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                               MY WEEK WITH MARILYN                                    Written by                                  AdrianHodges          1 EXT. TILBURY DOCKS. DAY. 1           Over a DARK SCREEN we see the caption:           "This is a fairy story, an episode out of time and space,           which nevertheless was real" - ColinClark.           Then, FADE UP ON:           Newsreel footage of SIR LAURENCE OLIVIER AND VIVIEN LEIGH           arriving back at Tilbury Docks to be greeted by an excited           crowd of fans. As they progress downthe gangplank and stop           to sign autographs we HEAR an excited commentary OVER:                          COMMENTATOR           "Returning to England are           Britain's acting royalty Sir           LaurenceOlivier and Lady           Olivier, better known as stunning           Gone With The Wind star Vivien           Leigh. Sir Laurence has added a           new string to his bow with the           announcement that he is todirect           and star in a screen version of           Terence Rattigan's stage play The           Sleeping Prince with none other           than Hollywood siren Marilyn           Monroe. When the world's greatest           actorromances the most famous           woman alive, we can be sure that           sparks will fly. Now, now Lady           Olivier, don't worry - any           romance is strictly for the           camera!"           As OLIVIER andVIVIEN smile for the photographers, we -                          CUT TO:                                   2 EXT. SALTWOOD CASTLE. DAY. 2           It is 1956. Saltwood Castle, the family home of theClark           family, looms over the landscape, framed by the setting           sun. It is majestic, an Englishman's dream of a home,           complete with turrets and even a moat. There is a feeling           of timelessbeauty and stability about the scene, something           profoundly English.           We are a very long way from Hollywood.                          CUT TO:                                   3 EXT. SALTWOOD CASTLE.GARDEN. DAY. 3           COLIN CLARK, 23, hurries across the lawn carrying a bag, he           is casually dressed, boyish and handsome. He heads towards a           beautiful, ramshackle building and through theancient oak           doors.           MY WEEK WITH MARILYN 2.                                   3A INT. SALTWOOD CASTLE. LIBRARY STAIRS. DAY. 3A           COLIN bounds up the stairs into theLibrary.                                   3B INT. SALTWOOD CASTLE. LIBRARY. DAY. 3B           As COLIN enters, he sees SIR KENNETH CLARK, standing in front           of a painting on an easel by the Italian Baroquepainter,           Annibale Carracci. He has two STUDENTS with him, a man and a           woman in their early 20s, and is in mid-description of the           painting.                          KENNETH           ... and thisis one of Carracci's           earlier works and one is able to           see the emergence of his now famous           Baroque style, which is clearly           rooted in the tradition of high           renaissance andantiquity...           COLIN pauses briefly and hurries towards them. Throughout the           scene there is a sense of his urgency and desire to go. The           whole thing should be played at breakneck pace. KENNETHbeams           affectionately.                          KENNETH           Colin! Come in. Have you met James           and Anna? Two very brilliant           pupils.           He has the avuncular air of a benign academic,affable and a           little eccentric. COLIN smiles hurriedly at the students, no           time to waste.                          COLIN           I'm leaving for London now,Pa.                          KENNETH           Ah, yes. Well, bon chance, dear           boy...           He puts a friendly arm around COLIN's shoulder and starts to           walk him back to thedoor.                          KENNETH           I can always get you a research           position at the V&A when you've           grown up a bit and got this film           idea out of your system...           COLIN's smilesbut before he can reply JANE CLARK whirls into           the room, a ball of energy, talking nineteen to the dozen.                          JANE           Kenneth, you might have told Cook           we were another twofor dinner.           What is everyone supposed to eat?           Cabbage soup? Oh, Colin, darling,           there you are...           MY WEEK WITH MARILYN 2A.                                    She looks wonderful in agood quality but elderly dress,           eccentrically combined with gardening attire, her mind on a           dozen things at once.                          COLIN           I'm off now,Mama.                          JANE           Off?                          COLIN           My job interview, remember..?           But she is already continuing her journey. COLIN smiles           hurriedly at KENNETH,who gives him an affectionate wave as           COLIN dashes after his mother. She leaves the Library.                          CUT TO:                                   3C INT. SALTWOOD CASTLE. GARDEN. DAY.3C           JANE strides across the lawn with COLIN rushing to catch up.                          JANE           Can't you stay for dinner? There's           nothing to eat but I'm sure the           conversation will becharming.                          COLIN           I don't want to be late in the           morning.           As COLIN hurries after JANE he is nearly run down by an           elderly GARDENER with a lawn mower, and hasto take lightning           evasive action. JANE doesn't notice.                          JANE           I'm sure they won't mind. You'll be           a famous film director in no time.           I know your father's put in aword.                          COLIN           I wish he hadn't done that. I can           manage on my own.           She stops so abruptly he nearly slams into her. JANE looks           around the garden with afrown.                          JANE           I have to watch Jenkins like a           hawk. One more of his murderous           prunings and we'll lose the tea           roses for ever.           And she's off again, with COLINstill following. He can't           help smiling at the madness of it all.                          CUT TO:           MY WEEK WITH MARILYN 2B.                                   4 EXT. SALTWOOD CASTLE. DRIVEWAY.DAY. 4           The sun is setting, casting a golden glow over the castle.           COLIN and JANE emerge from the front door, COLIN pauses in           the driveway and dumps his bag in the back of his oldbut           racy MG Sports car. Only now does JANE really turn her           attention fully to him for the first time.                          JANE           Now go and have a lovely time,           darling. We're alwayshere when           you're ready to talk your future.           COLIN wants to protest but before he can get the words out           JANE sees a YOUNG GARDENER walking at the side of the house           with a wheel barrow.Her face lights up.                          JANE           Mullins! Be an angel - find Cook           and ask her how many pork chops we           need for tonight. Then bring the           car round. I must get tothe           village before the shop shuts...           She dashes away after the GARDENER, turning back as an           afterthought to blow a kiss at COLIN as she goes.           COLIN smiles, then pauses for a moment tolook at the house.           We can sense both his affection for it but more pressingly           his need to get away.           He gets in, puts the car in gear and the Bristol pulls out of           the drive and across the moat.In the last rays of the sun,           the countryside looks magical, but Colin only has eyes for           the road ahead.           MY WEEK WITH MARILYN 3.                                   5 EXT. LONDON STREETSMONTAGE. EVENING 5           CUT TO CREDITS OVER A MONTAGE OF SCENES OF LONDON           IN THE 1950s FROM COLIN'S POINT OF VIEW. AS HE           MAKES HIS WAY INTO THE CITY WESEE THE STATUE OF           EROS AGAINST THE LIGHTS OF PICCADILLY CIRCUS,           CROWDS MILLING AROUND TRAFALGAR SQUARE, YOUNG           PEOPLE SPILLING OUT OF CLUBSAND COFFEE BARS IN           SOHO, UNTIL, WE FADE TO:                                   6 EXT. PICCADILLY STREETS. DAY. 6           A sharp contrast with the hazy beauty of the countryside.           Itis early morning in the heart of London's West End. The           streets hum with activity as OFFICE WORKERS in hats and           raincoats stream from the tube stations.           COLIN pushes his way through the earlymorning crowds in           Piccadilly. This is his patch; he is very much at home           here, negotiating the busy streets with ease. As he passes           by the upmarket Burlington Arcade a TAILOR pausesin           measuring a suit for a client to give him a familiar wave.           COLIN waves back.                          