ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Passionate Friends, by Herbert George WellsThis 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 Passionate FriendsAuthor: Herbert George WellsRelease Date: October 26, 2009 [EBook#30340]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSIONATE FRIENDS ***Produced by Carl Hudkins, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netThe Passionate FriendsBy H. G. WELLSAuthor of "Marriage."[Illustration]WITH FRONTISPIECEA. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS114-120 East Twenty-third Street - - New YorkPUBLISHED BYARRANGEMENT WITH HARPER & BROTHERSCOPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HARPER & BROTHERSPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAPUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1913TOL. E. N. S.[Illustration: "OUR KISSES WERE KISSESOF MOONLIGHT" See p. 85]CONTENTSCHAP.                                            PAGE   I. MR. STRATTON TO HIS SON                       1  II. BOYHOOD                                      14 III. INTENTIONS AND THE LADY MARYCHRISTIAN       40  IV. THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY MARY CHRISTIAN      73   V. THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA                     102  VI. LADY MARY JUSTIN                            132 VII. BEGINNINGAGAIN                             197VIII. THIS SWARMING BUSINESS OF MANKIND           220  IX. THE SPIRIT OF THE NEW WORLD                 246   X. MARY WRITES                                 280  XI. THE LASTMEETING                            318 XII. THE ARRAIGNMENT OF JEALOUSY                 358THE PASSIONATE FRIENDSCHAPTER THE FIRSTMR. STRATTON TO HIS SONÂ§ 1I want very much to set down my thoughts andmy experiences of life. Iwant to do so now that I have come to middle age and now that myattitudes are all defined and my personal drama worked out I feel thatthe toil of writing and reconsideration may help to clearand fix manythings that remain a little uncertain in my thoughts because they havenever been fully stated, and I want to discover any lurkinginconsistencies and unsuspected gaps. And I have a story. I havelivedthrough things that have searched me. I want to tell that story as wellas I can while I am still a clear-headed and active man, and while manydetails that may presently become blurred and altered are stillrawlyfresh in my mind. And to one person in particular do I wish to think Iam writing, and that is to you, my only son. I want to write my storynot indeed to the child you are now, but to the man you are going to be.Youare half my blood and temperamentally altogether mine. A day willcome when you will realize this, and want to know how life has gone withme, and then it may be altogether too late for me to answer yourenquiries. Imay have become inaccessible as old people are sometimesinaccessible. And so I think of leaving this book for you--at any rate,I shall write it as if I meant to leave it for you. Afterwards I canconsider whether I willindeed leave it....The idea of writing such a book as this came to me first as I sat by thedead body of your grandfather--my father. It was because I wanted sogreatly such a book from him that I am now writing this. Hedied, youmust know, only a few months ago, and I went to his house to bury himand settle all his affairs.At one time he had been my greatest friend. He had never indeed talkedto me about himself or his youth, but hehad always showed anextraordinary sympathy and helpfulness for me in all the confusion andperplexities into which I fell. This did not last to the end of hislife. I was the child of his middle years, and suddenly, in a yearorless, the curtains of age and infirmity fell between us. There came anillness, an operation, and he rose from it ailing, suffering, dwarfedand altogether changed. Of all the dark shadows upon life I think thatchangethrough illness and organic decay in the thoughts and spirits ofthose who are dear and close to us is the most evil and distressing andinexplicable. Suddenly he was a changeling, a being querulous andpitiful, needingindulgence and sacrifices.In a little while a new state of affairs was established. I ceased toconsider him as a man to whom one told things, of whom one could expecthelp or advice. We all ceased to consider him at all inthat way. Wehumored him, put pleasant things before him, concealed whatever wasdisagreeable. A poor old man he was indeed in those concluding years,weakly rebellious against the firm kindliness of my cousin,hishousekeeper and nurse. He who had once been so alert was now at timesastonishingly apathetic. At times an impish malice I had never known inhim before gleamed in little acts and speeches. His talk rambled,andfor the most part was concerned with small, long-forgotten contentions.It was indistinct and difficult to follow because of a recent loss ofteeth, and he craved for brandy, to restore even for a moment the senseofstrength and well-being that ebbed and ebbed away from him. So thatwhen I came to look at his dead face at last, it was with something likeamazement I perceived him grave and beautiful--more grave andbeautifulthan he had been even in the fullness of life.All the estrangement of the final years was wiped in an instant from mymind as I looked upon his face. There came back a rush of memories, ofkind, strong, patient,human aspects of his fatherhood. And I rememberedas every son must remember--even you, my dear, will some day rememberbecause it is in the very nature of sonship--insubordinations,struggles, ingratitudes, greatbenefits taken unthankfully, slights anddisregards. It was not remorse I felt, nor repentance, but a tremendousregret that so things had happened and that life should be so. Why isit, I thought, that when a son hascome to manhood he cannot take hisfather for a friend? I had a curious sense of unprecedented communionas I stood beside him now. I felt that he understood my thoughts; hisface seemed to answer with anexpression of still and sympatheticpatience.I was sensible of amazing gaps. We had never talked together of love,never of religion.All sorts of things that a man of twenty-eight would not dream of hidingfrom a coevalhe had hidden from me. For some days I had to remain inhis house, I had to go through his papers, handle all those intimatepersonal things that accumulate around a human being year byyear--letters, yellowing scrapsof newspaper, tokens, relics kept,accidental vestiges, significant litter. I learnt many things I hadnever dreamt of. At times I doubted whether I was not prying, whether Iought not to risk the loss of those necessarylegal facts I sought, andburn these papers unread. There were love letters, and many suchtouching things.My memories of him did not change because of these new lights, but theybecame wonderfully illuminated. Irealized him as a young man, I beganto see him as a boy. I found a little half-bound botanical book withstencil-tinted illustrations, a good-conduct prize my father had won athis preparatory school; a rolled-up sheet ofpaper, carbonized and dryand brittle, revealed itself as a piece of specimen writing, stiff withboyish effort, decorated in ambitious and faltering flourishes and stillbetraying the pencil rulings his rubber should haveerased. Already yourwriting is better than that. And I found a daguerreotype portrait of himin knickerbockers against a photographer's stile. His face then was notunlike yours. I stood with that in my hand at the littlebureau in hisbedroom, and looked at his dead face.The flatly painted portrait of his father, my grandfather, hangingthere in the stillness above the coffin, looking out on the world he hadleft with steady, humorous blueeyes that followed one about theroom,--that, too, was revivified, touched into reality and participationby this and that, became a living presence at a conference of lives.Things of his were there also in that life'saccumulation....There we were, three Strattons together, and down in the dining-roomwere steel engravings to take us back two generations further, and wehad all lived full lives, suffered, attempted, signified. I hadaglimpse of the long successions of mankind. What a huge inaccessiblelumber-room of thought and experience we amounted to, I thought; howmuch we are, how little we transmit. Each one of us was but a variation,anexperiment upon the Stratton theme. All that I had now under my handswas but the merest hints and vestiges, moving and surprising indeed, butcasual and fragmentary, of those obliterated repetitions. Man isacreature becoming articulate, and why should those men have left so muchof the tale untold--to be lost and forgotten? Why must we all repeatthings done, and come again very bitterly to wisdom our fathershaveachieved before us? My grandfather there should have left me somethingbetter than the still enigma of his watching face. All my life so farhas gone in learning very painfully what many men have learnt before me;Ihave spent the greater part of forty years in finding a sort ofpurpose for the uncertain and declining decades that remain. Is it nottime the generations drew together and helped one another? Cannot webegin now tomake a better use of the experiences of life so that oursons may not waste themselves so much, cannot we gather into books thatmen may read in an hour or so the gist of these confused andmultitudinous realities ofthe individual career? Surely the time iscoming for that, when a new private literature will exist, and fathersand mothers behind their rÃ´les of rulers, protectors, and supporters,will prepare frank and intimate recordsof their thought and theirfeeling, told as one tells things to equals, without authority orreserves or discretions, so that, they being dead, their children mayrediscover them as contemporaries and friends.That desire forself-expression is indeed already almost an instinctwith many of us. Man is disposed to create a traditional wisdom. For methis book I contemplate is a need. I am just a year and a half from abitter tragedy and the lossof a friend as dear as life to me. It isvery constantly in my mind. She opened her mind to me as few people opentheir minds to anyone. In a way, little Stephen, she died for you. And Iam so placed that I have no one totalk to quite freely about her. Theone other person to whom I talk, I cannot talk to about her; it isstrange, seeing how we love and trust one another, but so it is; youwill understand that the better as this story unfolds.For eight longyears before the crisis that culminated in her tragic death I never sawher; yet, quite apart from the shock and distresses of that time, it hasleft me extraordinarily lonely and desolate.And there was a kindof dreadful splendor in that last act of hers,which has taken a great hold upon my imagination; it has interwoven witheverything else in my mind, it bears now upon every question. I cannotget away from it, while it isthus pent from utterance.... Perhapshaving written this to you I may never show it you or leave it for youto see. But yet I must write it. Of all conceivable persons you, whenyou have grown to manhood, are the mostlikely to understand.