepy and looking forward to something particularly nice, it’s wonderful to lie in luke-warm water with your eyes closed.
TURAI. Hear! Hear! [_Sits in large armchair._] Well--Do as you please, infant. When an artist is working he must pamper himself. [_To_ MANSKY.] You have to humor these composers. Did you ever know his grandmother?
MANSKY. I had not that pleasure.
TURAI. [ADAM _comes down the steps and sits down again_.] She brought him up when his parents died. She was about _so_ high. The littlest old woman I ever saw in my life.
ADAM. Tiny, wasn’t she?
TURAI. And the very opposite of this dreamy boy. Always hustling, always on the go. It’s her fault that our young friend here has always remained such an unsophisticated babe. She not only mothered him--she smothered him with her love. She was like a little witch in a fairy-tale guarding hidden treasure. I’ll never forget the day she brought him to me, for the first time.
ADAM. My goodness, I was scared that day.
TURAI. So was I. This little half-portion of a woman fixed me with blazing eyes and fairly hissed: “This boy is a _genius_. You _must_ hear his _work_.” [_Pensively._] His mother was a gentle, beautiful woman.
ADAM. I hardly remember her.
TURAI. I can see her--very clearly--_still_.... [_He rises and goes to ADAM whom he pats affectionately on the shoulder_.] Ah, well, you’re going to escape the struggles most young artists have before they reach the top. No wasting of time and brain and nerve-energy for you. You’ve got a very clever man behind you, pushing you on.
[_Music stops._]
MANSKY. [_Significantly._] _Two_ clever men.
TURAI. Two? [_Laughs._] Ah, yes, of course, two. [_To_ ADAM.] So run away and have your bath and sleep and dream and love and enjoy this beautiful world and all that there is in it. Happiness will make your music all the sweeter.
MANSKY. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, encouraging him to be a dreamer. He should be learning by this time that life isn’t all music and roses and happiness.
TURAI. Why be in such a hurry to teach him that?
MANSKY. I’m not in a hurry.
TURAI. Then why must he be in a hurry to learn it?
ADAM. [_Who has run up the steps at right, pauses at the door._] This is my room, eh?
TURAI. Whose else could it be? Have you forgotten who is sleeping or about to be sleeping on the other side of that wall? [_He indicates the left wall._]
ADAM. I should say I haven’t.
TURAI. It’s rather a good situation. Lovers--and separated by a wall. Like Pyramus and Thisbe. What is that speech of Pyramus’s? [_Speaking to the left wall._]
“And thou, oh wall, oh sweet, oh lovely wall! Oh wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss!”
MANSKY. [_Impatiently._] Shop again! Always shop!
ADAM. And what about you two?
TURAI. We’re all right. Our room is on the other side of yours.
ADAM. Are you sharing a room?
TURAI. We have to. Real collaborators never separate for a moment, or the most priceless ideas might be lost forever. Besides, I talk in my sleep. I’m told that’s when I say some of my best things. Mansky is a light sleeper, and he wakes up and jots them down. [MANSKY _rises indignantly_.]
ADAM. I think I’m going to like this place. Well, gentlemen, before I go, one last word. I am very fond of both of you. I am finding life very beautiful. And I am very happy. [ADAM _goes out. Once again the distant orchestra is heard. This time playing the Brise Argentine._]
TURAI. Which startling utterance seems to call for a glass of very old brandy. [_He crosses to the bell rope on left wall and pulls it._]
MANSKY. Make it two.
TURAI. It’s nice to see the boy so happy. Now I’m on the shady side of fifty, I find myself full of parental affection and nobody to lavish it on. [_Reflectively._] Yes ... his mother was a gentle, beautiful woman. [_He goes up to window, and looks down the cliff._] They’re still dancing down there on the hotel terrace. With spot-lights on the dancers. With that dark blue sky in the background and the coloured lights on the water, that wouldn’t make a bad setting for a first act finale. [MANSKY _who has just taken a cigarette from his case, snaps it shut with irritation_.] Yes, I’m coming to think the boy’s right and life is beautiful.
MANSKY. Sandor.
TURAI. Yes?
MANSKY. I didn’t like to tell you before, though it really belongs to Friday, too.
TURAI. Tell me what?
MANSKY. [_Sits on bench with the unconscious relish of the confirmed pessimist._] Something rather unpleasant. A little piece of news. Rather unpleasant. [_The music has stopped._ TURAI _who has been at the window, turns toward_ MANSKY.]