CUT TO:                                   7 EXT. 144 PICCADILLY. LONDON. DAY.7           Checking his watch he runs the last few yards then stops           outside the imposing facade of 144 Piccadilly. A plaque           outside the door announces: LAURENCE OLIVIERPRODUCTIONS.           Colin fingers his carefully knotted tie to make sure           everything is correctly in place, then goes to the door and           rings the bell.                          CUT TO:           MY WEEKWITH MARILYN 4.                                   8 INT. 144 PICCADILLY. RECEPTION AREA. DAY. 8           The reception area is luxurious - deep pile carpets and           plush sofas. VANESSA, the beautifulsecretary, sits behind           her imposing desk, gazing doubtfully at COLIN.                          VANESSA           You're not in Mr. Perceval's           diary.                          COLIN           Larry told meto come.           She pauses dubiously, then reaches for her telephone. We           hear a man answer in an office down the hall, his voice           carryingirritably.                          PERCEVAL                          (OFF)           Yes?                          VANESSA           I have a Mr. Colin Clark here. He           says Sir Laurence sent him.           Shestresses the proper name in disapproval of Colin's           familiarity.                          PERCEVAL                          (OFF)           Oh, God... not another one of           Vivien's prettyboys.           VANESSA looks at COLIN with amusement. His smile falters as           he feels himself coming down to earth with a bump.                          CUT TO:                                   9 INT. 144PICCADILLY. HUGH PERCEVAL'S OFFICE. DAY. 9           HUGH PERCEVAL (40s) is Laurence Olivier's production           executive. He is tall and gloomy, with black-rimmed           spectacles and thinning dark hair.He looks at COLIN grimly           as he stuffs his pipe with tobacco.                          PERCEVAL           Well, what do you want?                          COLIN           A job on your Marilyn


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                                  HITCHCOCK                                 Written by                                                      John J.McLaughlin                                                                                Based on the book Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho by                               Stephen Rebello                         FADEIN:                                   EXT. MARSHLAND - DUSK                                   We move across smoldering embers and reach a small grass          fire. Dirt is thrown over the flames before a BOOTfinishes          stamping them out.                                   SUPER: PLAINFIELD, WISCONSIN, 1944                                    HENRY GEIN (O.S.)           We're just lucky it didn't reachthe           trees...                                   We move up two dirty pairs of overalls to find HENRY and ED          GEIN sweating away as they continue shovelling out the          flames. Both are in their forties and wearingflannel shirts.          Ed wears an Elmer Fudd hat.                                    HENRY GEIN (CONT'D)           There's gonna be a lot more jobs at that           factory by Milwaukee come June. I could           put in aword.                                                   ED GEIN           You can't leave us, Henry. She needs both                          OF US--                                                   HENRY GEIN           Canyou stop being a momma's boy for one           second?                                   Henry looks at Ed and he shrinks back.                                    HENRY GEIN (CONT'D)           I'm not trying to hurt you butJesus you           got to live your own life someday. That           woman can take care of her own goddamn --                                   CLANG. Henry is hit by the shovel in the back of the head and          goesdown.                                   Ed steps slowly forward and puts down the shovel. The look on          his face isn't anger. It's BLANK. He pulls at the flaps of          his Elmer Fudd hat... then calmly walksaway.                                   The camera pans until we discover :                                                  ALFRED HITCHCOCK                                   in his trademark black Mariani suit. He's been watchingthe          whole thing, standing in the smouldering field only a few          feet away, holding a rose-patterned cup and saucer oftea...                                                                            (CONTINUED)                         CONTINUED:                                                            He takes a sip and turns to address the camera--                                                   ALFRED HITCHCOCK           Good evening.                                   He places his cup daintily back on the saucer.                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK(CONT'D)           Brother has been slaying brother since           Cain and Abel, yet even I did not see           that coming. I was as blind-sided as poor           Henry over there.                                   He glancesback over at the murder scene.                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK (CONT'D)           Apparently the authorities shared my           naivete and believed the young man's tale           that Henry fell andhit his head on a           stone and died of smoke asphyxiation.                                   He shrugs: `Who would've thought it?'                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK (CONT'D)           Of course if theyhadn't believed him, Ed           never would have had the opportunity to           commit the heinous acts for which he           became famous... and we wouldn't have our           little movie. Instead, we'd havemore           nice, safe, predictable ones like           these...                                                   CUT TO:                                   A RAPID MONTAGE OF CLIPS                                   from variousTechnicolor Films of the era: Peyton Place, with          Lana Turner and Betty Field. Pillow Talk with Doris Day and          Rock Hudson. A Summer Place with Sandra Dee --                                   EXT. MARSHLAND- AS BEFORE                                                   ALFRED HITCHCOCK           Mere Technicolor baubles.                                   He shudders with distaste. As if on cue the sky THUNDERS          LOUDLYabove him. He looks up and from behind the tree stump          produces an umbrella.                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK (CONT'D)           Ah. A bit of doom and gloom. Now, that's           more likeit.                                                                                (CONTINUED)                         CONTINUED:                                                            As Hitch opens his brolly and the RAINstarts to bucket down                         WE --                                                   CUT TO :                                   EXT. MARQUEE OF UNITED ARTISTS THEATER, CHICAGO -NIGHT                                   Equally torrential rain lit up by rotating KLEIG LIGHTS as          they scan a MARQUEE: "WORLD PREMIERE! NORTH BY NORTHWEST.          DIRECTED BY ALFRED HITCHCOCK."JOSTLING CROWDS run the length          of the block.                                   SUPER: JULY 8, 1959.                                   A PUDGY HAND discreetly squeezes a tiny, delicateone.                                   ALFRED AND ALMA HITCHCOCK                                   Step out into a sea of FLASHBULBS. Hitch basks in the          limelight while Alma, his razor-sharp, charming wife ofover          30 years stands in the background, uncomfortable with all the          attention.                                   Hitchcock's agent LEW WASSERMAN, 45, dynamic, charismatic,          comes intoview.                                                   LEW WASSERMAN           This thing is going to be gigantic. I           wish I had twenty percent of the take.                                   Lew hustles them through the throngof REPORTERS and          PHOTOGRAPHERS under their BLACK UMBRELLAS.                                                   REPORTER ONE           Does tonight's incredible reaction           surprise you, Mr.Hitchcock?                                                   ALFRED HITCHCOCK           No, when I was planning North by           Northwest I could already hear the           screams and laughter.           (then, to aBEAUTIFUL                          BLONDE FAN)           Any questions, my dear?                                   The blonde fan, holding out her autograph book, shakes her          head `no' andgiggles.                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK (CONT'D)           Apity.                                                                                (CONTINUED)                         CONTINUED:                                                            The reporters crackup. Alma manages a polite smile as Lew          helps her into the limo, leaving Hitchcock alone for a moment          to sign his autograph for the blond fan...                                                   