832 - Trask's watch shows 3:10, a little early for the transformation. Quentin begins to feel pain bolting through him. What's the matter? Asks Trask. It seems different than before, answers Quentin. Suddenly, the pain stops. Quentin hasn't transformed, and he's thrilled about it. More than a minute has passed, Quentin exults. Trask reminds him, while many things change, the moon isn't one of them, so my watch must be wrong. He races off. Where are you going? demands Quentin. He stares at his hands, which are human, not animal, and shakes his head in wonder. The full moon has completely risen. Trask returns to the cell, contemplating, and looks at Quentin. "The moon HAS risen," says Q exultantly, it's written all over your face. Trask mumbles, I don't understand it at all. Quentin grins, huge, and closes his eyes in prayerful gratitude. He laughs, sighs with relief.
"Trask," he says, "let me out of here! You've gone too far!" Trask insists, I can't, you are the werewolf. "I'm the WHAT?" asks Q. Yes, you told me so yourself, says Trask. *I* did? asks Quentin, "Trask, are you sure you haven't been getting into the brandy?" He points accusingly at Trask. I know what I saw in your room, says the Rev. What about the moon you just saw? inquires Q, smiling--obviously this desire to take over Collinwood has warped your mind, with or without brandy--"NOW, I SUGGEST YOU LET ME OUT, RIGHT NOW!" Trask refuses, I know I have the right man in the cell, and I want to keep you here until morning. Do that, vows Quentin, and YOU'LL be the one in jail--I already have a variety of charges--assault and battery, imprisoning a man in his own home, accusing a man of being a werewolf. . . All right, agrees Trask, you're free to go, but I know what you are, and will see to it you're destroyed! Of course you wouldn't want to keep me locked up tonight, jests Quentin--I'm sure there are many things you have to do--it's such a beautiful, moonlit night. Quentin walks off, laughing.
At the Collinsport Inn, Amanda looks out the window. How peaceful the village looks from here, she sighs. Tim slips his arms around her--do I detect a note of fondness in your voice? He asks. No, she assures him--I want out ASAP. I think there are several other things you'd like, says Tim, and I'll give them to you, if you play your part in the little Rev. Trask drama. I don't want to, says Amanda. Save your theatrics for Trask, advises Tim, trying to kiss her. I'm not play-acting, she insists. Your face is a combination of wisdom and innocence, says Tim--you don't seem to be one certain age, as others are. She turns around--that isn't a very agreeable thing to say, she accuses. Why are you angry? he asks--I meant that as a compliment--you are beautiful, I could almost envy Trask, if I didn't know better--and he grins.
Trask buries the confession in the ground, sure it has found its final resting place. He glances at it once more before putting it into the hole.
Petofi, walking downstairs, greets Quentin, explaining, I had some business to do. What business? demands Quentin. I am a man with a great deal of unfinished business, says Petofi, and I must check it out from time to time. "You don't seem startled to see me," says Q. Why should I, you live in this house, Petofi reminds him--"Even on a night when the moon is full?" Quentin, eyes bulging from his head, puts an arm around Petofi's throat. The latter just smiles. "All right," says Q, "you've been hinting long enough! Tell me what's going on here tonight and exactly what you had to do with it!"
I'm not afraid of you, Quentin tells Petofi, or what you might do to me, but if you don't tell me what's going on, I'll kill you. Petofi easily releases Quentin's grasp, using his magic hand. Quentin backs off as if stung. Stop making idle threats, advises Petofi--they're foolish--you're hot blooded, but also rather charming, which means there will always be someone to help you. Q asks, did you help me out of this?--a miracle occurred here tonight.