Â§ 2You did not come to see your dead grandfather, nor did you know verymuch about the funeral. Nowadays we do not bring the sweet egotisms, thevivid beautiful personal intensities ofchildhood, into the cold, vastpresence of death. I would as soon, my dear, have sent your busy littlelimbs toiling up the Matterhorn. I have put by a photograph of my fatherfor you as he lay in that last stillness of his,that you will see at aproperer time.Your mother and I wore black only at his funeral and came back coloredagain into your colored world, and in a very little while your interestin this event that had taken us away for atime turned to other, moreassimilable things. But there happened a little incident that laid holdupon me; you forgot it, perhaps, in a week or less, but I shall neverforget it; and this incident it was that gathered up thefruits of thosemoments beside my father's body and set me to write this book. It hadthe effect of a little bright light held up against the vague darkimmensities of thought and feeling that filled my mind because ofmyfather's death.Now that I come to set it down I see that it is altogether trivial, andI cannot explain how it is that it is to me so piercingly significant. Ihad to whip you. Your respect for the admirable andpatientMademoiselle Potin, the protectress and companion of your publicexpeditions, did in some slight crisis suddenly fail you. In the extremepublicity of Kensington Gardens, in the presence of your two littlesisters,before a startled world, you expressed an opinion of her, intwo languages and a loud voice, that was not only very unjust, butextremely offensive and improper. It reflected upon her intelligence andgoodness; itimpeached her personal appearance; it was the kind ofoutcry no little gentleman should ever permit himself, however deeply hemay be aggrieved. You then, so far as I was able to disentangle theevidence, assaultedher violently, hurled a stone at her, and fled hercompany. You came home alone by a route chosen by yourself, flushed andwrathful, braving the dangers of Kensington High Street. This, after mystern and deliberateedict that, upon pain of corporal punishment,respect and obedience must be paid to Mademoiselle Potin. The logic ofthe position was relentless.But where your behavior was remarkable, where the affair begins totouchmy imagination, was that you yourself presently put the whole businessbefore me. Alone in the schoolroom, you seem to have come to somerealization of the extraordinary dreadfulness of your behavior.Suchmoments happen in the lives of all small boys; they happened to me timesenough, to my dead father, to that grandfather of the portrait which isnow in my study, to his father and his, and so on through long seriesofStrattons, back to inarticulate, shock-haired little sinners slinkingfearfully away from the awful wrath, the bellowings and limitlessviolence of the hairy Old Man of the herd. The bottom goes out of yourheart then, youare full of a conviction of sin. So far you did butcarry on the experience of the race. But to ask audience of me, to comeand look me in the eye, to say you wanted my advice on a pressingmatter, that I think marksalmost a new phase in the long developinghistory of father and son. And your account of the fracas struck me asquite reasonably frank and honest. "I didn't seem able," you observed,"not to go on being badder andbadder."We discussed the difficulties of our situation, and you passed sentenceupon yourself. I saw to it that the outraged dignity of MademoisellePotin was mocked by no mere formality of infliction. You did your besttobe stoical, I remember, but at last you yelped and wept. Then,justice being done, you rearranged your costume. The situation was alittle difficult until you, still sobbing and buttoning--you are reallya shocking bad handat buttons--and looking a very small, tender,ruffled, rueful thing indeed, strolled towards my study window. "Thepear tree is out next door," you remarked, without a trace of animosity,and sobbing as one mighthiccough.I suppose there are moments in the lives of all grown men when they comenear to weeping aloud. In some secret place within myself I must havebeen a wild river of tears. I answered, however, with the sameadmirabledetachment from the smarting past that you had achieved, that my studywindow was particularly adapted to the appreciation of our neighbor'spear tree, because of its height from the ground. We fell intoaconversation about blossom and the setting of fruit, kneeling togetherupon my window-seat and looking up into the pear tree against the sky,and then down through its black branches into the gardens allquickeningwith spring. We were on so friendly a footing when presentlyMademoiselle Potin returned and placed her dignity or her resignation inmy hands, that I doubt if she believed a word of all my assurances untiltheunmistakable confirmation of your evening bath. Then, as Iunderstood it, she was extremely remorseful to you and indignant againstmy violence....But when I knelt with you, little urchin, upon my window-seat, itcameto me as a thing almost intolerably desirable that some day you shouldbecome my real and understanding friend. I loved you profoundly. Iwanted to stretch forward into time and speak to you, man myself totheman you are yet to be. It seemed to me that between us there must needsbe peculiar subtleties of sympathy. And I remembered that by the timeyou were a man fully grown and emerging from the passionatelytumultuousopenings of manhood, capable of forgiving me all my blunderingparentage, capable of perceiving all the justifying fine intention of myill-conceived disciplines and misdirections, I might be either an oldman,shriveling again to an inexplicable egotism, or dead. I saw myselfas I had seen my father--first enfeebled and then inaccessibly tranquil.When presently you had gone from my study, I went to my writing-desk anddrewa paper pad towards me, and sat thinking and making idle marks uponit with my pen. I wanted to exceed the limits of those frozen silencesthat must come at last between us, write a book that should lie in yourworldlike a seed, and at last, as your own being ripened, flower intoliving understanding by your side.This book, which before had been only an idea for a book, competingagainst many other ideas and the demands of thattoilsome work forpeace and understanding to which I have devoted the daily energies of mylife, had become, I felt, an imperative necessity between us.Â§ 3And then there happened one of those crises of dread andapprehensionand pain that are like a ploughing of the heart. It was brought home tome that you might die even before the first pages of this book of yourswere written. You became feverish, complained of that queerpain you hadfelt twice before, and for the third time you were ill withappendicitis. Your mother and I came and regarded your touzled head andflushed little face on the pillow as you slept uneasily, and decidedthat wemust take no more risks with you. So soon as your temperaturehad fallen again we set about the business of an operation.We told each other that nowadays these operations were as safe as goingto sleep in your bed,but we knew better. Our own doctor had lost hisson. "That," we said, "was different." But we knew well enough in ourhearts that you were going very near to the edge of death, nearer thanyou had ever been since firstyou came clucking into the world.The operation was done at home. A capable, fair-complexioned nurse tookpossession of us; and my study, because it has the best light, wastransfigured into an admirableoperating-room. All its furnishings weresent away, every cloth and curtain, and the walls and floor were coveredwith white sterilized sheets. The high little mechanical table theyerected before the window seemed to melike an altar on which I had tooffer up my son. There were basins of disinfectants and towelsconveniently about, the operator came, took out his array of scalpelsand forceps and little sponges from the black bag hecarried, put themready for his hand, and then covered them from your sight with a whitecloth, and I brought you down in my arms, wrapped in a blanket, fromyour bedroom to the anÃ¦sthetist. You were beautifullytrustful andsubmissive and unafraid. I stood by you until the chloroform had doneits work, and then left you there, lest my presence should in theslightest degree embarrass the surgeon. The anÃ¦sthetic had taken allthecolor out of your face, and you looked pinched and shrunken and greenishand very small and pitiful. I went into the drawing-room and stood therewith your mother and made conversation. I cannot recall what wesaid, Ithink it was about the moorland to which we were going for yourconvalescence. Indeed, we were but the ghosts of ourselves; all oursubstance seemed listening, listening to the little sounds that came tous fromthe study.Then after long ages there was a going to and fro of feet, a bump, theopening of a door, and our own doctor came into the room rubbing hishands together and doing nothing to conceal his profoundrelief."Admirable," he said, "altogether successful." I went up to you and sawa tumbled little person in the bed, still heavily insensible and moaningslightly. By the table were bloody towels, and in a shallow glasstraywas a small object like a damaged piece of earthworm. "Not a bit toosoon," said the surgeon, holding this up in his forceps for myinspection. "It's on the very verge of perforation." I affected adetached and scientificinterest, but the prevailing impression in mymind was that this was a fragment from very nearly the centre of yourbeing.He took it away with him, I know not whither. Perhaps it is now inspirits in a specimen jar, an