REPORTERTWO           Mr. Hitchcock, you've directed forty-six           motion pictures. You host a hit TV show           seen around the world. You're the most           famous director in the history of the           medium... butyou're sixty years old.           Shouldn't you just quit while you're           ahead?                                   HOLDING ON HITCHCOCK                                   motionless and quietly devastated as FLASHBULBSCRACKLE over          his face. The whiteness transforms into...                                   INT. THE HITCHCOCKS' BEL AIR HOME - BATHROOM - MORNING                                   THE GLEAMING WHITE TILES ofa bathroom. We move past chrome          fixtures that evoke those in Spellbound and Psycho and arrive          at that same pudgy hand pouring CHATEAU CHEVAL BLANC '53 into          a cut crystalglass.                                                  HITCHCOCK                                   soaks in the tub. The champagne glass beside him, his          corpulent frame is covered only by the London Timeshe's          reading. Even in this deeply vulnerable state, he maintains          the air of a haughty mischievous emperor.                                   At the sound of a bedroom bureau being opened, Hitch's eyes          shiftto the FULL-LENGTH MIRROR on the bathroom door.                                   IN THE MIRROR                                   We catch fleeting glimpses of Alma in a white half-slip and          matching bra. She takesout some NYLONS and holds them up to          the light.                                   Hitchcock watches enthralled. He puts down his glass and          shifts a little in the tub, causing the water to lap against          thesides.                                   BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS                                   Alma pauses when she hears the small splashes. Neither upset          nor amused she continues about her business, taking askirt          from the drawer.                                                                                (CONTINUED)                         CONTINUED:                                                                            ALMA           Muhammad had the eyes of peeping Toms           gouged out with arrows.                                   Hitchcock clears his throat, rattling his paper as if he'd          been reading thewhole time.                                                   ALFRED HITCHCOCK           Talking of arrows, did you read Mr.           Weiler's review in the New York Times?           Apparently, he found "the climax" to be--           and I quote -- "overdrawn."                                                   ALMA           I doubt whether Mr. Weiler has had a           climax in years.                                   Alma steps into her skirt as Hitchopens the London Times.                                                   ALFRED HITCHCOCK           And how about this little grenade?                          (READING)           North by Northwest reminds usof           Hitchcock's earlier, more youthfully           inventive spy thrillers."                          (BEAT)           And just to drive the nail into the           coffin, there's a handy accompanying           guide to thenew masters of suspense.                                   Hitchcock zeroes in on the photographs. They're all young.          Thinner. And with hair.                                    ALFRED HITCHCOCK (CONT'D)           Whydo they keep looking for new masters           of suspense when they still have the           original?                                                   ALMA           Don't be maudlin, you know how much it           aggravatesme.                                   He catches his reflection in the mirror again and sinks          further down into the water to hide his protruding belly.                                   Alma comes in, takes the newspapers from himand puts them on          the side.                                                   ALMA (CONT'D)           Stop reading them. You've been reading           them for a week now.                                   She puts down theTOILET SEAT and sits on it.                                                                            (CONTINUED)                         CONTINUED: (2)                                                                            ALFRED


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Age of Innocence, by Edith WhartonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Age of InnocenceAuthor: Edith WhartonPosting Date: August 12, 2008 [EBook #541]Release Date:May, 1996Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AGE OF INNOCENCE ***Produced by Judith Boss and Charles Keller.  HTML version by Al Haines.The Age of InnocencebyEdithWhartonJTABLE 6 18 1JTABLE 6 16 19Book II.On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson wassinging in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York.Though there was already talk of the erection, inremote metropolitandistances "above the Forties," of a new Opera House which shouldcompete in costliness and splendour with those of the great Europeancapitals, the world of fashion was still content to reassembleeverywinter in the shabby red and gold boxes of the sociable old Academy.Conservatives cherished it for being small and inconvenient, and thuskeeping out the "new people" whom New York was beginning to dreadandyet be drawn to; and the sentimental clung to it for its historicassociations, and the musical for its excellent acoustics, always soproblematic a quality in halls built for the hearing of music.It was Madame Nilsson'sfirst appearance that winter, and what thedaily press had already learned to describe as "an exceptionallybrilliant audience" had gathered to hear her, transported through theslippery, snowy streets in privatebroughams, in the spacious familylandau, or in the humbler but more convenient "Brown coupe." To come tothe Opera in a Brown coupe was almost as honourable a way of arrivingas in one's own carriage; anddeparture by the same means had theimmense advantage of enabling one (with a playful allusion todemocratic principles) to scramble into the first Brown conveyance inthe line, instead of waiting till the cold-and-gincongested nose ofone's own coachman gleamed under the portico of the Academy.  It wasone of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to havediscovered that Americans want to get away fromamusement even morequickly than they want to get to it.When Newland Archer opened the door at the back of the club box thecurtain had just gone up on the garden scene.  There was no reason whythe young manshould not have come earlier, for he had dined at seven,alone with his mother and sister, and had lingered afterward over acigar in the Gothic library with glazed black-walnut bookcases andfinial-topped chairs whichwas the only room in the house where Mrs.Archer allowed smoking.  But, in the first place, New York was ametropolis, and perfectly aware that in metropolises it was "not thething" to arrive early at the opera; and whatwas or was not "thething" played a part as important in Newland Archer's New York as theinscrutable totem terrors that had ruled the destinies of hisforefathers thousands of years ago.The second reason for his delaywas a personal one.  He had dawdledover his cigar because he was at heart a dilettante, and thinking overa pleasure to come often gave him a subtler satisfaction than itsrealisation.  This was especially the case whenthe pleasure was adelicate one, as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occasion themoment he looked forward to was so rare and exquisite in qualitythat--well, if he had timed his arrival in accord with theprimadonna's stage-manager he could not have entered the Academy at a moresignificant moment than just as she was singing:  "He loves me--heloves me not--HE LOVES ME!--" and sprinkling the falling daisypetalswith notes as clear as dew.She sang, of course, "M'ama!" and not "he loves me," since anunalterable and unquestioned law of the musical world required that theGerman text of French operas sung by Swedishartists should betranslated into Italian for the clearer understanding ofEnglish-speaking audiences.  This seemed as natural to Newland Archeras all the other conventions on which his life was moulded: such as thedutyof using two silver-backed brushes with his monogram in blueenamel to part his hair, and of never appearing in society without aflower (preferably a gardenia) in his buttonhole."M'ama ... non m'ama ..." the primadonna sang, and "M'ama!", with afinal burst of love triumphant, as she pressed the dishevelled daisy toher lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisticated countenance ofthe little brown Faust-Capoul, who was vainlytrying, in a tight purplevelvet doublet and plumed cap, to look as pure and true as his artlessvictim.Newland Archer, leaning against the wall at the back of the club box,turned his eyes from the stage and scanned theopposite side of thehouse.  