Director to the telephone. I beg your pardon. The problem is, we can’t get heat and clean air at the same time. If the stoker puts a small amount of coal in the furnace, then the air is clean, but it’s cold. If he puts more in, then the whole auditorium smells of coal…. Yes…. Yes…. Yes…. Yes…. Well, that’s exactly what I said, the engineer should come out and examine it, to see if the problem is with the coal, or with the furnace…. Yes…. Yes…. Yes…. Yes…. No…. No…. Yes…. Yes…. Good…. My regards. Puts down the telephone receiver, sits at the writing table, and rings.

Nearly two pages today, which brings my three-day total up to three pages. I’d like to get up to three or four pages a day, the pages are short enough for that to seem like a reasonable goal, but I’m beginning to be satisfied with my pace. I found one mistake in what I’d done previously; I should have translated “igazgató” as “Managing Director”, not “Artistic Director”.

Roboz. But is there no way?

Director impatiently. I am very sorry, Miss. My regards, Miss.

Roboz. Still, would there be some possibility?

Director opening the door. I am very sorry, Miss. My regards.

Roboz. But I beg of you, if there is any chance …

Director. If you please, I have a great many tasks to attend to. You see how many people are waiting out here. The telephone rings. And the telephone as well.

And now, I give you the opening of the play. I re-read further than this, but I delayed beginning my translation until I finished deciphering the definition of “nagysád”, which elucidates the subtlety with which it illuminates both the relative social classes of the two characters and the precise level of respect which the director chooses to demonstrate within those parameters. After giving the matter careful consideration, I have decided that the best translation of this term is “Miss”, although I reserve the right to revisit my decision, and I feel confident that the hour and a half I spent working on this was time well spent. (I am being sardonic here, of course, but I am actually not the slightest bit sarcastic.)

The phrase “ajánlom magamat”, which appears frequently as well, took a bit less time to resolve. A word-for-word translation would be “I recommend myself”, but My Precious confirms my intuition that it’s a well-worn conventional phrase whose intrinsic meaning is unimportant. What matters is that it’s stiff and impersonal. “My regards” seems to convey that in English, a heck of a lot better than “Miss” conveys the effect of “nagysád”. Fortunately, everything in the director’s manner works together to convey the same impression, so if one term lose much of its force due to the lack of a natural English equivalent, the speech as a whole has essentially the same impact.

I haven’t been completely idle this last month, but I haven’t gotten a lot done either. I feel that it’s time to get serious; from now on until I finish translating Ferenc Molnár’s, I plan to post once a day reporting on my progress, and quoting a few lines from each day’s work. Tonight I got bogged down on the second line of dialogue—I spent over half an hour with my mammoth dictionary trying to grasp every nuance of the term “nagysád”, an archaic form of address which is both courteous and overtly condescending—so all you get for now is the opening stage direction.

A musical theater, the office of the artistic director. There are two windows on the far wall, through which can be seen the upper story of the house opposite. Between the two windows is a bookshelf. There are doors to the right and left. Along the right wall, upstage, is an upright piano. To the left, upstage, is a large writing table. On the writing table are two telephones, a house phone and an outside line. There are two armchairs in front of the writing table, with a wastepaper basket to their right. In the center is a table, with more chairs, papers, books, and a tray with two glasses. To the right, easily visible, is a stove. It’s a sunny, late autumn morning. Just as the curtain rises, the director escorts a young woman, Miss Roboz, to the door on the right.