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BLACKWe HEAR "Waltzing Matilde," by Tom Waits.INT. MUSEUM OF MODERN ART - DAY (DREAM SEQUENCE IN GRAINYBLACKAND WHITE)Fade out music.Silence.A well-dressed black BOY and his MOTHER walk through severalgalleries.They stand before Picasso's "Guernica," holding hands.The mother is disturbed.Crying.The boy looks up, confused and frightened, concerned to see hismother crying in public. She looks at him tenderly.Her brow furrows. She stops crying. She stares just above hiseyes.Something's happening: shelooks with wonder at the top of hishead... his eyes roll upward, trying to see - it's a crown!He raises his hands. He touches it.A beam of light illuminates the crown, casting its glow on hismother's face.The beam getswhiter, the rest of the screen gets black.INT. CARDBOARD BOXSilence. In darkness, we hear a VOICE - imbued with a sense ofits own history:                      VOICE (O.S.)           Everybody wants toget on the Van Gogh           boat. There's no trip so horrible that           someone won't take it. The idea of the           unrecognized genius slaving away in a           garret is a deliciously foolish one. We           mustcredit the life of Vincent Van Gogh           for really sending this myth into orbit.           How many pictures did he sell? One? He           couldn't give them away. We are so ashamed           of his life that the rest of arthistory           will be retribution for Van Gogh's neglect.           No one wants to be part of a generation           that ignores another Van Gogh.The beam of light shines through a small hole. It falls upon asleeping,dreaming, delighted face. It belongs to JEAN MICHELBASQUIAT.OUTDOOR, DAYTIME SOUNDS filter in.Hearing the voice, Jean frowns at being woken up.EXT. TOMPKINS SQUARE PARK -DAYA long, rectangular cardboard box.SUPER: "NEW YORK CITY"ANGLE ON:RENE RICARD (early 30's), seated at a park bench, hunched over anotebook. He's a raggedy dandy: A poet in ahooded sweatshirt andwhite hightops.As he writes, he reads aloud, as if addressing Posterity.                        RENE (CONT'D)                   (sighing theatrically)            In this town one is at the mercy ofthe            recognition factor. One's public            appearance is absolute.Beyond him, a HAND gropes its way out of the box. It tosses a canof YOOHOO chocolate drink.                       RENE(CONT'D)            I consider myself a metaphor of the public.            I am a public eye. I am a witness.A HEAD appears from the box. It's Jean's.Jean sees the start of a crisp, colorful autumn day. The urbanparkaround him is alive with a typically full range of the goodand bad in life. He eases himself out of the oversize box inwhich he has spent the night. There's something about the waythat he stands while waking up thatsuggests he's almostsurprised at his own body, the adultness of his limbs - just asubtle hint of him coming out of a dream.He squints in the sunlight. He has a soft, gentle, Haitian face.His hair is pulled tight to his head.He wears two pairs of bluejeans (one cut like chaps over the other) a paint-coveredWesleyan University T-shirt, and the inside lining of anovercoat. His appearance is unruly, but it's deliberate. He'sstylish.He shakeshimself off and collects his stuff, which includes: asmall book of Pontormo drawings, a can of black spray paint. anda cigar box made into a loudspeaker with pencil holes and maskingtape.Jean walks out of the park andlooks up past the buildings at thesky:SUPERIMPOSED IN THE SKY - STOCK FOOTAGE OF A HAWAIIAN SURFERJean sees the surfer, 'riding the nose' in glistening,shimmeringsunlight.                                                  DISSOLVE TO:EXT. TOMPKINS SQUARE PARK - DAYRene grabs the box for use as a desk and continues to speak outloud as hewrites.                       RENE (CONT'D, O.S.)            Part of the artist's job is to get the work            where I will see it.EXT. LOWER EAST SIDE ST. - DAYAs he speaks, we see Jean pass the wall of afuneral parlor. Hespraypaints: "SAMO AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO GOD"                        RENE (CONT'D, O.S.)            When you first see a new picture, you don't            want to miss the boat. You have to bevery            careful because you may be staring at Van            Gogh's ear.Jean signs his words with his 'logo', a triple pointed crown.As he presses the spray can, we HEAR the roar of abreaker.                                                  CUT TO:INSERT: CLOSEUP OF SIDEWALKPressed into the concrete is a pair of EYEGLASSES. A light-colored piece of rock completes the picture to make aface.EXT. LESHKO'S RESTAURANT - DAYJEAN'S POV: His shoes pause next to the face in the concrete.                                                  CUT TO:IN FRONT OF THE RESTAURANTIs a METALBILLBOARD with red plastic magnetized LETTERS thatreads: "TODAY'S SPECIAL: CLAM CHOWDER $1.50. TRY IT!!!"                                                  CUT TO:INT. LESHKO'S - DAYJeanenters.                                                  CUT TO:EXT. LESHKO'S RESTAURANT - DAYThe sign. It now reads: "SAMO'S DAY OLD TEETH $5.00"                                                     CUTTO:INT. LESHKO'S RESTAURANT - DAYBending over a countertop, we see GINA CARDINALE, 22. He fixateson her.She looks up and notices his stare. She continues to work.Still staring at her, he sitsdown at a table. He pours maplesyrup onto the table. He draws in the syrup with his fingers.CLOSE ON SYRUP ON TABLEANOTHER WAITRESS arrives at his table. She's put off bythesyrup.                      WAITRESS           What'll it be?Jean thinks about it, eyes still following Gina.                       BASQUIAT           Ummm. It'll be great. We'll live together           in peace.What's her name?                  (indicates Gina)He looks up at the waitress.                      WAITRESS           Gina. What'll it be?                       BASQUIAT           Pancakes.She leaves and whisperssomething to Gina. Gina turns and glancesover at Jean.Jean pours more syrup and starts writing his name.At the grill, LESHKO, the burly Owner/Cook, has his watchful eyeon Jean. He doesn't like what he sees.Jeansmears the syrup thinly, so it doesn't erase itself. Hedraws a picture of Gina, using his fingers and the silverware,rendering her last expression strikingly with a few quick lines.A GAUNT YOUNG MAN saunters up toJean's table. He's sort of atall Puerto Rican Alain Delon with sleepy eyes. He is BENNY.                      BENNY           Hey - Willie Mays.                      BASQUIAT           Willie Mays.Suddenly,Rene Ricard enters - a one-man parade. He beckons toGina, snapping his fingers.                      RENE           Nurse!!! Oh!!! Nurse!!! Carrot juice. Tofu           burger.Rapido!                      GINA           We don't serve that - amigo.                      RENE           Fine... A greasy cheeseburger. Fries - and           avodka.                       BASQUIAT                  (under his breath)           Who's that?                      BENNY           The Devil, man. Rene Ricard. Art critic -           writes for Artforum. People read him.Tell           him who you are..                         BASQUIAT           Who am I?                         BENNY           SAMO.                         BASQUIAT           Oh yeah..Rene lands at thecounter.Jean's gaze is still on Gina.She waits on a MAN at a nearby table.                      CUSTOMER           How's the special today?                      GINA           It's your stomach.She hurries pastJean.                         BASQUIAT           Hey.She slows down, not wanting to.                      BASQUIAT (CONT'D)           What do you think?She looks at her portrait in the syrup... She can'tresistsmiling.                      GINA           It's me. I've never been done in maple           syrup. Here's a rag.Gina smiles. She offers him one. As she holds it out, their eyeslock. She tries to resist hissmile.                        BASQUIAT                   (gently)           Gina?She puts her finger in the syrup and licks it off.Benny takes it all in.Leshko is upon them.                      LESHKO           Alright.Look at you, staring at this girl,           making a mess.He waves Jean toward the door.Jean takes Gina's rag and begins cleaning his mess, seeminglycompliant.                      BASQUIAT           How aboutthose pancakes?He brings out a roll of dimes to the tabletop and splits it open.Dimes roll all over the table and stick in the syrupy parts. Themanager explodes.                      LESHKO           OK!Goodbye!                      GINA           Pipe down, Lech. Let him order.                      LESHKO           You nuts? Let him order? You on his side?           You're not such a good waitress. Youget           out, too.                      GINA           I just don't think you're being fair.                      LESHKO           I need this?                      GINA           I need this?Gina quietly removesher apron in disbelief.Benny gets up to leave very casually.                       BENNY                  (waving g'bye to Jean)           Willie Mays.                       LESHKO                  (to Gina)           That'sright. You go with them. Make babies           the government has to pay for.                                                     CUT TO:GINA AND JEANLeave the restaurant.Behind them, we see Rene,absorbed in his writing.EXT. AVE. A - DAYThey stand outside, not knowing quite what comes next.Jean gives Benny a look (i.e. 'scram').                      BENNY           Catch you later.Benny leaves.ACHILLY WIND picks up.Jean's mood is suddenly downcast.They button up their overcoats, about to leave.                       GINA           What's a job, anyway?                  (pause)           What's wrong withyou?The truth is, he feels awful for causing Gina's trouble, butshows it by moping like a child.                      GINA (CONT'D)           No, don't tell me - you just got fired by           your crazyboss.                      BASQUIAT           I guess you did.                      GINA           Guess I just got sick of him.                      BASQUIAT           Can I walk youhome?                      GINA           I think I could do that alone.Gina walks away.He runs after her.                      BASQUIAT           Wait, I'm in a band....We're at the Mudd           Club onHalloween. I'll put you on the           list.Gina turns and looks back at Jean.                      GINA           I hate the Mudd Club.He catches up to her.Gina notices a dead leaf in his hair and picks itout.                      GINA (CONT'D)           Have you been camping? You could use a           scrub.                      BASQUIAT           I'm clean. Smell me. I always smell good. I           don't know why,I just do!He leans forward, offering his neck.                       GINA                  (smelling)           You do! You definitely do.                      BASQUIAT           Just come to the Mudd Club on