Directly facing him was the box of old Mrs. Manson Mingott,whose monstrous obesity had long since made it impossible for her toattend the Opera, but who was always represented onfashionable nightsby some of the younger members of the family.  On this occasion, thefront of the box was filled by her daughter-in-law, Mrs. LovellMingott, and her daughter, Mrs. Welland; and slightly withdrawnbehindthese brocaded matrons sat a young girl in white with eyes ecstaticallyfixed on the stagelovers.  As Madame Nilsson's "M'ama!" thrilled outabove the silent house (the boxes always stopped talking duringtheDaisy Song) a warm pink mounted to the girl's cheek, mantled her browto the roots of her fair braids, and suffused the young slope of herbreast to the line where it met a modest tulle tucker fastened with asinglegardenia.  She dropped her eyes to the immense bouquet oflilies-of-the-valley on her knee, and Newland Archer saw herwhite-gloved finger-tips touch the flowers softly.  He drew a breath ofsatisfied vanity and his eyesreturned to the stage.No expense had been spared on the setting, which was acknowledged to bevery beautiful even by people who shared his acquaintance with theOpera houses of Paris and Vienna.  The foreground,to the footlights,was covered with emerald green cloth.  In the middle distancesymmetrical mounds of woolly green moss bounded by croquet hoops formedthe base of shrubs shaped like orange-trees but studded withlarge pinkand red roses.  Gigantic pansies, considerably larger than the roses,and closely resembling the floral pen-wipers made by femaleparishioners for fashionable clergymen, sprang from the moss beneaththerose-trees; and here and there a daisy grafted on a rose-branchflowered with a luxuriance prophetic of Mr. Luther Burbank's far-offprodigies.In the centre of this enchanted garden Madame Nilsson, in whitecashmereslashed with pale blue satin, a reticule dangling from a bluegirdle, and large yellow braids carefully disposed on each side of hermuslin chemisette, listened with downcast eyes to M. Capoul'simpassioned wooing, andaffected a guileless incomprehension of hisdesigns whenever, by word or glance, he persuasively indicated theground floor window of the neat brick villa projecting obliquely fromthe right wing."The darling!" thoughtNewland Archer, his glance flitting back to theyoung girl with the lilies-of-the-valley.  "She doesn't even guess whatit's all about." And he contemplated her absorbed young face with athrill of possessorship in whichpride in his own masculine initiationwas mingled with a tender reverence for her abysmal purity.  "We'llread Faust together ... by the Italian lakes ..." he thought, somewhathazily confusing the scene of his projectedhoney-moon with themasterpieces of literature which it would be his manly privilege toreveal to his bride.  It was only that afternoon that May Welland hadlet him guess that she "cared" (New York's consecrated phraseof maidenavowal), and already his imagination, leaping ahead of the engagementring, the betrothal kiss and the march from Lohengrin, pictured her athis side in some scene of old European witchery.He did not in theleast wish the future Mrs. Newland Archer to be asimpleton.  He meant her (thanks to his enlightening companionship) todevelop a social tact and readiness of wit enabling her to hold her ownwith the most popularmarried women of the "younger set," in which itwas the recognised custom to attract masculine homage while playfullydiscouraging it.  If he had probed to the bottom of his vanity (as hesometimes nearly did) he wouldhave found there the wish that his wifeshould be as worldly-wise and as eager to please as the married ladywhose charms had held his fancy through two mildly agitated years;without, of course, any hint of the frailtywhich had so nearly marredthat unhappy being's life, and had disarranged his own plans for awhole winter.How this miracle of fire and ice was to be created, and to sustainitself in a harsh world, he had never taken thetime to think out; buthe was content to hold his view without analysing it, since he knew itwas that of all the carefully-brushed, white-waistcoated,button-hole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each other in theclubbox, exchanged friendly greetings with him, and turned theiropera-glasses critically on the circle of ladies who were the productof the system.  In matters intellectual and artistic Newland Archerfelt himself distinctlythe superior of these chosen specimens of oldNew York gentility; he had probably read more, thought more, and evenseen a good deal more of the world, than any other man of the number.Singly they betrayed theirinferiority; but grouped together theyrepresented "New York," and the habit of masculine solidarity made himaccept their doctrine on all the issues called moral.  He instinctivelyfelt that in this respect it would betroublesome--and also rather badform--to strike out for himself."Well--upon my soul!" exclaimed Lawrence Lefferts, turning hisopera-glass abruptly away from the stage.  Lawrence Lefferts was, onthe whole, theforemost authority on "form" in New York.  He hadprobably devoted more time than any one else to the study of thisintricate and fascinating question; but study alone could not accountfor his complete and easycompetence.  One had only to look at him,from the slant of his bald forehead and the curve of his beautiful fairmoustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his leanand elegant person, to feel that theknowledge of "form" must becongenital in any one who knew how to wear such good clothes socarelessly and carry such height with so much lounging grace.  As ayoung admirer had once said of him:  "If anybody cantell a fellow justwhen to wear a black tie with evening clothes and when not to, it'sLarry Lefferts."  And on the question of pumps versus patent-leather"Oxfords" his authority had never been disputed."My God!" he said;and silently handed his glass to old SillertonJackson.Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance, saw with surprise that hisexclamation had been occasioned by the entry of a new figure into oldMrs. Mingott's box.  It wasthat of a slim young woman, a little lesstall than May Welland, with brown hair growing in close curls about hertemples and held in place by a narrow band of diamonds.  The suggestionof this headdress, which gave herwhat was then called a "Josephinelook," was carried out in the cut of the dark blue velvet gown rathertheatrically caught up under her bosom by a girdle with a largeold-fashioned clasp.  The wearer of this unusualdress, who seemedquite unconscious of the attention it was attracting, stood a moment inthe centre of the box, discussing with Mrs. Welland the propriety oftaking the latter's place in the front right-hand corner; thensheyielded with a slight smile, and seated herself in line with Mrs.Welland's sister-in-law, Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who was installed in theopposite corner.Mr. Sillerton Jackson had returned the opera-glass toLawrenceLefferts.  The whole of the club turned instinctively, waiting to hearwhat the old man had to say; for old Mr. Jackson was as great anauthority on "family" as Lawrence Lefferts was on "form."  He knew alltheramifications of New York's cousinships; and could not onlyelucidate such complicated questions as that of the connection betweenthe Mingotts (through the Thorleys) with the Dallases of SouthCarolina, and that of therelationship of the elder branch ofPhiladelphia Thorleys to the Albany Chiverses (on no account to beconfused with the Manson Chiverses of University Place), but could alsoenumerate the leading characteristics of eachfamily: as, for instance,the fabulous stinginess of the younger lines of Leffertses (the LongIsland ones); or the fatal tendency of the Rushworths to make foolishmatches; or the insanity recurring in every secondgeneration of theAlbany Chiverses, with whom their New York cousins had always refusedto intermarry--with the disastrous exception of poor Medora Manson,who, as everybody knew ... but then her mother was aRushworth.In addition to this forest of family trees, Mr. Sillerton Jacksoncarried between his narrow hollow temples, and under his soft thatch ofsilver hair, a register of most of the scandals and mysteries thathadsmouldered under the unruffled surface of New York society within thelast fifty years.  So far indeed did his information extend, and soacutely retentive was his memory, that he was supposed to be the onlyman whocould have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, reallywas, and what had become of handsome Bob Spicer, old Mrs. MansonMingott's father, who had disappeared so mysteriously (with a large sumof trust money)less than a year after his marriage, on the very daythat a beautiful Spanish dancer who had been delighting throngedaudiences in the old Opera-house on the Battery had taken ship forCuba.  But these mysteries, andmany others, were closely locked in Mr.Jackson's breast; for not only did his keen sense of honour forbid hisrepeating anything privately imparted, but he was fully aware that hisreputation for discretion increased hisopportunities of finding outwhat he wanted to know.The club box, therefore, waited in visible suspense while Mr. SillertonJackson handed back Lawrence Lefferts's opera-glass.  