Seagull (NHB Classic Plays) E-Book

Anton Chekhov

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 112

Beschreibung

A striking version of Chekhov's classic play by Charlotte Pyke, John Kerr and Joseph Blatchley, restoring to the play the cuts demanded by the Russian censor in 1896. In nineteenth-century rural Russia, an anxious young writer prepares the first performance of his new play for the two women in his life. The consequences are devastating, with everybody in love with the wrong person, and death hovering close by. Through both comedy and tragedy, Seagull explores lives that are precariously balanced between love and indifference, success and failure, hope and despair. This version of Anton Chekhov's The Seagull was first performed at the Arcola Theatre, London, in 2011. 'absorbingly vibrant - a Seagull that soars.' - The Times 'wonderfully nimble... the play feels fresh and vital... full of warmth and wit' - Stage 'new translation brings an immediacy and a vibrancy to the play that does it a world of good' - Whatsonstage.com

Leseprobe

Anton Chekhov

THE SEAGULL

in a new translation by

Charlotte Pyke, John Kerr

and Joseph Blatchley

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production

Introduction

Characters

The Seagull

About the Authors

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

This version of The Seagull was produced by Arcola Theatre and Runaway Theatre. It was first performed at the Arcola Theatre, London, on 9 June 2011. The cast was as follows:

MEDVEDENKO

Paul Westwood

MASHA

Jodie McNee

SORIN

Will Knightley

KONSTANTIN

Al Weaver

YAKOV

Leon Davies

NINA

Yolanda Kettle

POLINA

Gabrielle Lloyd

ARKADINA

Geraldine James

SHAMRAEV

Gabriel Hunter

DORN

Roger Lloyd Pack

TRIGORIN

Matt Wilkinson

COOK

Briony Morris

Director

Joseph Blatchley

Set and Costume Designer

Dora Schweitzer

Lighting Designer

Neill Brinkworth

Costume Supervisor

Fiammetta Horvat

Assistant Director

Amelia Nicholson

Producer (Arcola Theatre)

Leyla Nazli

Associate Producer (Runaway Theatre)

Emma Keele

Production Manager

Andrew Steel

Stage Manager

Rachel Gillard

Assistant Stage Managers

Amelia Hankin, Briony Morris

Introduction

Chekhov occupies a unique place in the heart of audiences and theatre professionals alike. Part of his great genius is that he seems to be speaking directly to us as individuals. Indeed this is what makes staging his plays such a difficult task; we feel we have an intimate relationship with him. We know how we like our Chekhov!

The story of Chekhov’s success as a dramatist is a curious one – in so far as it happened, in one sense, in spite of him. It was the director Stanislavsky who, after resurrecting the play from its original catastrophic first production, made Seagull into a worldwide triumph that revolutionised the theatre, even though Chekhov himself disapproved of many aspects of the production. The impact of those famous performances is still felt today, particularly in America, where the Actors Studio – later exported to Hollywood – was formed as a result of the Moscow Art Theatre’s world tour. Stanislavsky had indeed stamped his imprint on Chekhov’s plays for decades to come.

The term ‘Chekhovian’ has even entered the vocabulary, although it should really be ‘Stanislavskian’. But the meaning of this is not clear, as it has passed from one generation to the next through the stage or the press or literature until, without realising it, we have become steeped in preconceptions, received ideas and prejudices about Chekhov.

In this new translation, we have sought to combat such myths and preconceptions. We undertook a word-by-word translation of the original text and uncovered cuts (and certain additions) made by the Russian censor to the original 1896 production, the reinstatement of which adds depth to a number of the characters. They are, on the whole quite small, but often very telling. For example, in Act Two (see here), Polina says to Dorn: ‘He [her husband, Shamraev] squanders every last kopeck of revenue from the estate on construction, and to top it all, every year he siphons off six hundred roubles from the old man’s pension and sends it to Irina Nikolayevna, who’s obviously delighted because she’s so tight-fisted,’ and then a few lines down: ‘I’ve been your wife and friend for twenty years…’ – all of which gives us a clearer view on Shamraev, Arkadina, and of Polina and Dorn’s relationship.

We have striven to express the vitality of the play so that it speaks to the twenty-first century in all its uncertainties and confusions. At the same time we have tried to ensure that it stays true to the spirit of the late-nineteenth century. The tone is light and energetic, but we hope authentic. Fundamentally, we have tried to discover a different Chekhov from the one audiences have become so familiar with: the sickly old man stricken with tuberculosis mournfully gazing out from the dustcover of his books. In the words of Samuel Beckett, another writer who changed the face of twentieth-century theatre, ‘Habit is a great deadener.’