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                                        DEEP COVER                                        Written by                              Michael Tolkin and HenryBean                                         Story by                                      Michael Tolkin                                      SHOOTING DRAFT                               EXT. CLEVELAND STREET - NIGHT(1970)               Rain. Christmas lights. A rusted out '56 Lincoln rattles                down the bleak boulevard. In it: JOE STEVENS, an angry, black                man in his late 20's, beside him his 10-year-old son,JOE                JR.               Joe Jr. stares out the window at passing: boarded buildings,                whores with raincoats over their heads trying to flag down a                john, a black Santa, a knot ofdrinkers. Breaking the silence:                                     JOE STEVENS                         Your mother okay?                                     JOE JR.                         Yes, sir.               They stop at a light.Joe Stevens tries to furtively snort a                little something. He spots Joe Jr. watching.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (firm, without irony)                         Don't you do thisshit, boy. Don't                          you ever fuckin' touch it, you hear                          me?               Joe Jr. stares, silent; Joe Jr.'s about to hit him.                                     JOESTEVENS                              (continuing)                         You hear me, goddam it?               The boy nods. Satisfied, Joe Sr. draws in the stuff. It makes                him feel good, strong, worried and determinedall at once.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (continuing; charged                               up)                         What do you want for Christmas?                                     JOEJR.                         I don't know.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (light changes; he                               accelerates)                         You don't know?? You gotta knowwhat                          you want, boy, if you ever expect to                          get it.               A sudden charm to his bravado. Joe Jr. smiles uncertainly.                Joe Sr. grins back, pulls up in front of a liquorstore.                                     JOE STEVENS                              (continuing)                         Wait here. This won't take a minute.               Joe Jr. doesn't notice or doesn't remark that hisfather,                just before entering the store, draws a handgun from beneath                his coat.               The boy gazes dreamily at the street. The lunatic Black Santa                marches by, ranting to himself("Then the white man say...").                The RAIN HAMMERS on the roof and windshield. Joe Jr. breathes                on the glass, fogging the scene.               From the store: MUFFLED GUNFIRE.               Joe Jr. looksthat way. Another GUNSHOT, then:               His father comes out the door clutching money in one hand.                He strides toward the car with a reckless pride. He doesn't                notice:               The liquorstore door opens behind him.               A SHOTGUN BLAST. Joe Stevens' guts splatter onto the car                windshield. A look of terrible amazement; he sinks to his                knees.                                     JOEJR.                         Daddy!!               He jumps from the car, kneels by his father.               The STORE OWNER (47, Slavic) drags the gun toward them,                bleedingprofusely.                                     STORE OWNER                              (enraged, almost to                               tears)                         Fuckin' niggers... fuckin' niggers...               JOESTEVENS               looks at the money in his hand: two 20's, two 5's.                                     JOE STEVENS                         Fifty bucks... fifty goddam bucks.                              (looks up at hisson)                         I'm sorry...               He stuffs the blood-soaked bills in the boy's shirt pocket                and dies. Joe Jr. looks up at...               THE STORE OWNER               Bloody, nearlyunconscious, he aims the shotgun at the boy                who is too frightened to move.                                     JOE JR.                         Please, Mister...               The man dies on his feet. As he fallsbackward, he pulls the                trigger, the BLAST shattering the car windows.               Cop cars SQUEAL up. Uniformed cops leap out, guns drawn,                survey the scene. Then one notices Joe Jr., staringmotionless                at his father and the store owner, dead together. ON HIS                EYES:                                                               DISSOLVE TO:               THOSE SAMEEYES               -- but older, harder, colder. They're concentrating on a                paper before him.               TITLE: 17 YEARS LATER               CLOSEUP - THE MINNESOTA MULTIPHASICPERSONALITY INVENTORY               Hundreds of TRUE/FALSE questions...               1.) I have never indulged in any unusual sexual practices.                (T/F)               2.) I have often felt thatstrangers were looking at me                critically. (T/F)               3.) When I was young I occasionally stole things. (T/F)               Joe Stevens marks these TRUE, FALSE, FALSE then comes to:               4.) A person'sstation in life is at least partially                determined by his race. (T/F) We are:               INT. A ROOM - DAY               Thirty-seven Black Cleveland police officers (many in uniform,                including Joe)are taking the MMPI. Some roll their eyes at                the questions. Some try to copy answers. Others, like Joe,                work with rapid concentration.               But he gets stuck on #4. Marks it false. Erases it.Marks it                true. Erases that. Ponders. Goes on to: #5. At times I hear                so well it bothers me. (T/F) He marks that true.               INT. INTERVIEW ROOM - DAY               GERALD CARVER, 36,an ambitious government lawyer with a                relaxed, vaguely hip manner, looks over the file of the                ingratiating BLACK OFFICER sitting across the desk fromhim.                                     CARVER                         Officer Leland? You know the                          difference between a black man and                          nigger?               Leland is startled, insulted, butdoesn't want to blow the                interview. He smiles weakly, shakes his head no.                                     CARVER                              (continuing;pleasant                               smile)                         Yeah, most niggers don't.               Stung, Leland tries to laugh. Carver puts his file aside,                picks upanother.                                     CARVER                              (continuing)                         Nice to meet you.               INT. SAME - ANOTHER INTERVIEW               A SECOND BLACK OFFICER ispowerfully built, politically                conscious, takes no shit. Carver's leafing through his file.                                     CARVER                         So, Winston, what's the difference                          between ablack man and a nigger?               Winston is out of his chair before the question is finished,                drags Carver by the shirt front halfway across the desk and                hisses into hisface:                                     WINSTON                         Who the fuck do you think you're                          talking to?               Carver smiles cheerfully past Winston's cockedfist.                                     CARVER                         Thanks for coming in.               Nonplussed by this cool dismissal, Winston stalks out. Carver                picks up the next file,unfazed.               INT. SAME - ANOTHER INTERVIEW               Joe Stevens watches Carver reading his file and waiting for                an answer. When none is forthcoming, Carver glances up,finds                Stevens looking right back at him.                                     STEVENS                         The nigger's the one who falls for                          your bullshit.               He says it pleasantly, withoutbelligerence. Carver smiles:                he's found his man. He offers his hand.                                     CARVER                         Gerald Carver, United States District                          Attorney. Call meGerry.               INT. A DARKENED ROOM - DAY/NIGHT               ON A TV SCREEN: a grainy black-and-white tape, date and time                stamped at the bottom. A grungy street, palm trees. Thelight                from the monitor dimly illuminates Carver and Stevens.               On SCREEN the CAMERA finds: A MAN in jeans, sneakers and                sweatshirt on a streetcorner.                                     STEVENS                         He ought to be wearing a sign.                                     CARVER                         You can tell he's a cop?               Stevens laughs: it'sobvious.               A real DRUG DEALER joins the cop. UNDERCOVER COP: "You got                it?" DEALER: "In the motel, right over here..." The Cop's                uneasy, keeps glancing back toward the CAMERA asthey go.                                     STEVENS                         He keeps looking for his back-up.                          Now, the other guy knows it,too.                                     CARVER                         Then why's he taking him to the room?                                     STEVENS                              (why else?)                         To rip himoff.               Carver studies Stevens in the darkness, impressed.               ON SCREEN: The figures disappear into the motel. We hear                their voices. DEALER: "Here, try some of it."UNDERCOVER                COP: "Uhh... No, I don't..." DEALER: "Why not, you                sonofabitch?" Two bursts of SOUND DISTORTION.               A plainclothes cop, TAFT, (black, stocky, powerful)bolts                from behind the CAMERA, sprints toward the motel. The CAMERA                wobbles after him.                                     STEVENS                              (continuing)                         Toolate.               ON SCREEN: The CAMERA (jerky, hand-held) nears the open motel                door. Taft is bent over the Undercover Cop's body.                                     TAFT                         Oh, Bobby...Jesus, Jesus...                              (to the CAMERA)                         Get an ambulance -- and back up.                          Now!               He slams the wall, starts past the CAMERA. Carver pushes the                pausebutton; the tape freezes on a jerky image of Taft's                face.                                     STEVENS                              (focussed on Taft)                         Who ishe?                                     CARVER                         Charles Taft. LAPD Narcotics.                                     STEVENS                         He's a goodcop.                                     CARVER                         He's a great cop. Two [names citation]                          and a [another citation]. As tough                          as they come and twice as