For a moment hesilently scrutinised theattentive group out of his filmy blue eyesoverhung by old veined lids; then he gave his moustache a thoughtfultwist, and said simply:  "I didn't think the Mingotts would have triedit on."II.Newland Archer, during thisbrief episode, had been thrown into astrange state of embarrassment.It was annoying that the box which was thus attracting the undividedattention of masculine New York should be that in which his betrothedwasseated between her mother and aunt; and for a moment he could notidentify the lady in the Empire dress, nor imagine why her presencecreated such excitement among the initiated.  Then light dawned on him,andwith it came a momentary rush of indignation.  No, indeed; no onewould have thought the Mingotts would have tried it on!But they had; they undoubtedly had; for the low-toned comments behindhim left no doubt inArcher's mind that the young woman was MayWelland's cousin, the cousin always referred to in the family as "poorEllen Olenska."  Archer knew that she had suddenly arrived from Europea day or two previously; hehad even heard from Miss Welland (notdisapprovingly) that she had been to see poor Ellen, who was stayingwith old Mrs. Mingott.  Archer entirely approved of family solidarity,and one of the qualities he most admiredin the Mingotts was theirresolute championship of the few black sheep that their blameless stockhad produced.  There was nothing mean or ungenerous in the young man'sheart, and he was glad that his future wifeshould not be restrained byfalse prudery from being kind (in private) to her unhappy cousin; butto receive Countess Olenska in the family circle was a different thingfrom producing her in public, at the Opera of allplaces, and in thevery box with the young girl whose engagement to him, Newland Archer,was to be announced within a few weeks.  No, he felt as old SillertonJackson felt; he did not think the Mingotts would have triedit on!He knew, of course, that whatever man dared (within Fifth Avenue'slimits) that old Mrs. Manson Mingott, the Matriarch of the line, woulddare.  He had always admired the high and mighty old lady, who, inspite ofhaving been only Catherine Spicer of Staten Island, with afather mysteriously discredited, and neither money nor position enoughto make people forget it, had allied herself with the head of thewealthy Mingott line,married two of her daughters to "foreigners" (anItalian marquis and an English banker), and put the crowning touch toher audacities by building a large house of pale cream-coloured stone(when brown sandstoneseemed as much the only wear as a frock-coat inthe afternoon) in an inaccessible wilderness near the Central Park.Old Mrs. Mingott's foreign daughters had become a legend.  They nevercame back to see their mother,and the latter being, like many personsof active mind and dominating will, sedentary and corpulent in herhabit, had philosophically remained at home.  But the cream-colouredhouse (supposed to be modelled on theprivate hotels of the Parisianaristocracy) was there as a visible proof of her moral courage; and shethroned in it, among pre-Revolutionary furniture and souvenirs of theTuileries of Louis Napoleon (where she had shonein her middle age), asplacidly as if there were nothing peculiar in living aboveThirty-fourth Street, or in having French windows that opened likedoors instead of sashes that pushed up.Every one (including Mr. SillertonJackson) was agreed that oldCatherine had never had beauty--a gift which, in the eyes of New York,justified every success, and excused a certain number of failings.Unkind people said that, like her Imperial namesake,she had won herway to success by strength of will and hardness of heart, and a kind ofhaughty effrontery that was somehow justified by the extreme decencyand dignity of her private life.  Mr. Manson Mingott had diedwhen shewas only twenty-eight, and had "tied up" the money with an additionalcaution born of the general distrust of the Spicers; but his bold youngwidow went her way fearlessly, mingled freely in foreignsociety,married her daughters in heaven knew what corrupt and fashionablecircles, hobnobbed with Dukes and Ambassadors, associated familiarlywith Papists, entertained Opera singers, and was the intimate friendofMme. Taglioni; and all the while (as Sillerton Jackson was the first toproclaim) there had never been a breath on her reputation; the onlyrespect, he always added, in which she differed from the earlierCatherine.Mrs.Manson Mingott had long since succeeded in untying her husband'sfortune, and had lived in affluence for half a century; but memories ofher early straits had made her excessively thrifty, and though, whenshe bought adress or a piece of furniture, she took care that itshould be of the best, she could not bring herself to spend much on thetransient pleasures of the table.  Therefore, for totally differentreasons, her food was as poor asMrs. Archer's, and her wines didnothing to redeem it.  Her relatives considered that the penury of hertable discredited the Mingott name, which had always been associatedwith good living; but people continued to cometo her in spite of the"made dishes" and flat champagne, and in reply to the remonstrances ofher son Lovell (who tried to retrieve the family credit by having thebest chef in New York) she used to saylaughingly:  "What's the use oftwo good cooks in one family, now that I've married the girls and can'teat sauces?"Newland Archer, as he mused on these things, had once more turned hiseyes toward the Mingottbox.  He saw that Mrs. Welland and hersister-in-law were facing their semicircle of critics with theMingottian APLOMB which old Catherine had inculcated in all her tribe,and that only May Welland betrayed, by aheightened colour (perhaps dueto the knowledge that he was watching her) a sense of the gravity ofthe situation.  As for the cause of the commotion, she sat gracefullyin her corner of the box, her eyes fixed on thestage, and revealing,as she leaned forward, a little more shoulder and bosom than New Yorkwas accustomed to seeing, at least in ladies who had reasons forwishing to pass unnoticed.Few things seemed to NewlandArcher more awful than an offence against"Taste," that far-off divinity of whom "Form" was the mere visiblerepresentative and vicegerent.  Madame Olenska's pale and serious faceappealed to his fancy as suited to theoccasion and to her unhappysituation; but the way her dress (which had no tucker) sloped away fromher thin shoulders shocked and troubled him.  He hated to think of MayWelland's being exposed to the influence of ayoung woman so carelessof the dictates of Taste."After all," he heard one of the younger men begin behind him(everybody talked through the Mephistopheles-and-Martha scenes), "afterall, just WHAT


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Playboy of the Western World, by J. M. SyngeThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Playboy of the Western WorldAuthor: J. M. SyngePosting Date: August 27, 2008 [EBook#1240]Release Date: March, 1998Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD ***Produced by Judy BossTHE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLDACOMEDY IN THREE ACTSBy J. M. SyngePREFACEIn writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, Ihave used one or two words only that I have not heard among the countrypeople of Ireland, orspoken in my own nursery before I could read thenewspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have heard alsofrom herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to Mayo, orfrom beggar-women andballad-singers nearer Dublin; and I am glad toacknowledge how much I owe to the folk imagination of these fine people.Anyone who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish peasantry willknow that the wildest sayingsand ideas in this play are tame indeed,compared with the fancies one may hear in any little hillside cabin inGeesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a collaboration; andthere is little doubt that in the happy ages ofliterature, strikingand beautiful phrases were as ready to the story-teller's or theplaywright's hand, as the rich cloaks and dresses of his time. It isprobable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took his ink-horn andsatdown to his work he used many phrases that he had just heard, as he satat dinner, from his mother or his children. In Ireland, those of us whoknow the people have the same privilege. When I was writing "TheShadowof the Glen," some years ago, I got more aid than any learning couldhave given me from a chink in the floor of the old Wicklow house whereI was staying, that let me hear what was being said by the servantgirlsin the kitchen. This matter, I think, is of importance, for in countrieswhere the imagination of the people, and the language they use, is richand living, it is possible for a writer to be rich and copious in hiswords, andat the same time to give the reality, which is the rootof all poetry, in a comprehensive and natural form. In the modernliterature of towns, however, richness is found only in sonnets, orprose poems, or in one or twoelaborate books that are far away from theprofound and common interests of life. One has, on one side, Mallarmeand Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zoladealing with the reality of lifein joyless and pallid words. On thestage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why theintellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of thefalse joy of the musical comedy, thathas been given them in place ofthe rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a goodplay every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, andsuch speeches cannot be written by anyone whoworks among people whohave shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, wehave a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; sothat those of us who wish to write start with a chancethat is not givento writers in places where the springtime of the local life has beenforgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has beenturned into bricks. J. M. S. January 21st,1907.PERSONS     CHRISTOPHER MAHON.     