I like miracles, says Petofi--did one really happen tonight?--it's a perfect occasion for a drink. And a talk, insists Q. Whatever you wish, dear boy, says Petofi, pleased with himself. They go into the drawing room, both smiling. Petofi pours drinks and drinks to calmer seas, clinking his glass to Quentin's--they seem to be, don't they? Why didn't this night didn't turn out as expected? demands Quentin. Perhaps at the proper time, I will, says Petofi, draining his glass--have another drink. I prefer to keep my head clear, Quentin says, swirling his brandy around in his glass. You're a bit of a fraud, he accuses Petofi. It's not entirely my fault, says Petofi, because you have been accepting the fact that any miracles occurring here are my doing. It suddenly seemed to me, says Quentin, that wasn't the case at all. I have no idea what happened or why, says Petofi, anymore than you yourself do--that's how it suddenly seems. You can't fool me anymore, insists Quentin--I know you aren't responsible for tonight's events. If I were, replies Petofi, I'd be claiming all the credit for it, putting the "Stamp of Petofi" on it. Petofi laughs his ass off at this thought--claiming credit like a shopgirl taking credit for a sale! No, says Petofi, serious now, my plan is cosmic, complex, gigantic, and the full implications of it won't be clear to you for a long time yet. Does this plan involve me? demands Q. "You saw tonight that it does," says Petofi--time passes, you'll see more and more, finally you will see the extent of the plans, then I may present my bill. A bill for what? asks Q. "Did you think it would cost you nothing to be rid of the curse?" queries Petofi. Suppose when you present this bill, I refuse to pay it? says Q. I don't think you will, answers Petofi. "I don't like it," says Q. Nonsense, says Petofi, you begged for help and I gave it to you--you'll like what I have in mind for you far better than baying at the moon. And Petofi has another laugh and drinks.
Amanda is drinking, too, asking Tim, how could I go live at Collinwood when I've already said no to Trask--why should I change my mind? Why indeed, says Tim, you've already told him a strange man frightened you, now tell him the man followed you here, you're upset, only 24 hours a day with that wonderful Mr. Trask can give you the strength, the will, the power to fight him (he's snorting with laughter). Amanda doesn't think that's funny. There's something very amusing about it, says Tim--Trask's incredible conceit will cause him to ask, nay, beg, to hear even more! The whole situation frightens me, says Amanda. You won't be frightened at luxurious Collinwood, promises Tim--it's almost as elegant as the Collinsport Inn. I've seen nice things before, she reminds him. "I'm sure you have," he says sarcastically. You really think I'm nobody, she accuses--well, I'm somebody, and I will never marry Trask! He takes her into his arms and hugs her. I would never want you to do anything that would permanently take you away from me, says Tim. I want someone to care for me so much! Whines Amanda. I care for you, says Tim. No, she protests--really care for me, I don't want all this, or Collinwood, even this (and she takes off a diamond bracelet and throws it across the room)--I want to go away, she begs. We will, he promises, unwinding her arms from around his neck, we'll go as soon as we do what I set out to do. He picks up the bracelet. Don't throw diamonds away, he advises--we aren't that rich--yet. Amanda, he says, you are going to do everything I want you to, aren't you? NO! she cries. He holds out the diamond bracelet and says, "Aren't you?" Charmed, she looks at the bracelet, takes it back, and responds, flirtatiously, "We'll see."
Collinwood - Amanda and Trask sit in the three-chair. I'm afraid all my good intentions won't be enough to keep me away from him, wails Amanda. You never told me who the man is, says Trask. I never will, she says--perhaps I'm being presumptuous, but I feared your concern for me would cause you to confront him, and if anything happened to Trask because of me, I'd never forgive myself. Trask returns the compliment, touching her shoulder intimately, promising, nothing will happen to you, you have, so to speak, come home. She pulls out of his grasp. Where are your things? he asks. At the Inn, says Amanda. I want to go get them, he insists. I'd rather no one knew, she says. Don't worry about what people say, insists Trask--what you're doing is perfectly proper--I wouldn't have it any other way. (yeah, right!) I didn't mean to imply that, she says--you don't want me here, you doesn't know what I'm really like! I have never known anyone so thoroughly before in my life, he says--I understand you and can help you. I'll make a phone call and have my luggage brought over, says Amanda. Very well, he agrees--in the meantime, I'll speak to the housekeeper about getting a room ready for you--I want to make sure you're very comfortable here in your new home. (He's nearly salivating--disgusting!) He leaves the room. Amanda races to the phone. She reaches Tim--there must be another way to do what you want, she insists--I can't stand looking at him, and the way he follows me around the room... This is the best way to handle the situation, says Tim. I don't care, I'm not staying! says Amanda--he's returning, I'll call you back. Turns out it's not Trask, but Quentin, who is pleased Amanda remembers him, calling it an honor. I'm sure a girl like you has a lot of names to remember, adds Quentin (what are the implications of that?)
