Scene Three



 

The melody of People Are Sheep segues back into the tune of My Twirly-Whirly Girl, as the stage revolves and we are back in the dressing room of the tacky theatre. IRENE is at the dressing table, writing furiously. BOOKS are piled up in front of her. DILAYS is making up, but glancing over, trying to catch a glimpse of what is on the paper.
DILAYS
They still haven't found Imogene's ruby bracelet. Of course, it was silly of her to leave it lying about like that. You know, there was a time where you could leave jewels on your dressing table, and no one would touch them. What is this world coming to!
                                                                    (IRENE does not respond nor look at her.)
It was worth a small fortune. That French Viscount is loaded.
                                                                   (A pause, staring at Irene)
I wish I had a French Viscount.

IRENE

Speak to Fatso.

DILAYS

How can you call him that? Dr. De Koven has a glandular imbalance, poor man.

IRENE

Sounds more like a cottage pudding imbalance.

DILAYS

And speaking of Dr. De Koven, you've been writing like some maniac ever since I took you to his lecture.

IRENE

Fatso inspired me.

DILAYS

Stop calling Fatso Fatso. I mean, what a terrible way to refer to a man who inspired you! But what are you writing?

IRENE

My life.

DILAYS

You mean how you met Lord Deering, and all the problems you had after he slipped off the royal yacht?

IRENE

Something like that.
 
  (The lights dim now and a spot falls on Irene. As SHE begins to sing, SHE does so with a heavy Russian accent. Downstage left, a ballet begins illustrating everything Irene is telling us. A DANCER, resembling her, assumes her role. At the end of each chorus, IRENE pauses, pen in hand, contemplating what to write next, but the dance continues.)
IRENE
I was born in Petersburg
To parents both patrician;
While growing up in Petersburg,
Culture was my mission.
I went to church, but in my heart,
I stayed a non-believer---
Then Papa lost all he had
And died of spotted fever.
The days grew colder
And the nights grew windier---
I could not bear
The wild despair
Till fate took me to India.

Five Years With The Masters
In a hut near Kampur,
With little to eat,
Just wearing a sheet
And scorpions roaming the floor.
But, oh, what I learned there!
The secrets unravel---
Forget boats and trains
And new-fangled planes,
You soon will be flying
With your own astral travel.

Just chant aum, aum, aum,
Whether abroad or at home;
The mind's so incessant,
You'll make it quiescent,
If you chant aum, aum, aum.

Five Years With The Masters
In a hut near Kampur,
The days when I'd slosh
To the Ganges to wash
And try not to step in manure.
But, oh, what I learned there!---
That truth is my duty,
That you're part of me,
And soon you shall see
That we're both a part of
The lowliest cootie.

Just chant aum, aum, aum,
Whether abroad or at home;
You'll want to continue
For God is within you
When you chant aum, aum, aum.

Five Years With The Masters
In a hut near Kampur---
I soon could sustain
All hunger and pain
The physical form can endure.
But, oh, what I learned there!
I feel I must recap:
If you shall pursue
A yoga that's true,
You soon shall be touching
Your spine with your kneecap.

Just chant aum, aum, aum
Whether abroad or at home;
You're sure to acquire
The things you desire
If you chant aum, aum, aum.
Aum, aum, aum.
Aum, aum, aum.

                                                      (The song and the ballet are suddenly interrupted by a loud knock on
                                                       the dressing room door.)

CALL BOY (o.s.)

On stage for Twirly-Whirly.
  (IRENE hurriedly packs the books and her writings into a valise. DILAYS observes her closely, notices a thin stack of papers Irene has forgotten.)
DILAYS
Well look at that! Bartholomew & Sons. That's a big publisher, ain't it?
  (IRENE snatches the stationery away from her, reopens the valise, stuffs the papers inside and then locks it with a key.)
DILAYS
Where'd ya get their stationery from?
 
  (IRENE glares at her. LIGHTS dim, rise downstage right. A youngish, shortish fellow wearing pince nez, NORBERT CARSTAIRS is at a desk proofreading a manuscript. A middle-aged lady with glasses, PRUDENCE TREADWAY, sits in front of an antique typewriter transcribing some notes. Behind them is a door and on it the letters HORACE STANDISH, Publisher. The door opens and STANDISH, a thin, sallow man in his late 50s comes out with a letter in his hands.)
HORACE
Carstairs!

CARSTAIRS

Sir?

HORACE

Did you see this from Bartholomew & Sons?

CARSTAIRS

Yes, sir.

HORACE

                                                                     (reading)
"I am sending you under separate cover an extraordinary manuscript by the eminent religious leader, Madame Faina Polenska. It is entitled Five Years With The Masters, and we here at Bartholomew feel that this brilliant autobiographical treatise should be first published in America where religion is almost an industry."
                                                                    (looking up)
What does he mean by that?
                                                                    (reading)
"The remarkable Madame Polenska will be in New York within the month residing at the Astor Hotel. I feel that yours is the publishing house most suited to introduce Madame Polenska to the American public. Yours sincerely, Randolph P. Bartholomew."

CARSTAIRS

Fascinating.

HORACE

Let me know when the manuscript arrives. I think this one I should read myself.

CARSTAIRS

Yes, sir.

                                                                    (HORACE returns to his office and shuts the door.)

PRUDENCE

                                                                    (continuing to type without looking up)
Did you tell him that every publisher in New York has received the exact same letter?

CARSTAIRS

Why ruin his day?
 
 


LIGHTS DIM