OLD MAHON, his father, a squatter.     MICHAEL JAMES FLAHERTY (called MICHAEL JAMES), a publican.     MARGARET FLAHERTY (called PEGEEN MIKE), hisdaughter.     WIDOW QUIN, a woman of about thirty.     SHAWN KEOUGH, her cousin, a young farmer.     PHILLY CULLEN AND JIMMY FARRELL, small farmers.     SARA TANSEY, SUSAN BRADY, AND HONOR BLAKE,village girls.     A BELLMAN.     SOME PEASANTS.The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. Thefirst Act passes on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on thefollowing day.THE PLAYBOY OF THEWESTERN WORLDACT I.SCENE: [Country public-house or shebeen, very rough and untidy. Thereis a sort of counter on the right with shelves, holding many bottles andjugs, just seen above it. Empty barrels stand nearthe counter. At back,a little to left of counter, there is a door into the open air, then,more to the left, there is a settle with shelves above it, with morejugs, and a table beneath a window. At the left there is a largeopenfire-place, with turf fire, and a small door into inner room. Pegeen, awild looking but fine girl, of about twenty, is writing at table. She isdressed in the usual peasant dress.]PEGEEN -- [slowly as she writes.] -- Sixyards of stuff for to make ayellow gown. A pair of lace boots with lengthy heels on them and brassyeyes. A hat is suited for a wedding-day. A fine tooth comb. To besent with three barrels of porter in Jimmy Farrell'screel cart on theevening of the coming Fair to Mister Michael James Flaherty. With thebest compliments of this season. Margaret Flaherty.SHAWN KEOGH -- [a fat and fair young man comes in as she signs, looksroundawkwardly, when he sees she is alone.] -- Where's himself?PEGEEN -- [without looking at him.] -- He's coming. (She directs theletter.) To Mister Sheamus Mulroy, Wine and Spirit Dealer, Castlebar.SHAWN --[uneasily.] -- I didn't see him on the road.PEGEEN. How would you see him (licks stamp and puts it on letter) and itdark night this half hour gone by?SHAWN -- [turning towards the door again.] -- I stood a whileoutsidewondering would I have a right to pass on or to walk in and see you,Pegeen Mike (comes to fire), and I could hear the cows breathing, andsighing in the stillness of the air, and not a step moving any placefromthis gate to the bridge.PEGEEN -- [putting letter in envelope.] -- It's above at the cross-roadshe is, meeting Philly Cullen; and a couple more are going along with himto Kate Cassidy's wake.SHAWN -- [looking at herblankly.] -- And he's going that length in thedark night?PEGEEN -- [impatiently.] He is surely, and leaving me lonesome on thescruff of the hill. (She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, thenwinds clock.) Isn't it longthe nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to beleaving a poor girl with her own self counting the hours to the dawn ofday?SHAWN -- [with awkward humour.] -- If it is, when we're wedded in ashort while you'll have no call tocomplain, for I've little will to bewalking off to wakes or weddings in the darkness of the night.PEGEEN -- [with rather scornful good humour.] -- You're making mightycertain, Shaneen, that I'll wed you now.SHAWN.Aren't we after making a good bargain, the way we're only waitingthese days on Father Reilly's dispensation from the bishops, or theCourt of Rome.PEGEEN -- [looking at him teasingly, washing up at dresser.] -- It'sawonder, Shaneen, the Holy Father'd be taking notice of the likes of you;for if I was him I wouldn't bother with this place where you'll meetnone but Red Linahan, has a squint in his eye, and Patcheen is lame inhis heel,or the mad Mulrannies were driven from California and theylost in their wits. We're a queer lot these times to go troubling theHoly Father on his sacred seat.SHAWN -- [scandalized.] If we are, we're as good this placeas another,maybe, and as good these times as we were for ever.PEGEEN -- [with scorn.] -- As good, is it? Where now will you meet thelike of Daneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin,God resthim, got six months for maiming ewes, and he a great warrant totell stories of holy Ireland till he'd have the old women sheddingdown tears about their feet. Where will you find the like of them, I'msaying?SHAWN --[timidly.] If you don't it's a good job, maybe; for (withpeculiar emphasis on the words) Father Reilly has small conceit to havethat kind walking around and talking to the girls.PEGEEN -- [impatiently, throwing waterfrom basin out of the door.] --Stop tormenting me with Father Reilly (imitating his voice) when I'masking only what way I'll pass these twelve hours of dark, and not takemy death with the fear. [Looking out ofdoor.]SHAWN -- [timidly.] Would I fetch you the widow Quin, maybe?PEGEEN. Is it the like of that murderer? You'll not, surely.SHAWN -- [going to her, soothingly.] -- Then I'm thinking himself willstop along with youwhen he sees you taking on, for it'll be a longnight-time with great darkness, and I'm after feeling a kind of fellowabove in the furzy ditch, groaning wicked like a maddening dog, the wayit's good cause you have,maybe, to be fearing now.PEGEEN -- [turning on him sharply.] -- What's that? Is it a man youseen?SHAWN -- [retreating.] I couldn't see him at all; but I heard himgroaning out, and breaking his heart. It should havebeen a young manfrom his words speaking.PEGEEN -- [going after him.] -- And you never went near to see was hehurted or what ailed him at all?SHAWN. I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place tobehearing the like of him.PEGEEN. Well, you're a daring fellow, and if they find his corpsestretched above in the dews of dawn, what'll you say then to thepeelers, or the Justice of the Peace?SHAWN -- [thunderstruck.] Iwasn't thinking of that. For the love ofGod, Pegeen Mike, don't let on I was speaking of him. Don't tell yourfather and the men is coming above; for if they heard that story, they'dhave great blabbing this night at thewake.PEGEEN. I'll maybe tell them, and I'll maybe not.SHAWN. They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I'm saying?PEGEEN. Whisht yourself.[She goes behind counter. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comesinfollowed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and JimmyFarrell, who is fat and amorous, about forty-five.]MEN -- [together.] -- God bless you. The blessing of God on this place.PEGEEN. God bless youkindly.MICHAEL -- [to men who go to the counter.] -- Sit down now, and takeyour rest. (Crosses to Shawn at the fire.) And how is it you are, ShawnKeogh? Are you coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy'swake?SHAWN. I am not, Michael James. I'm going home the short cut to my bed.PEGEEN -- [speaking across the counter.] -- He's right too, and haveyou no shame, Michael James, to be quitting off for the whole night,andleaving myself lonesome in the shop?MICHAEL -- [good-humouredly.] Isn't it the same whether I go for thewhole night or a part only? and I'm thinking it's a queer daughter youare if you'd have me crossingbackward through the Stooks of the DeadWomen, with a drop taken.PEGEEN. If I am a queer daughter, it's a queer father'd be leaving melonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogsbarking,and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear.JIMMY -- [flatteringly.] -- What is there to hurt you, and you a fine,hardy girl would knock the head of any two men in the place?PEGEEN -- [workingherself up.] -- Isn't there the harvest boys withtheir tongues red for drink, and the ten tinkers is camped in the eastglen, and the thousand militia -- bad cess to them! -- walking idlethrough the land. There's lots surelyto hurt me, and I won't stop alonein it, let himself do what he will.MICHAEL. If you're that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you.It's the will of God, I'm thinking, himself should be seeing to you now.[They allturn on Shawn.]SHAWN -- [in horrified confusion.] -- I would and welcome, MichaelJames, but I'm afeard of Father Reilly; and what at all would the HolyFather and the Cardinals of Rome be saying if they heard I didthe likeof that?MICHAEL -- [with contempt.] -- God help you! Can't you sit in by thehearth with the light lit and herself beyond in the room? You'll do thatsurely, for I've heard tell there's a queer fellow above, going madorgetting his death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she'd be saferthis night with a person here.SHAWN -- [with plaintive despair.] -- I'm afeard of Father Reilly, I'msaying. Let you not be tempting me, and we nearmarried itself.PHILLY -- [with cold contempt.] -- Lock him in the west room. He'll staythen and have no sin to be telling to the priest.MICHAEL -- [to Shawn, getting between him and the door.] -- Go up now.SHAWN --[at the top of his voice.] -- Don't stop me, Michael James. Letme out of the door, I'm saying, for the love of the Almighty God. Let meout (trying to dodge past him). Let me out of it, and may God grant youHisindulgence in the hour of need.MICHAEL -- [loudly.] Stop your noising, and sit down by the hearth.