We hope you enjoy the play.

Joseph Blatchley

Characters

IRINA NIKOLAYEVNA ARKADINA, Trepleva by marriage, actress

KONSTANTIN GAVRILOVICH TREPLEV, her son

PYOTR NIKOLAYEVICH SORIN, her brother

NINA MIKHAILOVNA ZARECHNAYA, young girl, daughter of a rich landowner

ILYA AFANASEVICH SHAMRAEV, retired lieutenant, manager of Sorin’s estate

POLINA ANDREYEVNA, his wife

MASHA, his daughter

BORIS ALEXEYEVICH TRIGORIN, writer

YEVGENI SERGEYEVICH DORN, doctor

SEMYON SEMYONOVICH MEDVEDENKO, teacher

YAKOV, worker

COOK

MAID

The action takes place on Sorin’s estate. Two years pass between the third and fourth acts.

ACT ONE

A section of the park on SORIN’s estate. A wide avenue leads into the depths of the park and toward the lake. The avenue is blocked by a stage, which has been hastily erected for an amateur play. The lake is completely hidden from view. There are bushes to the left and right. A few chairs, a small table. On the trees there are garlands of coloured lights. The sun has only just set.

YAKOV and other workmen can be heard coughing and hammering behind the lowered curtain.

MASHA and MEDVEDENKO enter from the left, returning from a walk.

MEDVEDENKO. Why do you go around in black all the time?

MASHA. Because I’m mourning my life. I’m unhappy!

MEDVEDENKO. But why!? (Reflecting.) Excuse me, but I just don’t understand… You’re hale and hearty, your father’s not rich but he’s not starving! You should try living on my wages! Twenty-three roubles a month; a pittance, and that’s before deductions! Do I go about ‘mourning my life’?

They sit.

MASHA. Money isn’t everything, you know! You can be happy without money.

MEDVEDENKO. Oh, really! And I’m supposed to feed my mother, my two sisters, my baby brother and myself, on twenty-three roubles a month, am I? D’you want us to give up tea, sugar, tobacco? Is that your theory? Maybe we should give up eating and drinking altogether? That’s the reality: yesterday – I had to cough up fifteen kopecks for a new flour sack, do you know why? Because some tramps had stolen the old one! Fifteen kopecks! You see; it’s every which way!

MASHA (glancing at the stage). Isn’t it time for the play?

MEDVEDENKO. Yes: a theatrical work by Konstantin Gavrilovich Treplev, starring Nina Mikhailovna Zarechnaya! Tonight’s performance will be a true expression of their love for each other and their souls will unite forever in a single flash of creative inspiration. Unlike your soul and mine; they don’t even meet halfway. I’m in love with you. I long for you. I can’t stay at home for longing. It takes me two and a half hours to walk here and back and all I get from you is… is… ‘indifferentism’. I know, I understand. I’ve got a large family. I’ve got no money… Who wants a man who can’t even feed himself?! I’m a walking disaster; let’s face it.

MASHA. You talk such rubbish! (Takes snuff.) Your love is very touching, but I can’t return it, and that’s all there is to it. (Offers him the snuffbox.) Have some.

MEDVEDENKO. I won’t.

Pause.

MASHA. It’s so muggy. There’s bound to be a storm tonight. It always comes down to money with you! Money or philosophy. There are far worse things than poverty, believe me! I would go begging, I would dress in rags, a thousand times over, rather than… Oh, what’s the point, you wouldn’t understand…

SORIN and KONSTANTIN enter.

SORIN (leaning on a cane). You see, my boy, the problem is, I’ve never liked the countryside. It’s as simple as that. I never have and I never will. Last night: I went to bed at ten and this morning I woke up at nine! Eleven hours’ sleep! I felt as if my brain had been glued to my skull! (Laughs.) And today after dinner, same thing! Off I drop again! Now I feel like death warmed up. And so on and so on. It’s a nightmare, that’s what it is…

KONSTANTIN. I know, you really should live in town, uncle. (Sees MASHA and MEDVEDENKO.) What are you doing here? I’m sorry but you can’t stay here, we’ll call you when it’s time. Please go now.

SORIN (to MASHA). Maria Ilinichna, do me a favour, will you? Ask your father to unchain the dog; it was howling all night long. My sister didn’t get a minute’s sleep again!

MASHA. If you want to ask him, ask him, but please don’t expect me to. I won’t. He says that without dogs, thieves would have all the millet in the barn.