I'm glad you know so much about a girl like me, she says, more than I do myself. He ambles over, smiling. You're beautiful, he says. And you're handsome, she says, and neither of us are very happy, are we? He grins--when you were a little girl, what did you wish for when you saw the first star? I don't remember ever wishing on a star, she says. He moves in close--I'd like to get to know you a lot better, he says--perhaps we can talk again sometime, I'm afraid I must go. I have to make a phone call, says Amanda. He murmurs, it's been an unexpected pleasure, but then this whole day has just been full of surprises...if you'll excuse me... He leaves. She stands there for a moment, then calls Tim back and tells him, before he has a chance to talk her into going through with it as planned, she would like him to bring her luggage to Collinwood ASAP. He's very happy she decided to stay, and wonders why she changed her mind. You were right, she says, I let myself get far too upset over nothing
--I think things will be just fine at Collinwood. She hangs up. When Trask asks who it was, she answers, the manager at the Inn--he's been so fatherly towards me, he's sending my luggage right over. Trask grins, very pleased. Amanda looks like she's thinking romantic thoughts of Quentin.
Quentin, in his room, tells himself, I'm not ready to think about that girl--if she had met me tonight, under a full moon, she would have been dead by now. If the miracle hadn't happened--how did it happen? That's what I should be thinking about. He goes into his room and finds the Tate portrait of himself--except it's the face of the werewolf! Quentin, horrified, covers his face with his hands.
NOTES: Here begins a love affair that pisses so many people off, the superficial love between Quentin and Amanda, the superficial twosome. Whether you think they belong together or not, you have to admit they look damn pretty together!
A werewolf in the portrait? Why? Think "Picture of Dorian Gray" and you'll get the idea that Curtis ripped off another classic. A pretty cool cure--the portrait absorbs Quentin's werewolfism!
833 - We see a portrait of Amanda Harris, which Charles Tate is looking at with great fondness as he removes it from an easel. Quentin runs in, tripping, and grabs Tate's arm. Did Petofi put you up to my portrait? Demands Quentin. Petofi didn't put me up to anything, insists Charles, and what right do you have to come in here accusing...? "I'm accusing you of painting a portrait of a wolf, says Q, a wolf that looks like a man.
I painted a portrait of you, says Tate, showing Quentin his sketches to prove it--that's the face he painted--Petofi, not I, took the painting to your room. So, Petofi was in on it--I was right, says Q. Maybe it could be an hallucination, suggests Charles--the first time Charity saw it, she saw a wolf, too, but when I looked, I saw your face. Quentin grabs Charles' arm--come back to Collinwood to see the portrait--if I have to drag you there!
Charity, still wearing her ugly dress and shawl, hears Quentin's music. She primps in front of the mirror, then sidles into the drawing room. Amanda is there. Furious, Charity orders her, don't play his music again! I didn't know whose music it was, insists Amanda. You're lying, Charity accuses--I know character, and don't trust you--I knew you the first time I ever saw you walk into this house. You're quite wrong, says Amanda. Charity asks, what are you doing here? "I live here, if that's any business of yours," retorts Amanda.
So, you're after him, too! yells Charity, you were playing his song!--who told you you could live here, anyway? Reverend Trask, answers Amanda. Oh, he did, did he, well, I'll just find out about that myself. TRASK!!! she screams. He enters, calling her Charity. Amanda has tried to leave. You aren't going anywhere, orders Charity--stop calling me that stupid name, she tells Trask--it won't stop me from speaking my peace--did you ask HER to stay here? asks Charity, making a sweeping gesture (as in trash) at Amanda. She's here as my guest, says Trask--go up to your room, and pulls her hand behind her back as she struggles. Wait here, he tells Amanda, I'll be back shortly. He drags his daughter, screaming, Quentin, come help me! Amanda holds her aching head.