[Gives him a push and goes to counter laughing.]SHAWN -- [turning back, wringing his hands.] -- Oh, Father Reillyandthe saints of God, where will I hide myself to-day? Oh, St. Joseph andSt. Patrick and St. Brigid, and St. James, have mercy on me now! [Shawnturns round, sees door clear, and makes a rush for it.]MICHAEL --[catching him by the coattail.] -- You'd be going, is it?SHAWN -- [screaming.] Leave me go, Michael James, leave me go, you oldPagan, leave me go, or I'll get the curse of the priests on you, andof the scarlet-coatedbishops of the courts of Rome. [With a suddenmovement he pulls himself out of his coat, and disappears out of thedoor, leaving his coat in Michael's hands.]MICHAEL -- [turning round, and holding up coat.] -- Well,there's thecoat of a Christian man. Oh, there's sainted glory this day in thelonesome west; and by the will of God I've got you a decent man, Pegeen,you'll have no call to be spying after if you've a score of younggirls,maybe, weeding in your fields.PEGEEN [taking up the defence of her property.] -- What right have youto be making game of a poor fellow for minding the priest, when it'syour own the fault is, not paying a pennypot-boy to stand along withme and give me courage in the doing of my work? [She snaps the coat awayfrom him, and goes behind counter with it.]MICHAEL -- [taken aback.] -- Where would I get a pot-boy? Would youhaveme send the bell-man screaming in the streets of Castlebar?SHAWN -- [opening the door a chink and putting in his head, in a smallvoice.] -- Michael James!MICHAEL -- [imitating him.] -- What ails you?SHAWN.The queer dying fellow's beyond looking over the ditch. He's comeup, I'm thinking, stealing your hens. (Looks over his shoulder.) Godhelp me, he's following me now (he runs into room), and if he's heardwhat I said,he'll be having my life, and I going home lonesome in thedarkness of the night. [For a perceptible moment they watch the doorwith curiosity. Some one coughs outside. Then Christy Mahon, a slightyoung man, comes invery tired and frightened and dirty.]CHRISTY -- [in a small voice.] -- God save all here!MEN. God save you kindly.CHRISTY -- [going to the counter.] -- I'd trouble you for a glass ofporter, woman of the house. [He putsdown coin.]PEGEEN -- [serving him.] -- You're one of the tinkers, young fellow, isbeyond camped in the glen?CHRISTY. I am not; but I'm destroyed walking.MICHAEL -- [patronizingly.] Let you come up then to the fire.You'relooking famished with the cold.CHRISTY. God reward you. (He takes up his glass and goes a little wayacross to the left, then stops and looks about him.) Is it often thepolice do be coming into this place, master ofthe house?MICHAEL. If you'd come in better hours, you'd have seen "Licensed forthe sale of Beer and Spirits, to be consumed on the premises," writtenin white letters above the door, and what would the polis wantspyingon me, and not a decent house within four miles, the way every livingChristian is a bona fide, saving one widow alone?CHRISTY -- [with relief.] -- It's a safe house, so. [He goes over to thefire, sighing andmoaning. Then he sits down, putting his glass besidehim and begins gnawing a turnip, too miserable to feel the othersstaring at him with curiosity.]MICHAEL -- [going after him.] -- Is it yourself fearing the polis?You'rewanting, maybe?CHRISTY. There's many wanting.MICHAEL. Many surely, with the broken harvest and the ended wars. (Hepicks up some stockings, etc., that are near the fire, and carries themaway furtively.) It shouldbe larceny, I'm thinking?CHRISTY -- [dolefully.] I had it in my mind it was a different word anda bigger.PEGEEN. There's a queer lad. Were you never slapped in school, youngfellow, that you don't know the name ofyour deed?CHRISTY -- [bashfully.] I'm slow at learning, a middling scholar only.MICHAEL. If you're a dunce itself, you'd have a right to know thatlarceny's robbing and stealing. Is it for the like of thatyou'rewanting?CHRISTY -- [with a flash of family pride.] -- And I the son of a strongfarmer (with a sudden qualm), God rest his soul, could have boughtup the whole of your old house a while since, from the butt ofhistailpocket, and not have missed the weight of it gone.MICHAEL -- [impressed.] If it's not stealing, it's maybe something big.CHRISTY -- [flattered.] Aye; it's maybe something big.JIMMY. He's a wicked-looking youngfellow. Maybe he followed after ayoung woman on a lonesome night.CHRISTY -- [shocked.] Oh, the saints forbid, mister; I was all times adecent lad.PHILLY -- [turning on Jimmy.] -- You're a silly man, Jimmy Farrell.Hesaid his father was a farmer a while since, and there's himself now ina poor state. Maybe the land was grabbed from him, and he did what anydecent man would do.MICHAEL -- [to Christy, mysteriously.] -- Was itbailiffs?CHRISTY. The divil a one.MICHAEL. Agents?CHRISTY. The divil a one.MICHAEL. Landlords?CHRISTY -- [peevishly.] Ah, not at all, I'm saying. You'd see the likeof them stories on any little paper of a Munstertown. But I'm notcalling to mind any person, gentle, simple, judge or jury, did the likeof me. [They all draw nearer with delighted curiosity.]PHILLY. Well, that lad's a puzzle--the world.JIMMY. He'd beat Dan Davies'circus, or the holy missioners makingsermons on the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly.PHILLY. Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, orshilling coins itself?CHRISTY. I did not, mister, not sixpencenor a farthing coin.JIMMY. Did you marry three wives maybe? I'm told there's a sprinklinghave done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north.CHRISTY -- [shyly.] -- I never married with one, let alone with acoupleor three.PHILLY. Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the manbeyond, was judged to be hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east,young fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the freedomof theBoers?CHRISTY. I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week.PEGEEN -- [coming from counter.] -- He's done nothing, so. (To Christy.)If you didn't commit murder or a bad, nasty thing, or false coining,orrobbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn't anything thatwould be worth your troubling for to run from now. You did nothing atall.CHRISTY -- [his feelings hurt.] -- That's an unkindly thing to be sayingto a poororphaned traveller, has a prison behind him, and hangingbefore, and hell's gap gaping below.PEGEEN [with a sign to the men to be quiet.] -- You're only saying it.You did nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn'tslit thewindpipe of a screeching sow.CHRISTY -- [offended.] You're not speaking the truth.PEGEEN -- [in mock rage.] -- Not speaking the truth, is it? Would youhave me knock the head of you with the butt of thebroom?CHRISTY -- [twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror.] -- Don'tstrike me. I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing thelike of that.PEGEEN [with blank amazement.] -- Is it killed yourfather?CHRISTY -- [subsiding.] With the help of God I did surely, and that theHoly Immaculate Mother may intercede for his soul.PHILLY -- [retreating with Jimmy.] -- There's a daring fellow.JIMMY. Oh, glory be toGod!MICHAEL -- [with great respect.] -- That was a hanging crime, misterhoney. You should have had good reason for doing the like of that.CHRISTY -- [in a very reasonable tone.] -- He was a dirty man, Godforgivehim, and he getting old and crusty, the way I couldn't put upwith him at all.PEGEEN. And you shot him dead?CHRISTY -- [shaking his head.] -- I never used weapons. I've no license,and I'm a law-fearing man.MICHAEL.It was with a hilted knife maybe? I'm told, in the big worldit's bloody knives they use.CHRISTY -- [loudly, scandalized.] -- Do you take me for a slaughter-boy?PEGEEN. You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrellhanged his dog fromthe license, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the buttof a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelersswearing it had life?CHRISTY. I did not then. I just riz theloy and let fall the edge ofit on the ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an emptysack, and never let a grunt or groan from him at all.MICHAEL -- [making a sign to Pegeen to fill Christy's glass.] --Andwhat way weren't you hanged, mister? Did you bury him then?CHRISTY -- [considering.] Aye. I buried him then. Wasn't I digging spudsin the field?MICHAEL. And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days