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                                           YOUTH IN REVOLT                                            Writtenby                                            Gustin Nash                                                                           July 13, 2007                              OVER BLACK comes the sound ofdeep HEAVING BREATHS. Moist          FLESH FLAPPING accompaniment. Someone is beating off.          A pause as the someone turns the page of a magazine.          The beating off resumes at a quickened pace. TheSQUEAKING of          bed springs joins in.          Another page is turned. Feverish THUMPING until a MALE VOICE          lets out a quiet MOAN.          The breathing gradually slows to normal and lets out a          relievedsigh of finality.                              NICK (V.O.)                    My name... is Nick.          NICK TWISP, 16, stares up at the ceiling. He's glassy eyed          from the exertion...          INT. NICK'S ROOM -DAY          ...sprawled on the bed, trousers around his ankles, a well          thumbed issue of Penthouse covers his privates.                              NICK (V.O.)                    My last name, which I loath,is                    Twisp.          Nick pulls up his trousers and leaps off the bed. He pulls          the drawer under his mattress out.                              NICK (V.O.)                    The next thing you shouldknow                    about me is that I am obsessed with                    sex.          A view of the drawer reveals it to be filled with neatly          filed issues of Penthouse and Hustler. He puts the most          recently utilizedmagazine in its place.                              NICK (V.O.)                    Lately, I have become morbidly                    aware of my penis.          Nick posing in front of the mirror, pants around hisankles          again. He looks at himself from various angles.                              NICK (V.O.)                    Once a remote region accessed                    indifferently for micturition, it                    hasdeveloped overnight into a                    gaudy Las Vegas of the body.          We PAN DOWN, and where Nick's crotch is supposed to be, there          is a hole in the screen leading usto...                                                                               2.                    LAS VEGAS OF THE BODY          The pulsing neon sign outside the club reads: NICK'S PENIS.          Wefly inside where we find a star-studded floor show.          Drunken CONVENTIONEERS make out with STRIPPERS. A LEOPARD          leaps through a burning HOOP on stage.          INT. NICK'S ROOM - MOMENTSLATER          Nick typing on an obsolete PC.                              NICK (V.O.)                    I am entering the tenth grade at                    St. Vitus Academy, which, I am                    told, is the mostrigorous prep                    school in the East Bay. Hopefully I                    will be invited to join Miss                    Satron's English Literature class.          A view of the books and CDs on hisshelf.                              NICK (V.O.)                    I am a voracious reader and listen                    to Frank Sinatra. So needless to                    say, I am still a virgin.          Follow the curser on the monitoras he types the words -          STILL A VIRGIN.          He pauses in thought, then continues.                              NICK (V.O.)                    I have yet to hold hands with a                    girl, let alonehave my winkie up                    her wendell.          INT. AIRPLANE (35,000 FT) - DAY          WE MOVE down an airplane aisle, past PASSENGERS sleeping and          chatting.                              NICK(V.O.)                    I am an only child except for my                    big sister Joanie, who has left the                    bosom of her family to sling hash                    at 35,000 feet.          We reach the end of the aisle,where a buxom twenty-          something, JOANIE TWISP serves a beverage.          INT. ESTELLE'S KITCHEN - DAY          Liver frying in a pan. ESTELLE TWISP, 43, cooks and puffs on          a cigarette at thesame time.                                                                                3.                                        NICK (V.O.)                    Mom gives driver's tests atthe                    Department of Motor Vehicles.          Nick sits at the kitchen table reading the paper. He watches          with nausea as Estelle piles liver onto his plate.                              NICK(V.O.)                    She used to keep Dad up to date on                    all the motor statutes he was                    violating. This is one of the                    reasons they got divorced.          JERRY, early 40's,saunters in wearing a TRUCKERS DO IT IN          OVERDRIVE shirt and boxers. His gut hangs over the elastic,          but he is completely devoid of an ass.                              NICK (V.O.)                    Mom'sboyfriend, Jerry is a long                    distance trucker, though his                    ultimate ambition is to be on state                    disability.          Jerry absently smacks Estelle's butt. Waddles over to the          breakfasttable. He snatches the Funnies from the paper in          Nick's hands.                              NICK (V.O.)                    I've been struggling to think of a                    commendable thing to sayabout                    Jerry.          Jerry gives an asinine chuckle at the cartoon. Nick glares.                              NICK (V.O.)                    No luck. His grey matter registers                    at cretin and the needledoesn't                    budge.          EXT. GEORGE TWISP'S HOME - DAY          GEORGE TWISP, 41, scruffy and greying, waters the foliage          outside the house with a high poweredhose.                              NICK (V.O.)                    Dad is a copywriter for                    agricultural magazines.          In the drive, Nick slaves over the duty of washing the rims          of his dad's BMW325i.                              NICK (V.O.)                    He'd like to own a more prestigious                    model of BMW, but, as he often                    reminds me, he is burdened with                    crippling childsupport payments.                                                                               4.                    Nick glances up and spots LACEY, 20, coming up the drive          toward him in a weensy bikini.Her body has more outcroppings          than the coastline of Albania.          She continues past him and embraces George.                                 NICK (V.O.)                       Lacey is Dad's latest bimbette.She                       is twenty and a recently minted                       alumna of Stanfort.          Super:          (Stanfort Institute of Cosmetology)          George and Lacey exchange saliva shamelessly. Nick turnshis          attention back to the Beamer.          As the making out becomes heated groping, George's grip on          the hose slackens.          Nick gets blindsided by the jet of water.          INT. NICK'S ROOM -DAY          We're back with Nick as he types on his computer. He looks          down at the tent in his boxers.                                                      CUT TO:          He pulls open the drawer again - thepornography collection.          NICK'S POV          of the room shaking, accompanied by his heavy breathing. His          eyes float from the Hustler to the pink walls of his room.                                 NICK(V.O.)                       My mother is the one who painted my                       room to look like Dolly Parton's                       boudoir. She read this color was                       used in hospitals to calmmental                       patients.          Nick closes his eyes, his right arm moving rhythmically.                                 NICK (V.O.)                       I'll tell you what I told her. I am                       not mentallyill.          BLACKNESS. The masturbation reaches its feverous climax. Then          the long moan and sigh of relief.                                 NICK (V.O.)                       I'm just a teenager.          And as FrankSinatra's UNTIL THE REAL THING COMES ALONG          begins, we go to OPENINGCREDITS.                                                                             5.                                                           YOUTH IN REVOLT          INT. ESTELLE'SKITCHEN - DAY          Nick regards Jerry from across the dining room table. There          is the off-screen sound of a cretin slurping Cheerios.          Reveal Jerry reading Sports Illustrated, scratching hisballs          with one hand and shoveling in cereal with the other. Estelle          is washing dishes when she spies something out the window.                              ESTELLE                    Jerry? Where did that carcome                    from?          Jerry looks over his shoulder and they all take a moment to          appreciate the slab-sided Lincoln in the drive.                              JERRY                    It's a '62 Lincolnconvertible.                    Like the one Kennedy was shot in.                              NICK                    Except his was black and yours is                    white. Anddirty.                              JERRY                    See that. I was going to take you                    and your mom for a spin after                    breakfast. But now I guess it'll                    just be her and me. Youhave your                    smart mouth to thank for that.                              NICK                    Damn it. I guess I'll just have to                    hang out all alone at thebook                    depository.                                JERRY                    The what?                              ESTELLE                    Jerry, I don't understand. What                    happened to theChevy-Nova?                              JERRY                    Sold it to a sailor on the Alameda                    Naval Air Base. A man should never                    own a car for more than three                    months,Estelle. That way he always                    gets the thrill of owning a new                    automobile!          Jerry smiles with cretin pride. Nick looks to his mother and          disturbingly enough, she seems turned on by hiscar-owner          savvy.                                                                               6.                    EXT. ESTELLE'S HOME - DAY          Nick stands in the doorway watching as hismother waits for          Jerry to open the passenger door for her.                              NICK (V.O.)                    After spending twelve years with                    Dad, Mom has had a string of                    lovers,none of whom she has asked                    me to approve.          Jerry fails to notice Estelle waiting and instead just climbs          in and chugs his beer. Estelle appears mildly disappointed          before opening the doorherself.                              NICK (V.O.)                    I'm starting to think her                    boyfriends are like U.S.                    Presidents.          As Jerry pulls out, he tosses his beer bottle inthe          direction of the trash can at the end of the drive.                              NICK (V.O.)                    Just when you think they can't get                    any worse...          He misses and the bottle shatters