Quentin takes Charles to his room, removes the cover from the painting and reveals what it looks like now--a wolf's face. Tate is horrified and disgusted. Just how did that face get there? asks Quentin. I have no idea, insists Charles. I'll go to Petofi for an explanation, says Quentin. Things don't always need explanations, says Charles, you don't have to know about everything in the universe. He looks more closely at the portrait, uncomfortable. Are you telling me not to go to Petofi? Asks Q. I'd never tell anyone that, says Charles--you can do as you like, good night. Quentin stops him. I'll kill you if you tell anyone about this, he vows. "I am an artist," says Charles, the only way I tell anything is with my canvas. Quentin, frustrated, replaces the cover over the wolf's face.
Trask expresses his sorrow about Charity to Amanda--my daughter is a great trial, he sighs--you aren't alone in having a misfortune. She seems to hate me so much, says Amanda. Hatred is a sign of the devil's presence, just as love is of our maker's, says Trask--I'm fortunate our maker has given me the strength to help whatever unfortunates I might meet. Trask spots Tate coming downstairs and closes the double doors. Amanda looks like she can't live through anymore Trask moments. Trask greets Tate, asking, are you in the custom of coming to the house without calling on me? I'm ready to paint Charity, says Tate. Not convenient, says Trask, my daughter is not well. Charles is sorry to hear that. There is someone I would like you to paint, says Trask--a dear girl, buffeted by life, in need of confidence and stability--yes, it's an admirable idea. He takes Tate to meet Amanda, calling it a very great honor that Charles Tate has agreed to paint her. This is Amanda Harris, says Trask. "I know," falters Tate, staring raptly at Amanda. "I know."
Trask looks from Tate to Amanda--have you met her before? Trask asks. I saw her once, at the Inn, says Charles. Amanda is staying with us now, says Trask, and you should feel thrilled the great Tate wants to paint you. She grins--I am, she says. It's settled, says Trask, I'll leave the two of you to discuss the details--I want the preliminary sketches done here, my only request. He leaves the room. Tate walks closer to Amanda, asking, do you feel it? I beg your pardon? She asks. Do you feel the way I do--that you've seen me before? He asks. She doesn't respond--I haven't met you, she says finally--I'd remember, although Count Petofi asked me if I knew a Mr. Tate--having seen you, I know I haven't. Then you do feel as if you've seen me before, he asks (?) Why should I? asks Amanda--we just met. There are so many things I must know, says Tate--when were you born? She can't seem to reply, although it isn't an unusual question. Please don't ask, she says, upset. I must ask, he says, I have to know. Nothing to know, she insists, nothing. Please, he begs, tell me. I feel like I should try to tell you, she says--why do I feel that way?
Charity washes her hands in a bowl as Trask, says, every moment you're like this is a disgrace to me, and I won't have it. Get that woman out of here, she orders. He refuses. Then I will leave, she says. Where will you go? he asks, wherever the devil leads you? That woman is going to cause great trouble here, warns Charity. She's staying, insists Trask, and there is nothing you can do about it--I'm doing my duty and neither you nor anyone else will stop me. "You'll regret it if I leave," says Charity. If you leave, you'll soon learn how cruel the world is, predicts Trask. She bursts into laughter. You will come begging me to take you back! he assures her as she continues to laugh--one hour in the outside world will make you realize who you are! That stops her laughter; she returns to fury mode. I know who I am, all right, she blares--I'm Pansy Faye and I take no guff from anyone--I will return to this house as Mrs. Quentin Collins, and I will kick Amanda out, and you, too, you'll see! He leaves without another word. "You'll see!" she shouts at his retreating back. She begins to pack, tossing the crimson shawl in first.