TURAI. You’re a queer chap. Just when a man’s feeling happy for five minutes you have to come along and take the joy out of life.
MANSKY. It concerns you, too. It’s rather unpleasant.
TURAI. [_Going to_ MANSKY--_speaks ironically_.] Well, come on, old friend. Ruin my evening. What is it?
MANSKY. I was looking in the visitors’ book downstairs, and I saw a certain name. [_Puffs cigarette._] Yes, it’s rather unpleasant.
TURAI. Don’t sit there, making my flesh creep. What name did you see in the visitors’ book?
MANSKY. Almady.
TURAI. The actor?
MANSKY. Yes.
TURAI. He’s here?
MANSKY. He is.
TURAI. H’m. This _is_, as you say, rather unpleasant.
MANSKY. You realize what this means?
TURAI. It means that you’re thoroughly happy.
MANSKY. Not at all. I may be a pessimist, but unfortunately I’m a tender-hearted pessimist. When I am proved right, I do not enjoy the fact. The fact is that Mr. Almady is here.
TURAI. But how? Why? He hasn’t been invited here for ten years. I always understood he spent his summers with his wife and children at Lake Balaton.
MANSKY. I suppose he fished for an invitation. He probably had his reasons.
TURAI. Does our young friend know anything about that business?
MANSKY. He hasn’t an inkling of the part Mr. Almady has played in his fiancée’s life.
TURAI. Well, hang it all, it wasn’t so much of a part. What does it amount to? When she was starting on the stage he gave her lessons in voice production. And then--well, it was just the usual business--the romantic leading actor and the little pupil. The sort of thing that lasts a couple of months at the outside. And, besides, it was all over and done with long ago.
MANSKY. Apparently it is _not_ over and done with.
TURAI. Rot! Because by _pure_ chance he happens to be in the same house?
MANSKY. It isn’t pure chance. It’s impure intention. Use your intelligence, man. Ilona was Almady’s discovery--he taught her all she knows.
TURAI. That’s a thing of the past. Ilona’s intelligent. She’s in love and she’s engaged to be married. And you know how whole-heartedly, how passionately, an actress can be engaged when she _is_ engaged to be married. I’m bound to say I’m not remarkably enthusiastic about this match, but if it makes the boy happy that’s the main thing. My dear chap, you’re crazy. She wouldn’t be such a fool ... with a worn-out elderly actor--a father of a family--with four children. She’s got too much sense.
MANSKY. I never said a word about that. I merely said I had seen his name in the visitors’ book. That means he is staying here. Is that pleasant? No. It is unpleasant. That was all I said. I now say something more. We _ought_ to have _wired_ Ilona that we were coming to-night.
TURAI. I admit it. You’re right again. So be happy. Never surprise a woman. Always wire her in plenty of time. On several occasions in a longish life I have prepared a joyful surprise for a woman, and every time I was the one surprised. The telegraph was invented for no other purpose than that women should not get surprises. [_There is a knock at the door left._] Come in. [_A footman enters from the hall. He is an elderly man in blue livery._] What do you want?
FOOTMAN. What do _you_ want, sir? You rang, sir.
TURAI. Oh, yes. Cognac.
FOOTMAN. Any particular brand, sir?
TURAI. [_To_ MANSKY.] Do me a favor, old man, and go up and keep Albert talking for a few minutes. I want to have a few words with this fellow.
MANSKY. Don’t drink both the brandies. [MANSKY _goes out through door at right_.]
TURAI. What’s your name?
FOOTMAN. Mine, sir?
TURAI. Yes, yours.
FOOTMAN. Johann Dwornitschek, sir.
TURAI. Johann?
FOOTMAN. Dwornitschek.
TURAI. Ah--Age?
DWORNITSCHEK. Fifty-two, sir.
TURAI. Born?
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir.
TURAI. I should have said, where were you born?
DWORNITSCHEK. Podmokly. In Tcheko-Slovakia, sir.
TURAI. Nice place?
DWORNITSCHEK. No, sir.
TURAI. Ah--married?
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir, thank you, sir.
TURAI. Wife living?
DWORNITSCHEK. Well, in a sense.... She ran away with a soldier two years ago, sir--thank you, sir.
TURAI. Don’t thank me--thank the soldier. You’re new here, I think?
DWORNITSCHEK. Yes, sir.
TURAI. When did you come?
DWORNITSCHEK. Last summer, sir.
TURAI. Thank you.
DWORNITSCHEK. Thank _you_, sir.