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                                                                    S.DARKO                                                         Written by                                             NathanAtkins                                                                                Second draft                                        EXT. WHEAT FIELD -MORNING                    SAMANTHA DARKO (18) opens her eyes. She squints as the summer          sun shrinks her pupils to pinhole size. She sits up slowly,          looks around... and finds herself inmidst of an endless          wheat field.                    Sam is pretty and demure. Her coppery hair flows past her          shoulders. Disoriented, she stands and gazes at the infinite          golden shimmer. Amberwaves of grain. Patches of forest in          the distance. It's quiet. Serene. Beautiful...                    She smiles, and starts walking.                              EXT. ARKANSAS HIGHWAY 40 -MORNING                    She emerges at the shoulder of a rural stretch of highway in          Arkansas. Adjacent to her position, on the other side of the          deserted lanes, is a TRUCKSTOP.                              EXT. TRUCK STOP - MORNING                    Amongst the TRACTOR-TRAILERS parked in the back lot is a          white, late-80s model CHEVROLETCELEBRITY. Sam makes her way          across the asphalt toward the vehicle...                              INT. COREY'S CHEVROLET - MORNING                    COREY RICHARDSON (18)is asleep, curled up in the reclined          driver's seat of the car. She awakens when Sam gets in on the          passenger side and slams the door shut.                    Corey has the look of a typical rebelliousteen: dyed hair,          piercings, a little grungy. She rubs the sleep from her eyes,          greeting the new day with something less than enthusiasm. She          finds a soft pack of CIGARETTES and lightsone.                                        COREY                    What time is it?                                         SAM                    Early...                    Corey adjusts her seat. Shetakes a long drag and chokes,          then spits out the window. She starts the car...                                                                                2.                              I/E.COREY'S CHEVROLET/HIGHWAY 40, VARIOUS - DAY                    Corey's car cruises along the flat, open road. She cranks up          the VOLUME on the car's CASSETTE DECK, nodding her headto          early-90s ALT. ROCK (suggestion: Into Dust, by Mazzy Star)...                    Sam looks out the window at the passing scenery: FARMERS at          work in the fields; a BILLBOARD advertising alocal          restaurant; ROADSIDE DITCHES filled with trash...                    She fixates on a MINIVAN travelling in the slow lane. It          contains the all-American NUCLEAR FAMILY: MOTHER, FATHERand          three SIBLINGS, one of them being a YOUNGSTER. The Youngster          makes a face at Sam as they pass by...                              INT. COREY'S CHEVROLET - LATER -DAY                    Corey glances at the CONTROL PANEL when she HEARS the engine          start to RATTLE. She sees that the TEMPERATURE GAUGE has hit          the red and her CHECK ENGINE LIGHTis on.                                        COREY                    Shit...                              EXT. OKLAHOMA HIGHWAY 40/COREY'S CHEVROLET - DAY                    Bythe time they pull over on the side of the empty highway,          steam billows out from under the hood. Sam gets out of the          car to check on it while Corey remains behind the wheel.                    Sampeeks under the hood, trying to clear the air of the          steam. It sounds like someone is rhythmically TAPPING the          inside of the engine with ahammer.                                        SAM                    Turn it off.                                         COREY                        (poking her head outthe                          WINDOW)                    What?                                        SAM                    Turn off the car.                    Corey doesso.                                        SAM (CONT'D)                    Doesn't look too good...                                        COREY                    How do youknow?                                                                                3.                                                  SAM                    It smells funny.                    Sam looksup when she HEARS a PICK-UP TRUCK coming toward          them. Corey watches as she steps out to wave it down...                    The pick-up pulls over ahead of them. CHRIS HOLT (24), a          brawny,attractive young man, gets out. When Corey sees him          she gets out too.                                         SAM (CONT'D)                    Thanks for stopping. Our car's                    messedup.                                        CHRIS                    What happened?                                        COREY                    My check engine light came on, then                    it juststarted smoking, and                    ticking and shit.                    As Chris pokes around under the hood, Sam and Corey exchange          looks. Chris pops opens the COOLANT CAP and burns his handon          the steam explosion.                                        CHRIS                        (shaking it off)                    Blew your water pump. Can'tdrive                    it.                                           COREY                    Fuck me...                                        CHRIS                    El Reno's just a couple milesup                    ahead. Can call for a tow there.                    C'mon, I'll give you a lift.                              I/E. CHRIS' TRUCK/EL RENO, VARIOUS - DAY                    All threecrammed into the cab of the pick-up, they drive          through the center of El Reno, Oklahoma (population 16,000)          and see some of the locals out and about [MUSIC MONTAGE          fueled by early- to mid-90sera GRUNGE ROCK (suggestion: Come          As You Are, by Nirvana) -- reminiscent of the `Middlesex          Middle School Montage' in DONNIE DARKO]:                    AGATHA DOWDY (54), an employee ofthe local DINER, sits on a          bench in front of the establishment smoking a cigarette. The          manager, TED MONCTON (50), calls her backinside...                                                                             4.                              RANDY EVANS (21), RUTH GIBBENS (18) and JEFF (21) and MIKE          JIMENEZ (20) loiterin the parking lot of a LIQUOR STORE...                    TRUDY POTTER (39) flirts with FATHER HOMEIJER (54), a          Catholic priest, outside the BANK. A BANK SIGN shows the TIME          -- 12:00 PM -- thenflashes to the DATE -- JUNE 18, 1995...                    OFFICER RYAN O'DELL (31) has pulled over a PRETTY LADY and          uses his uniform to impress more than intimidate...                    Theycome up on VIETNAM TOM (48), who ambles along the side          of the road against traffic, and he waves to them as they          pass. He wears old, weather beaten clothes and a multi-          colored SKI MASK overhis head and face...                    [END MONTAGE]                    Sam swivels her head to watch Tom. ANOTHER CAR passes and he          waves to it as well. Chris picks up on hercuriosity.                                        CHRIS                    He waves to everybody... Just kinda                    walks up anddown.                                        COREY                    Resident nutcase?                                        CHRIS                    People call him VietnamTom.                                        SAM                    He was in the war?                                        CHRIS                    He thinks he was... kind of a joke,                    yaknow?                    Sam continues to stare until he disappears out of sight...          PAN DOWN to a PUDDLE by the side of the road. As a CAR TIRE          splashes through it, PAN UP TOFIND:                              I/E. DUSTY'S GARAGE/HOUSE - AFTERNOON                    Dusty's auto repair shop, which is nothing more than a big          garage attached to his oldtwo-story house. Corey's car has          been towed there, and DUSTY GIBBENS (37; father of Ruth          Gibbens), the lone mechanic, tinkers around under the hood.                    Sam and Corey sit on thefront steps of the house waiting,          bored as hell. A PIT BULL laps at a nameless treat wedged          into a crack in the walkway. The girls are forced to get up          when Ruth (from outside the liquor store) comesto the door.                                                                             5.                                                  RUTH                    Can I get out?                    Sam andCorey move so that she can exit the house. Ruth's          look is hardened, rough around the edges -- she appears older          than her 18 years.                    The girls watch as she enters the garage to seeher father.          She whispers something in his ear, and Dusty hands her some          CASH, which she pockets then kisses him on the cheek. After          this, Dusty wipes his hands on his greasy jeans andcomes          outside to address Corey and Sam.                                        DUSTY                    Yeah... it's the water pump.                                        COREY                    Sowhat do we do?                                        DUSTY                    I can order you up a new one.                    Probably be a coupledays.                                        COREY                    Great. This the only show in town?                                        DUSTY                    Cheapest and the best. But youwant                    me to call the tow guy back here,                    no problem. Probably charge you                    another hundred bucks, but he'll                    get ya wherever you wannago.                                        COREY                    Just go ahead and fix it.                              INT. MOTEL LOBBY - AFTERNOON                    Phil Coulter


