0,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Merrily We Roll Along, although praised by critics, was a failure on Broadway in 1934 but has since garnered almost cult classic status. It concerns a man who has lost the idealistic values of his youth. Its innovative structure presents the story in reverse order, with the character regressing from a mournful adult to a young man whose future is filled with promise.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Merrily We Roll Along
by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart
First published in 1934
This edition published by Reading Essentials
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Merrily We Roll Along
by
George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart
The action of the play moves backward. Each scene takes place at an earlier time than the scene preceding.
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT ONE
Scene I.
The Home of Richard Niles, Long Island. 1934.
Scene II.
Restaurant Le Coq D’Or. 1927.
Scene III.
Richard Niles’s Apartment. 1926.
ACT TWO
Scene I.
Jonathan Crale’s Studio. 1925.
Scene II.
A Court-house Corridor. 1924.
Scene III.
Althea Royce’s Apartment. 1923.
ACT THREE
Scene I.
Living Room of the Murneys. 1922.
Scene II.
Madison Square Park. 1918.
Scene III.
A College Chapel. 1916.
ACT ONE
SCENE I
The country house of Richard Niles—Sands Point, Long Island, an evening in September, 1934. The room we see is oval in shape and is fringed with French windows, which look out upon the Sound itself. It is night, but there is a glimpse of tall white pillars through the windows.
It is the kind of room you have often seen as a fullpage illustration in Town and Country, over a caption reading: “This unusual décor is a glimpse of the drawing room in the Long Island home of . . .”
There are some ten or twelve people present, the men in tails, the women in evening dress. There is a game of bridge, a game of backgammon. A dark-haired youngManis at the piano, playing, with a good deal of skill, one of the popular tunes of the day. Leaning across the piano, listening with a professional interest, is a handsome, flaxen-hairedLadof about twenty-three or four.A Ladywith a highball in her hand sits a little apart, surveying the scene with a certain detachment. There is a relaxed air about all of these people—it is merely an informal Sunday evening on Long Island.
For a moment the music plays, the flaxen-haired young man hums a little, the bridge and backgammon games go on. Through the music, you catch the routine chatter at the tables: “Double.” . . . “I’ll take it.” . . . “Spade.” . . . “Two hearts.” . . . “Pass.” . . . “Pass.” . . . “Two spades.” . . . “Pass.” . . . “Pass.” . . . “Pass.”
After a bit of this, David Haskellcomes in through the French windows. He is an ardent young man of about twenty-six, with a rather sensitive face. He goes to the liquor table, mixes a drink, and then notices the lady with the highball.Julia Glennis a woman close to forty. She is not unpretty, but on her face are the marks of years and years of quiet and steady drinking—eight, ten hours a day. In contrast to the modish evening clothes of the other women, Juliawears something from about three years ago, and which wasn’t quite right then. Withal, there is about her definitely an air. Here is a person.
Davidraises his glass to her in grave salute.
(Returning the salute with her own glass. Then, ever so brightly)
Know what I’m having?
What?
(Grimly)
Not much fun.
(Davidgives an appreciative chuckle and goes out through the windows with the highball)
(An extremely beautiful girl namedIvy Carrollcomes down the stairs, a book tucked rather showily under her arm. For a moment she stands surveying the room and its occupants with a quiet superiority, then she moves up to the windows, breathes deeply, and is gone)
(The flaxen-haired young man, who has been humming, now finishes a song in full voice and breaks away from the piano. His name isVal Burnett)
(Who has been watching her husband at the backgammon board)
Tell me, Mr. Burnett—I thought you broadcast every Sunday night. Is that changed now?
Oh, sure. That was the Miracle Mayonnaise Hour. I’m on the Black Star Axle Grease Hour now. Tuesdays and Fridays, eight-thirty.
Really? I must listen.
(Into her drink)
Mayonnaise to axle grease. Just a step.
It’s really the biggest hour there is. Blue and Red network, you know. National hook-up.
(Shaking his dice cup)
Yeah! Fifteen minutes twice a week and gets more than the President of the United States.
Really, we’re so spoiled! Here’s Mr. Burnett—millions of people listen to him every time he broadcasts—and here he is tossing off these golden notes—
(Assuming a false modesty)
Oh, I’m just a crooner. I guess you people would rather hear Lawrence Tibbett, or something like that.
Why, Mr. Burnett, we would not!
(Scornfully)
Lawrence Tibbett! I’ll bet you he couldn’t croon if he tried.
I never know whether you’re kidding me or not, Miss Glenn, but honest—do you like my singing?
Like it? Why, I’m your greatest admirer.
Say, that means more to me than you think, because I’m just crazy about your stories. I think you write just about the best stories I ever read. That one about the boy and the girl—I read it over and over.
Why, I’m—touched. Didn’t you get it the first time?
(At the piano)
Hey, Val! Remember this one?
(He plays a phrase or two)
Do I?
(His voice picks up the music)
(Putting down his cards)
Two and one.
(Also a bridge player. She has listened to the music, rapt)
Oh! That divine song! It just swept London. The Prince couldn’t get enough of it. He still sings it. The Prince has quite a nice voice, you know.
What hour is he on?
(Abstractedly)
H’m?
I think we make three no-trump, too.
Do you?
Lady Dorson, didn’t I read somewhere that the Prince was coming over for a visit?
Well, there was some talk about it just before I left.
(Into that same drink)
I should say there was.
(Who has been thinking it over)
No, I guess we go down one.
I say, Mr. Frankl, there was another song of yours the Prince simply adored.
(She hums a fragment; Franklpicks it up on the piano)
That’s it. Isn’t that too soothing, my dear?
(The fourth bridge player)
I love everything of Sam’s.