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                                       ZEROPHILIA                                       Written by                                      MartinCurland                                                                                Revised: March 1,2004                                                                           1.                                                  FADE IN:                    EXT. WILDERNESS -NIGHT                    Mist. Dark trees.     Dripping vines.        An ENGINE RUMBLES in the          distance.                    The full moon shimmers on a puddle.          A FROG SPLATSIN,          splashing a one man pup tent.                    INSIDE THE TENT                    LUKE's eyes pop open, disoriented, realizing he's fallen          asleep reading by flashlight. He'snineteen, still slightly          awkward and unaware he's growing handsome.                    He listens as the ENGINE RUMBLES LOUDER, closer.                    He peers out through the tent flap. Glaringhead lamps ROAR          toward him. Scrambling out of his sleeping bag, he HURLS          himself against the side of the tent, as...                    OUTSIDE                    an RV CAMPERnearly plows down the tent, skidding to a stop          in the mud.                    Stillness.                    Luke extricates himself from the tent.          He runs to the driver-          side window of theRV.                                           LUKE                       Are you all right?                    Inside, ALEXA, thirties, earthy, looks up at him bleary-eyed.          She nods'yes.'                                           LUKE (CONT'D)                       How did you even get here?       There's                       noroad.                                              ALEXA                       I'm sorry.     I'm from Utah.                                              LUKE                       It'sokay.                                           ALEXA                       Are you alone outhere?                                                                             2.                                        He nods 'yes.'    She bursts intoTEARS.                                        ALEXA (CONT'D)                    My husband. Bastard. I've been                    driving for days. I don't even                    know where I'mgoing.                                          LUKE                    Oh, wow.    I'm really sorry.                    She gathers herself, sniffling.                                        I have warmapple kringel in the                    camper. Would you like some?                                        LUKE                    Uh, what isit?                                          ALEXA                    Pastry.                              INSIDE RV CAMPER                    Luke stands at the RV's tiny kitchen counter,wolfing pastry          off a paper plate.                                        ALEXA                    So, this "Survival Quest" isyour                    vacation?                                         LUKE                    Yeah. It's my third try.     Kind a'                    lame,huh?                                        ALEXA                    No. Seven days alone in the                    wilderness?   I'd be afraid.                                        LUKE                    It's justsomething I really wanted                    to do.                    Luke notices an odd pile of stuff by the sink.                                        ALEXA                    His shoes. Fishinglures.        The                    electricdrill.                                          LUKE                    Good.                                                                                3.                                        Shesmiles, grateful, eyeing his torn t-shirt and shorts.                                        ALEXA                    You're all wet and muddy. Why                    don't I hang those up todry?                                          LUKE                    Thanks.    I'm okay.                                        ALEXA                    I'm propositioningyou.                                          LUKE                    Oh...                    Oh, wow.                    You are?                    He considers, fearful, butthrilled.                              EXT. LANGFORD UNIVERSITY - MORNING                    Students crisscross on bikes in front of the quadrangle.                    The huge roundheadlights and muscular front grill of an old          SEMI-TRUCK RUMBLES up to the curb. It's the cab only, like          the sliced-off front of a train engine.                    Luke hops down, startling his friends,KEENAN and JANINE,          passionately making out on the sidewalk.                    Twenty, brainy and athletic, Janine adjusts her glasses, the          only remnant of a bookish past, as she thoughtfullyconsiders          Luke's massive truck.                                        JANINE                    It's remarkable. Sort of retro. I                    thought you were gettin' apickup?                                        LUKE                    I changed my mind.                    Hoping for a more enthusiastic response, he turns to Keenan,          who climbs up and peeks insidethe cab. He's rugged,          streetwise, perpetually bemused, -maybe Ed Norton and Bill          Murray had a son...                                        KEENAN                    It's awesome. It'spleather.                                          LUKE                    Fuck you.    You think it'sstupid.                                                                                4.                              Janine stares at him.                                          LUKE(CONT'D)                    What?                    She shrugs, trying to put her finger on it, and when Luke          rolls up his T-shirt sleeves, she grins.                                          LUKE(CONT'D)                    What?!                                        JANINE                    Oh my God. You got laid.                    Finally! Who is she?                    Luke glares atKeenan.                                        KEENAN                    I didn't say a word! I swear!     You                    know Janine. She's got X-ray                    vision.                        (toJanine)                    Camping! A total stranger.                                        JANINE                    I knew that whole "waitin' to meet                    the right girl" thing wascrap.                    Congratulations! I have to get to                    Physics. The truck's great.                                        KEENAN                    See ya',hottie.                                        JANINE                    Could find something to call me,                    other than what every guy in the                    world wouldsay?                                        KEENAN                    "Sweetheart?" "Babe?"                    "Aphrodite?"                    Janine sneers.    At a loss, Keenan grabs her and kissesher          passionately.                    She walks off rolling her eyes, but secretly loves it.                    Keenan climbs up into the cab.                                        KEENAN(CONT'D)                    So this is gonna' be like yourcar?                                                                                5.                                                            LUKE                    Look, I know it's dopey. Butdon't                    you recognize it? It's painted and                    the muffler's switched out, -but                    this was my dad's.                    Keenan looks around with fresh eyes. He reaches an armway          up under the glove box and GRINS, pulling out a small stash          of weed.                                           KEENAN                    Ten years.     A little driedout.                              EXT. COUNTRY HIGHWAY - DAY                    The truck barrels along through the trees.     Luke and Keenan          share ajoint.                                        LUKE                    First off, that woman. We didn't                    go all the way, youknow?                                         KEENAN                    Yeah?   Okay, so?                                        LUKE                    You think technically I'm stilla                    virgin?                                        KEENAN                    Were you insideher?                                           LUKE                    Yeah.                                           KEENAN                    Itcounts.     Next.   ...What?                                        LUKE                    I been havin' this weird dream.                    The thing is, I think maybe the                    dream's real. Forget it. Noway                    I'm tellin' you.                                        KEENAN                    You know enough of my secrets to                    get me shot. Sharon's mom on                    Thanksgiving? Whatthe fuck dream                    is there you can't tellme?                                                                                6.                                                            LUKE                    It's about part of me