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rivals, by Richard Brinsley SheridanThis 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 Rivals       A ComedyAuthor: Richard Brinsley SheridanRelease Date: March 6, 2008 [EBook#24761]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVALS ***Produced by Kent CooperThe RIVALSA ComedyBy Richard Brinsley Sheridan* * * * * * *PREFACEA preface to a play seemsgenerally to be considered as a kind ofcloset-prologue, in which--if his piece has been successful--the authorsolicits that indulgence from the reader which he had beforeexperienced from the audience: but as the scopeand immediate object ofa play is to please a mixed assembly in _representation_ (whosejudgment in the theatre at least is decisive,) its degree of reputationis usually as determined as public, before it can be preparedfor thecooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther solicitude on the partof the writer becomes unnecessary at least, if not an intrusion: and ifthe piece has been condemned in the performance, I fear an address tothecloset, like an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as theprocrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of the weakness of thecause. From these considerations, the following comedy would certainlyhave beensubmitted to the reader, without any farther introductionthan what it had in the representation, but that its success hasprobably been founded on a circumstance which the author is informedhas not before attended atheatrical trial, and which consequentlyought not to pass unnoticed.I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was thewithdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections in the firstrepresentation whichwere too obvious to escape reprehension, and toonumerous to admit of a hasty correction. There are few writers, Ibelieve, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wishto palliate the faults which theyacknowledge; and, however triflingthe performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, bywhatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the presentinstance, it cannot be said to amount either tocandour or modesty inme, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment onmatters, in which, without guidance from practice, or spur fromsuccess, a young man should scarcely boast of being anadept. If it besaid, that under such disadvantages no one should attempt to write aplay, I must beg leave to dissent from the position, while the firstpoint of experience that I have gained on the subject is, aknowledgeof the candour and judgment with which an impartial publicdistinguishes between the errors of inexperience and incapacity, andthe indulgence which it shows even to a disposition to remedy thedefects ofeither.It were unnecessary to enter into any further extenuation of what wasthought exceptionable in this play, but that it has been said, that themanagers should have prevented some of the defects beforeitsappearance to the public--and in particular the uncommon length of thepiece as represented the first night. It were an ill return for themost liberal and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer anycensure to restwhere none was deserved. Hurry in writing has long beenexploded as an excuse for an author;--however, in the dramatic line,it may happen, that both an author and a manager may wish to fill achasm in theentertainment of the public with a hastiness notaltogether culpable. The season was advanced when I first put the playinto Mr. Harris's hands: it was at that time at least double the lengthof any acting comedy. Iprofited by his judgment and experience in thecurtailing of it--till, I believe, his feeling for the vanity of ayoung author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he leftmany excrescences remaining, because hehad assisted in pruning so manymore. Hence, though I was not uninformed that the acts were still toolong, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I might withsafer judgment proceed to remove what should appearto have been mostdissatisfactory. Many other errors there were, which might in part havearisen from my being by no means conversant with plays in general,either in reading or at the theatre. Yet I own that, in onerespect, Idid not regret my ignorance: for as my first wish in attempting a playwas to avoid every appearance of plagiary, I thought I should stand abetter chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I hadnotfrequented, and where, consequently, the progress of invention was lesslikely to be interrupted by starts of recollection: for on subjects onwhich the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exertingitself.Faded ideas float in the fancy like half-forgotten dreams; andthe imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of itsoffspring, and doubts whether it has created or adopted.With regard to some particularpassages which on the first night'srepresentation seemed generally disliked, I confess, that if I felt anyemotion of surprise at the disapprobation, it was not that they weredisapproved of, but that I had not beforeperceived that they deservedit. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too early to passfor the sentence of _judgment_, which is ever tardy in condemning, ithas been suggested to me, that much of thedisapprobation must havearisen from virulence of malice, rather than severity of criticism: butas I was more apprehensive of there being just grounds to excite thelatter than conscious of having deserved the former, Icontinue not tobelieve that probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked.However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from whence itcame, it would be ungenerous to retort: for no passion suffersmorethan malice from disappointment. For my own part, I see no reason whythe author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as acandid and judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at hislastrehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at leastof sincerity, and even though the annotation be rude, he may rely uponthe justness of the comment. Considered in this light, that audience,whose _fiat_ isessential to the poet's claim, whether his object befame or profit, has surely a right to expect some deference to itsopinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude.As for the little puny critics, whoscatter their peevish strictures inprivate circles, and scribble at every author who has the eminence ofbeing unconnected with them, as they are usually spleen-swoln from avain idea of increasing their consequence,there will always be founda petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should place themas far beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness hadsunk them from the level of the most unsuccessfulauthor.It is not without pleasure that I catch at an opportunity of justifyingmyself from the charge of intending any national reflection in thecharacter of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemen opposed the piecefrom thatidea, I thank them sincerely for their opposition; and if thecondemnation of this comedy (however misconceived the provocation)could have added one spark to the decaying flame of national attachmentto the countrysupposed to be reflected on, I should have been happy inits fate, and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more realservice in its failure, than the successful morality of a thousandstage-novels will evereffect.It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for theexertion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance)their merit has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for thewarmestand truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, thepoet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamation of a child toclose the shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of theprincipals in a theatre cannotbe so apparent to the public. I thinkit therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre (the onlyone I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try thedramatic line will meet with that candour andliberal attention, whichare generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius intoexcellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance ofexperience.The AUTHOR* * * * * * *DRAMATIS PERSONAE  Asoriginally acted at COVENT GARDEN THEATRE in 1775  Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE  CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE  FAULKLAND  ACRES  Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER  FAG  DAVID  THOMAS  Mrs. MALAPROP  LYDIALANGUISH  JULIA  LUCY  Maid, Boy, Servants, &c.SCENE--Bath.Time of action--Five hours.* * * * * * *PROLOGUEBy the AUTHOR[Enter SERJEANT-AT-LAW, and ATTORNEY following, and giving apaper.]SERJEANT  What's here!--a vile cramp hand! I cannot see  Without my spectacles.ATTORNEY                        He means his fee.  Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again.  [Gives money.]SERJEANT  The scrawlimproves! [more] O come, 'tis pretty plain.  Hey! how's this? Dibble!--sure it cannot be!  A poet's brief! a poet and a fee!ATTORNEY  Yes, sir! though you without reward, I know,  Would gladly plead the Muse'scause.SERJEANT                                      So!--so!ATTORNEY  And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall  On me.SERJEANT        Dear Dibble, no offence at all.ATTORNEY  Some sons of Phoebus in the courts wemeet,SERJEANT  And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet!ATTORNEY  Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig  Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.SERJEANT  Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl  A leaf oflaurel in a grove of curl!  Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days,  This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.ATTORNEY  Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply,  Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie--  Do you, with allthose blushing powers of face,  And wonted bashful hesitating grace,  Rise in the court, and flourish on the case.  [Exit.]SERJEANT  For practice then suppose--this brief will show it,--  Me, Serjeant Woodward,--counselfor the poet.  Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal  With this dread court, from whence there's no appeal;  No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law,  Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw:  But judgment given,your sentence must remain;  No writ of error lies--to Drury Lane:    Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute  We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.  