Charles desperately tries to convince Amanda to tell him about herself, but she is forced to admit she very little. Tell me, he implores. I remember a newspaper lying on the street, she says, a strange Street--I picked it up--I had no purse, jewelry or anything that gave me a hint about myself--I read that newspaper for hours, trying to find SOMETHING to help me remember, before that date--March 11, 1895.
Wait here for me, orders Tate--I can't explain what I have to do anymore than you can tell me about yourself. He hurriedly leaves, Amanda pursuing him. Charity, dressed outrageously, comes downstairs, cawing to Amanda--you've won the battle, but not the war--I'll be back, and when I return, you will be sent packing--you're gonna be so unhappy, so sorry you ever stayed. And Charity, laughing, exits. Amanda slams the door after her.
Tate is looking for the first sketch he made of THAT FACE--Amanda remembers nothing before March 11, 1895. He tears his studio apart--when did I first sketch that face?--here's the one--it's dated March 11, 1895. I drew her face that day, the first she remembers!
Tate stares at his coal sketch of Amanda. It's got to be a coincidence that Amanda remembers nothing before that date, and I made the sketch that same day--I must forget it, think of something else--I'll draw something, anything...he begins to draw.
Collinwood drawing room - Amanda hears a door slam. She pulls open the doors eagerly. It's Quentin, who realizes--you thought I'd be someone else--not the honorable Mr. Trask, I hope. She shakes her head. Tell me, he encourages--they don't have any secrets at Collinwood. (HA!) Mr. Tate, she replies. No, he's not for you, objects Quentin, smiling, he never enjoys himself!--you want someone who knows how to enjoy himself. He puts on his music. I played it earlier, she explains--a madwoman stopped me, insisting it was your song. He bows--may I have the pleasure of this dance? he asks. I shouldn't, she says. Don't you dance? he asks. I do, says Amanda. Then you have no excuses, he says. She moves into his arms. They begin to waltz. That's a pretty melody, she comments. I want to think of new words, happy words, he says, so every time I hear it, I think of you. Don't make them too happy, she cautions, tell me the ones you know now. He recites: Shadows of the night, calling silently, echoes of the past, calling you to me. Haunting memories, veiled in misty glow. . . At this point, they kiss. Trask catches them in mid smooch.
Blame me, says Quentin, I was initiating Miss Harris into the rites of the moon worshippers. I refuse to hear such talk, insists Trask--leave the room, Quentin. YOU leave, Q retorts. It's all right, Amanda assures Quentin. And let him lecture you for the next hour? asks Quentin. Accommodate this poor girl, if not me, suggests Trask. Until tomorrow, murmurs Quentin, kissing Amanda's hand. THAT IS NOT NECESSARY! shouts Trask. Quentin turns to him--who are you to say? he asks, and leaves. Amanda turns away from Trask. You must have the strength to fight your weaknesses, he insists--I will see to it!--"You will never be alone in a room with Quentin Collins again!"--NEVER, do you understand? Amanda clearly does, and is afraid.
In his studio, Tate has done a still life--fruit. Something is missing, he decides--something else should be on the table, a tall vase. He draws one. Much better, he comments. When he looks up, however, he sees the vase that he painted has actually appeared on the table. What Charles Tate draws appears in real life!
NOTE: Whoa, Charles, draw me a pile of money! Seriously, since Tate painted Quentin, why don't we have a Quentin clone running around? If everything he paints appears, there must be a lot of items, not to mention people, in the world that have evolved from his brush. And he's drawn Amanda more than once--why doesn't she have twins, triplets, quads? It's an interesting concept, but what are the parameters.
Quentin really does having a roving eye, doesn't he? Or a roving something else? He meets Amanda; they appear immediately smitten with each other, and now she's already in dutch with Trask. How long before she becomes another of his cottage dollies?
Charity has gone, where, we don't know, but she's intending to re-charge Pansy Faye's batteries (and why didn't she change back as the others did)? She'll come back to fight for a man who really wants nothing to do with her--Quentin. Who really wants him--Pansy or Charity? Or is it a bit of both? And why?
Too much Tate!
Love, Robin