(Raising her voice)
Sam, why don’t you write more songs like that? You never do any more.
Well, I’ve been pretty busy lately on my concerto. I promised Stokowski he’d get it by the fifteenth.
But, Sam, those glorious songs! We’ll have nothing to dance to next winter.
Oh, I’ll do a show or two, I suppose—they’re always after me. I’m in the middle of a new symphony, too. You see, the trouble with me is——
(He rises from the piano)
I’ve got three different careers. My light music, my serious music, and my sculpture.
Sculpture? Why, I didn’t know you were a sculptor, too.
Oh, sure. Didn’t you see those heads I did of myself? They were in the Times.
How astonishing!
(In the windows)
Oh! To play under the stars on a night like this! The Greek theatre must have been magnificent.
Who dealt?
I did. . . . Pass.
(Resuming her seat)
Oh, so sorry. What happened?
I dealt and passed.
I pass.
Is there a score?
They’re vulnerable. We have sixty.
I pass.
I’m bidding.
Mr. Frankl, play me that Chopin Waltz—you know the one I mean. Opus 3, Number 9.
Sorry. I don’t play Chopin.
You’ll take Frankl or nothing.
(The piano starts up again; Juliamakes a slight genuflexion in the direction of the music)
Two no-trump.
By me.
Three no-trump.
I pass.
Pass.
My lead?
(Putting down his hand asWinthropleads)
The clubs aren’t so good, but I’ve got my values.
(He rises.Richard Niles, at forty, is the layman’s idea of what a fashionable playwright should look like. His portrait by Pirie MacDonald has long been familiar to readers of Vanity Fair. He is faultlessly attired, has that distinguished touch of gray at the temples)
Well! . . . How are you backgammon boys coming along? Who’s winning?
(IndicatesNash)
He doesn’t have to produce plays for a living. I never saw such luck.
(Nashrolls the dice)
My God! Doubles again!
Tell me, Everett—where do you go from London?
Well, I’ve got to stay there till the 18th, you know—the Gladys Cooper opening. Then I go over to Budapest to see Molnar, and I’ve got to be back in London in November—got to find something for the Adelphi—that Cochran show won’t do.
No chance of your coming South with me? Give you some great shooting.
Sailing Wednesday.
Well, Althea and I are going to be in St. Moritz for Christmas. Why don’t you and Laura join us there and we’ll go to Antibes together?
(From the bridge table)
We could do that, Everett.
Oh, that’s fine.
We make three. Shall we stop?
Yes—let’s.
Have you got a house yet, Richard? I mean in Antibes?
Got a cable this morning. We’re taking the Elliott place.
Oh, Richard, that’s a divine house!
Isn’t that right next to Willie Maugham’s place?
It’s that house on the cliff. It’s simply huge. You’ll have to give loads of parties, Richard.
I like a big place—lots of people. I think if we come back to Long Island next summer we’ll take the Atherton place, instead of this.
Really? This is a charming place. Seems quite large.
Ye-es, but there’s no place to dock the boat—you’ve got to land at Manhasset and have the car meet you.
(So distressed)
O-oh!
Well, next summer’s a long ways off. First I’m going down to Carolina—I’ve got to get away. Those four weeks of rehearsal and the two weeks out of town—pretty wearing. But if I get some good shooting, and a month in London before St. Moritz, I’ll be ready to start work again when we get to Antibes.
I’ve got my year pretty well laid out, too. Let’s see. I’m going to spend November in Tony’s, if they’ll give me credit, and December trying to keep from getting thrown out of my apartment. I think in January I’ll put a piece of paper in the typewriter, and if anything comes of that I’ll be very much surprised. February and March are going to be tough sledding, but in April it’s warm again and I can go right back to the gutter, only next year I’m going to give up the little gutter and take a great, big hell of a gutter. Hi, Richard!
(She lifts her glass in drunken salute)
(In a low tone)
Will you stop drinking?
(In a voice just as high as his was low)
Will I stop drinking? No, I won’t stop drinking!
Julia—
(David Haskellcomes back through the windows)
Say, they must have the papers by this time. It’s twelve-thirty.
That’s the worst of these Saturday openings. You have to wait all day Sunday for the reviews.
I think I’ll jump in the car and get them. If you wait for them to bring ’em it’ll take hours.
(He dashes out again)
Say, young Haskell’s more nervous than you are, Dick. You’d think it was his play instead of yours.
Oh, I’m reconciled to whatever they say.
(Who has come close toRichardas the conversation turned on the newspapers)
Richard!
(She extends her hand)
(Gently taking her hand)
Now, you mustn’t be nervous. You’ve no reason to be.
This was my great chance, Richard. I know it better than anybody. Whatever happens, I’ll always be grateful to you.
Ivy, believe me, no matter what they say about the play, they’re certain to say that you were magnificent.
(On the stairway)
I’m sure they will. No matter what they say about the play.
(Her entrance has been quiet, unobtrusive. Her voice turns every head toward her)
(Quietly)
Why, hello, Althea. Have you been upstairs all the time?
Didn’t you know?
(Althea Royceis just over forty, and still a beautiful woman. She moves with a certain conscious grace—the result of many years of hearing people say “There goes Althea Royce!” when she entered a restaurant or passed down a theatre aisle)
Althea darling, I hear you’ve taken the Elliott house. I’m terribly excited!
Yes, won’t it be lovely!
Do you know the Pendergasts, Althea? They’re going to be there this season—they’re both darlings, and such fun? All they do is give parties! Of course they’re not married . . .
(Ivyhas disappeared through the windows again. From time to time you get a glimpse of her, nervously pacing. After a moment or twoRichardjoins her)
(ToAlthea)