KONSTANTIN. To hell with him and his millet!

MASHA (to MEDVEDENKO). Come on.

MEDVEDENKO (to KONSTANTIN). You’ll tell us when the performance begins?

They both exit.

SORIN. And now the dog will be howling all night again. See what I mean? I never get my way in the country. There’s always something: if it’s not millet, it’s dogs; if not dogs, horses they won’t let me have; and so on and so on! I used to get twenty-eight days’ annual leave, so I’d come here to relax and all that. But the minute I got here they’d bombard me with ‘oats’ and ‘millet’ and ‘barley’, and so on and so on… My only wish was to escape straight back to town. (Laughs.) The best part in coming was the going! But now I’m retired, where else can I go, when all’s said and done? Like it or not, you have to live…

YAKOV (to KONSTANTIN). We’re going for a swim, Konstantin Gavrilich.

KONSTANTIN. All right, but you must be in your positions in ten minutes. (Looks at his watch.) We should start soon.

YAKOV. Right you are, sir. (Exits.)

KONSTANTIN (glancing at the stage). So how d’you like my theatre, uncle? This is the real thing! No set, no scenery, no painted backcloth, just this curtain, and the lake. We’ll begin as soon as the moon rises, at half past eight.

SORIN. Splendid!

KONSTANTIN. But the whole thing will be ruined if Nina is late. She should be here by now! Trouble is; her father and stepmother keep her virtually locked up. Getting out of the house is like breaking out of prison. (Straightens his uncle’s tie.) Why are you such a mess? Look at yourself! Your beard, your hair. You need a haircut…

SORIN (smoothing his beard). Story of my life. I’ve always looked like a drunk and that’s about it. Even as a boy… and so on. Dead loss as far as women were concerned. (Sitting.) Why is my sister in such a foul temper?

KONSTANTIN. Because she’s bored. (Sitting down next to SORIN.) And because she’s jealous. She’s afraid that novelist of hers will take a fancy to Nina, so, she hates my play, she hates the performance and she hates me! She hasn’t read it, of course, but she already hates it.

SORIN (laughing). My dear boy, aren’t you imagining all this…?

KONSTANTIN. She’s in a foul temper because she can’t bear the fact that Nina will shine on this pathetic little stage and not her. (Glances at his watch.) She’s a real ‘case’, my mother! She’s talented certainly, clever and kind, she’ll devote herself to the sick and the needy like a ministering angel, she’ll weep buckets over a book, recite Nekrasov by heart, but you just try praising Eleanora Duse or Sarah Bernhardt to her face. Oh my God! No, no, no! Everything must revolve around her! Her extraordinary performance in La Dame aux camélias, her triumph in The Fumes of Life. And because here in the countryside we don’t provide her with her daily dose of praise, of ecstatic notices, of bravos and encores, she has withdrawal symptoms and becomes foul-tempered and bored: ‘it’s our fault’, ‘we all hate her’! And then she’s also superstitious and mean. She’ll be terrified by three candles on a coffin, or by the thirteenth day of the month, and will have a complete fit if you ask her for money! And that, despite having 70,000 in the bank in Odessa – which I know for a fact!

SORIN. Ah, ‘the delicate nature of poets’, as Horace would have it! You’ve got yourself all worked up because you’re convinced your mother hates your play, and so on, but it’s not true, your mother adores you. Calm down, my dear boy.

KONSTANTIN (tearing the petals from a flower). My mother loves me – my mother loves me not, loves me – loves me not, loves me – loves me not. See, loves me not! Well, would you, if you wanted to have fun, go to parties, wear dazzling clothes, have love affairs and you had me as a constant reminder of how old you were? Of course you wouldn’t, you’d hate me! I’m over twenty-five, so when I’m around she’s forty-three and when I am not, she’s thirty-two! And then there’s her theatre, her ‘sacred art’: the salvation of humanity. She loves it and knows I despise it! Up goes the curtain on the inevitable drawing room with three walls, and there they all are, the geniuses, the high priests of her ‘sacred art’, bathed in electric light, playing at eating, drinking, walking, loving, wearing jackets, et cetera… et cetera… It’s one damned cliché after another. Our modern theatre is nothing but a mishmash of platitudes and insipid commonplaces repeated time and time again in a thousand different variations; trite little maxims and vulgar little homilies, easily digestible and regurgitated for practical use around the house. The crushing vulgarity of it makes me want to run for my life, like Maupassant when he saw the banality of the Eiffel Tower.