No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury;--  I think I neverfaced a milder jury!  Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation.  A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation!  But such the public candour, without fear  My client waives all right of challenge here.  Nonewsman from our session is dismiss'd,  Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list;  His faults can never hurt another's ease,  His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please:  Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,  And bythe general voice will stand or fall.* * * * * * *PrologueBy the AUTHORSPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.  Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er,  The worthy serjeant need appear no more:  Inpleasing I a different client choose,  He served the Poet--I would serve the Muse.  Like him, I'll try to merit your applause,  A female counsel in a female's cause.    Look on this form--where humour, quaint andsly,  Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye;  Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles  In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles;  While her light mask or covers satire's strokes,  Or hides the consciousblush her wit provokes.  Look on her well--does she seem form'd to teach?  Should you expect to hear this lady preach?  Is grey experience suited to her youth?  Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?  Bid her begrave, those lips should rebel prove  To every theme that slanders mirth or love.    Yet, thus adorn'd with every graceful art  To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart--  Must we displace her? And insteadadvance  The goddess of the woful countenance--  The sentimental Muse!--Her emblems view,  The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue!  View her--too chaste to look like flesh and blood--  Primly portray'd onemblematic wood!  There, fix'd in usurpation, should she stand,  She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand:  And having made her votaries weep a flood,  Good heaven! she'll end her comedies in blood--  Bid HarryWoodward break poor Dunstal's crown!  Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down;  While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene,  Shall stab herself--or poison Mrs. Green.    Such dire encroachments to prevent intime,  Demands the critic's voice--the poet's rhyme.  Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws!  Such puny patronage but hurts the cause:  Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask;  And moral truth disdains thetrickster's mask  For here their favourite stands, whose brow severe  And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear;  Who, when oppress'd by foes her worth creates,  Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates.* * * ** * * * * * *THE RIVALS* * * * * * * * * * *ACT I* * * * * * *Scene I.--A street.[Enter THOMAS; he crosses the stage; FAG follows, looking after him.]FAGWhat! Thomas! sure 'tis he?--What! Thomas!Thomas!THOMASHey!--Odd's life! Mr. Fag!--give us your hand, my old fellow-servant.FAGExcuse my glove, Thomas:--I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, myprince of charioteers, you look as hearty!--but whothe deuce thoughtof seeing you in Bath?THOMASSure, master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postillion, be allcome.FAGIndeed!THOMASAy, master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make himavisit;--so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip! we were all off atan hour's warning.FAGAy, ay, hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute!THOMASBut tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd!Sir Anthony willstare to see the Captain here!FAGI do not serve Captain Absolute now.THOMASWhy sure!FAGAt present I am employed by Ensign Beverley.THOMASI doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for thebetter.FAGI have not changed, Thomas.THOMASNo! Why didn't you say you had left young master?FAGNo.--Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther:--brieflythen--Captain Absolute and Ensign Beverley areone and the same person.THOMASThe devil they are!FAGSo it is indeed, Thomas; and the ensign half of my master being onguard at present--the captain has nothing to do with me.THOMASSo, so!--What, this is somefreak, I warrant!--Do tell us, Mr. Fag, themeaning o't--you know I ha' trusted you.FAGYou'll be secret, Thomas?THOMASAs a coach-horse.FAGWhy then the cause of all this is--Love,--Love, Thomas, who (as you maygetread to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.THOMASAy, ay;--I guessed there was a lady in the case:--but pray, why doesyour master pass only for ensign?--Now if he had shammedgeneralindeed----FAGAh! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, mymaster is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady wholikes him better as a half pay ensign than if she knew he wasson andheir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet of three thousand a year.THOMASThat is an odd taste indeed!--But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? Isshe rich, hey?FAGRich!--Why, I believe she owns half the stocks!Zounds! Thomas, shecould pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman! Shehas a lapdog that eats out of gold,--she feeds her parrot with smallpearls,--and all her thread-papers are made ofbank-notes!THOMASBravo, faith!--Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least:--butdoes she draw kindly with the captain?FAGAs fond as pigeons.THOMASMay one hear her name?FAGMiss Lydia Languish.--Butthere is an old tough aunt in the way;though, by-the-by, she has never seen my master--for we got acquaintedwith miss while on a visit in Gloucestershire.THOMASWell--I wish they were once harnessed together inmatrimony.--But pray,Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath?--I ha' heard a deal ofit--here's a mort o' merrymaking, hey?FAGPretty well, Thomas, pretty well--'tis a good lounge; in the morning wego to thepump-room (though neither my master nor I drink the waters);after breakfast we saunter on the parades, or play a game at billiards;at night we dance; but damn the place, I'm tired of it: their regularhours stupifyme--not a fiddle nor a card after eleven!--However, Mr.Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in privateparties;--I'll introduce you there, Thomas--you'll like him much.THOMASSure I know Mr. Du-Peigne--youknow his master is to marry Madam Julia.FAGI had forgot.--But, Thomas, you must polish a little--indeed youmust.--Here now--this wig!--What the devil do you do with a wig,Thomas?--None of the London whips of anydegree of _ton_ wear wigs now.THOMASMore's the pity! more's the pity! I say.--Odd's life! when I heard howthe lawyers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how'twould go next:--odd rabbit it! when thefashion had got foot on thebar, I guessed 'twould mount to the box!--but 'tis all out ofcharacter, believe me, Mr. Fag: and look'ee, I'll never gi' upmine--the lawyers and doctors may do as they will.FAGWell, Thomas,we'll not quarrel about that.THOMASWhy, bless you, the gentlemen of the professions ben't all of amind--for in our village now, thoff Jack Gauge, the exciseman, hasta'en to his carrots, there's little Dick the farrierswears he'llnever forsake his bob, though all the college should appear with theirown heads!FAGIndeed! well said, Dick!--But hold--mark! mark! Thomas.THOMASZooks! 'tis the captain.--Is that the Lady withhim?FAGNo, no, that is Madam Lucy, my master's mistress's maid. They lodge atthat house--but I must after him to tell him the news.THOMASOdd! he's giving her money!--Well, Mr. Fag----FAGGood-bye, Thomas. Ihave an appointment in Gyde's porch this evening ateight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party.[Exeunt severally.]* * * * * * *Scene II.--A Dressing-room in Mrs. MALAPROP's Lodgings.[LYDIA sitting on a sofa,with a book in her hand. Lucy, as justreturned from a message.]LUCYIndeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don'tbelieve there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.LYDIAAnd could not youget _The Reward of Constancy_?LUCYNo, indeed, ma'am.LYDIANor _The Fatal Connexion_?LUCYNo, indeed, ma'am.LYDIANor _The Mistakes of the Heart_?LUCYMa'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss SukeySaunter hadjust fetched it away.LYDIAHeigh-ho!--Did you inquire for _The Delicate Distress_?LUCYOr, _The Memoirs of Lady Woodford_? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it fromMr. Frederick's, butLady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled anddog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.LYDIAHeigh-ho!--Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me.Shehas a most observing thumb; and, I believe, cherishes her nails forthe convenience of making marginal notes.--Well, child, what have youbrought me?LUCYOh! here, ma'am.--[Taking books from under her cloak, andfrom herpockets.] This is _The Gordian Knot_,--and this _Peregrine Pickle_.Here are _The Tears of Sensibility_, and _Humphrey Clinker_. This is_The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself_, and herethesecond volume of _The Sentimental Journey_.LYDIAHeigh-ho!--What are those books by the glass?LUCYThe great one is only _The Whole Duty of Man_, where I press a fewblonds, ma'am.LYDIAVery well--give methe sal volatile.LUCYIs it in a blue cover, ma'am?LYDIAMy smelling-bottle, you simpleton!LUCYOh, the drops!--here, ma'am.LYDIAHold!--here's some one coming--quick, see who it is.----[Exit LUCY.]Surely I heard mycousin Julia's voice.[Re-enter LUCY.]LUCYLud! ma'am, here is Miss Melville.LYDIAIs it possible!----[Exit LUCY.][Enter JULIA.]LYDIAMy dearest Julia, how delighted am I!--[Embrace.] How unexpected wasthishappiness!JULIATrue, Lydia--and our pleasure is the greater.--But what has been thematter?--you were denied to me at first!LYDIAAh, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell you!--But first inform mewhat has conjuredyou to Bath?--Is Sir Anthony here?JULIAHe is--we are arrived within this hour--and I suppose he will be hereto wait on Mrs. Malaprop as soon as he is dressed.LYDIAThen before we are interrupted, let me impart to yousome of mydistress!--I know your gentle nature will sympathize with me, thoughyour prudence may condemn me! My letters have informed you of my wholeconnection with Beverley; but I have lost him, Julia! My aunthasdiscovered our intercourse by a note she intercepted, and has confinedme ever since! Yet, would you believe it? she has absolutely fallen inlove with a tall Irish baronet she met one night since we have beenhere, at