AMĂDĂE OR HOW TO GET RID OF IT
A COMEDY
SCENE: An unpretentious dining-room, drawing-room and office combined.
On the right, a door.
On the left, another door.
Backstage centre, a large window with closed shutters; the space between the slats is, however, wide enough to let in sufficient light.
Left centre, a small table strewn with notebooks and pencils. On the right, against the wall, between the window and the right-hand door, a small table, with a telephone switchboard on it, and a chair. Another chair also close to the centre table. An old armchair well down stage. There should be no other furniture in the first act, except a clearly visible clock, with hands that move.
ACT ONE
[As the curtain rises AMĂDĂE BUCCINIONI is walking nervously round and about the furniture, with his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back, thinking hard. He is of middle age, a petit bourgeois, preferably bald, with a small greying moustache, wearing spectacles, dressed in a dark jacket and black striped trousers, a butterfly collar and black tie. Every now and again he goes to the centre table, opens a notebook, picks up a pencil and tries to write (he is a playwright); but he has no success, or writes, perhaps, one word which he at once crosses out. It is obvious that he is not at ease: he is also casting occasional glances at the door on the left, which is half open. His anxiety and nervousness are steadily growing. While he is walking round the room, his eyes fixed on the floor, he suddenly bends down and snatches up something from behind the chair.]
AMĂDĂE: A mushroom! Well, really! If theyâre going to start growing in the dining-room! [He straightens up and inspects the mushroom.] Itâs the last straw ! . . . Poisonous, of course !
[He puts the mushroom down on a corner of the table and gazes at it sourly; he starts pacing about again, becoming more and more agitated, gesticulating and muttering to himself; he glances more frequently towards the door on the left, goes and writes another word, which he crosses out, then sinks into his armchair. He is worn out.]
Oh, that Madeleine, that Madeleine! Once she gets into that bedroom, sheâs there for ever ! [Plaintively] She must have seen enough by now ! Weâve both seen enough of him ! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear !
[He says no more, heâs quite overcome. A pause. From the right, on the landing, voices can he heard. It is obviously the concierge and a neighbour talking.]
THE VOICE OF THE CONCIERGE: So youâre back from your holidays, Monsieur Victor !
THE NEIGHBOURâS VOICE: Yes, Madame Coucou. Just back from the North Pole.
THE VOICE OF THE CONCIERGE: I donât suppose you had it very warm there.
THE NEIGHBOURâS VOICE: Oh, the weather wasnât too bad. But itâs true, for someone like you who comes from the South . . .
THE VOICE OF THE CONCIERGE: Iâm no southerner, Monsieur Victor. My grandmotherâs midwife came from Toulon, but my grandmotherâs always lived in Lille . . .
[Suddenly, on the word âLilleâ, AMĂDĂE, who can stand it no longer, gets up and moves to the left-hand door, opens it still wider and calls out.]
AMĂDĂE: Madeleine, for Heavenâs sake, Madeleine, what are you doing? Havenât you finished yet? Hurry up !
MADELEINE: [appears. She is the same age as her husband, just as tall or even slightly taller, a hard-looking, rough-tempered woman; she has an old shawl over her head and is wearing a wrapper for thĂ© housework; she is rather thin and almost grey. Her husband moves aside fairly quickly to allow her to pass; she leaves the door still half open.] Whatâs the matter with you now? I canât leave you alone for a second! You neednât think Iâve been enjoying myself!
AMĂDĂE: Donât spend all your time in his room, then! Itâs not doing you any good ! . . . Youâve seen quite enough of him. Itâs too late now.
MADELEINE: Iâve got to sweep up, havenât I? After all, someoneâs got to look after the house. Weâve no maid and thereâs no one to help me. And Iâve got to earn a living for both of us.
AMĂDĂE: I know. I know we havenât a maid. You never stop reminding me . . .
MADELEINE: [setting to work, sweeping or dusting the room] Naturally, no oneâs even the right to complain where youâre concerned . . .
AMĂDĂE: Look here, Madeleine, donât be so unfair . . .
MADELEINE: Thatâs right, go on! Now tell me itâs my fault!
AMĂDĂE: You know perfectly well, my dear, that Iâm the first to sympathize with you, and whatâs more Iâm the only one; I find the whole situation most unsettling, I blame myself, but . . . I think, after all, you might . . . well, for instance, you take a quarter of an hour to clean out a room this size, and when it comes to his room, which is smaller, a couple of hours is not long enough . . . you hang about in there, just gazing at him . . .
MADELEINE: So now youâre timing me! Now Iâm supposed to make my lord and master a recital of everything I do, account for every second of my life. I donât belong to myself any more, Iâm not myself any more, Iâm a slave . . .
AMĂDĂE: Slavery has been abolished, my love . . .
MADELEINE: Iâm not your love . . .
AMĂDĂE: Slaves belong to the past . . .
MADELEINE: Well, Iâm a modern slave, then!
AMĂDĂE: You donât try to understand. Itâs just because Iâm sorry for you that . . .
MADELEINE: I donât want your pity. Hypocrite! Liar!
AMĂDĂE: You see, itâs because Iâm really sorry for yoĂŒ that I wonât have . . . oh dear . . ....