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STAGE & SCREEN | |
| 201 stories by Anton Chekhov |
WHY WRITE: Chekhov
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 The
Golden Ass: a
new play by Thomas Palakeel
Theatre Database information on Anton Chekhov Chekhov in American--an essay from The Atlantic Monthly A list of some new American playwrights I know not, sir, whether Bacon wrote the works of Shakespeare,
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| Playwriting tips for beginners.
(Keep Chekhov in mind, good advice for fiction writers, too.) Notes for students by Thomas Palakeel. TEXT WITHOUT NOTES Before you start writing your play, observe the highlighted text in the great Chekhov one-act play THE BOOR presented on this page. The play is simple, clear, direct, and full of power, much of its drama derived from characterization and dialogue, and of course, from the right level of action from beginning to the end. Learn from the progress of this play and take it upon yourself the task of offering the same, relentless dramatic experience in your play. Observe how quickly the play estalishes the context of action, and makes us pay attention to all the three main characters from the very first moment. As you get ready to start, make sure to clear
your mind and think about your undertaking. Remember, a play is a story,
but “shown” on a stage instead of on a page. A stage is like a bedroom,
with one of the walls removed. The audience is peeping inside, secretly
viewing the show, which is the case when we first hear--overhear--LUKA's
utterance:
A play depends upon the power of utterance. Remember that a play is basically a single event. When we peep into a stranger’s bedroom, we don’t see what happened in the past. We get to see what unfolds as we watch, right there, in real time, and we are not going to be able to sit there and peep forever, sharing our presentness with Hamlet. We, too, have only a limited time. In a play, the past is included in the present. Past may be mentioned, contested, revealed, suppressed, and fought over in the present, but a play is ultimately about what happens next and next and next, yes, in the sequence of events that culminate with clear finality at the end. In a real life bedroom, there may not be any finality. The playwright needs to offer it. Finding that focus, the intensity, is the first task. The classical notion of "unities" (of time, place, and action) is a sophisticated theorization of this simple need to focus and to shape. As you begin to write, we do need to arrive at a sense of the ending, not to mention the beginning. A writer must have the courage to leave out all that is dramaticaly and visually uninteresting or irrelevant to the life and focus of the story. Again, I think Chekhov's play illustrates this point. Be bold to leave out things you love too much, your darlings, your great philosophical ideas, your idealistic dreams, more often your ego, all of which will weaken the sense of play, the surprise, and the discovery. Don’t let some vague philosophy or idea get in the way of the drama. Chekov didn't let it happen, but ideas sneaked in, naturally, which is great, and let's trust we will get so lucky. In terms of the structure, an effective story has nothing to do with ideas or grand visions. It is play, stupid!
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So where do we start? Go directly to the point right before the moment of crisis. Chekov takes us directly to such moment here, right before the arrival of the creditor, Mr. Smirnov.... It could be a morning of trouble, a night of scandal, go to the door of that moment and knock, right before something is about to burst. A good play starts with a knock that silences the audience.THE BOORAgain look at the first utterance: It isn't right, ma'am. You're wearing yourself out!
You may have to invent this starting point in the same manner you invent the ending. A playwright has to be quite cold-hearted and professional here when deciding upon the beginning and the ending, and then, of course, there is the "middle"—this is where all your knowledge of human beings, and your self-knowledge, too, will come into play as you develop the story through dialogue and action. Even your darlings could come in handy. Everything is useful in a play, except the writer's ego--characters' ego is fine. If you don't believe, just check out Madam Popov and Mr. Smirnov.
Point of Attack. You might want to remember this term and the idea. The point of attack in this play is the arrival of the creditor, Mr.Smirnov. It is the turn in Hamlet when the ghost of the King speaks to the mournful, baffled prince. Establish the beginning scene or a sequence of scenes, and then, attack. A monologue by the main character could be a possible way to start. You might end up dropping it in your revision. Sure. Yes, try starting your play with a monolgue,
where, the necessary information about the back-story could be slipped in, it could be long, completely nutty, why not, go for the effect, and that you are slyly slipping in, the exposition, won't be noted by the readers, which is good, and you could continue the exposition throughout, but don’t forget that someone is still peeping into the bedroom, eager for hints, even more eager to see what is happening at that moment and the next moment. Also don't bore that person to death with too much information.Right here after the context has been reasonably clear, begin the "attack", bring in that new turn in the story: a stranger arrives, a ghost speaks, a wife asks her husband for a costly favor, whatever, allow something definite, something clear, something that has an iceberg of a story underneath it. Get to it, quick. Movies these days follow this pattern religiously. It is commonsense, really, this beginning business. Don't speak about it. Let it happen. Let someone walk on and do something.
What about the middle? The real play is the middle, the substance, this is the story you want to DRAMATIZE, not tell.
Stories are everywhere. Life is story. There is nothing that is not a story. But remember, much of our lives are made up of boring routines, crap, nothing has a shape or meaning, although some folks go about pretending to be otherwise--write about those folks! Reveal what they really are...that's your job.
Seriously, a writer must take this routine stuff and knead it into a form, which means forcing a shape on it, and placing it right after an "invented" beginning, and giving it the status of the so-called "middle", and "the end"--if you have done the a good job with the "midddle" the end will come. Don't worry. See, everything is easy, just as easy as the quick unfolding of action in THE BOOR.
What if I don't have a good story idea? If you are finding it hard to come up with a story idea, page through your local newspapers, go to older ones. Read about court cases, deaths, accidents, odd events. Small town newspapers are lovely. Pull out a character from the news item and imagine a past and a future for this character. If you feel it is too close to someone’s life, pull out more items and blend them together, and make a composite story and then it becomes your own. You may be able to pick up amazing stories from your environment.
The screenwriter Jim McGrath once told our internet2 based screeenwriting students: You want a story? Just send a request to your mind. E-mail your mind. And the mind always writes back with a story idea. Don't have any doubts about that. Of course, it will help if you make specifc requests. "Send me a story about a boor and a widow." Send me an idea for a play I want I want to stage at my school. The mind always obliges. I myself try this method now and send out a request to my mind, usually in this address: mind@mindspring.com. Don't worry if it bounces back, but in the end your mind will will find some way to deliver the story to you. The trick is to ask and keep thinking about your request.
I would say, a good story is actually two stories. Two stories rubbing against other and creating pleasure or pain; you can always force this meeting and braiding process with various degrees of "violence." The boor's story and the widow's story is the clearest example I can think of. This encounter of the two stories is CONFLICT, it is in fiction, it is a kind of friction without which you have no story.
Seriously, you need to learn the art of "finding" stories; it is like looking for a lucky penny. They are everywhere. Look. You know how a penny looks like. If you don't know how a story looks like, please don't try to write a play. Give it up, please.
Writing the Play. If you know the tentative shape of the play and its underlying frictions (you only need a rough shape; unlike a poem, you might want to develop a clear picture of the premise of the story before you start.)
What is the premise of THE BOOR? If you are writing a screenplay, the answer is called a logline.
(E.T. left behind on a strange and dangerous planet makes friends with a few kindred spirits and finally gets home.)
Who is the protagonist of the play? What does the protagonist want? What are the obstancles in the way?0
Who is the antagonist? What does he or she want? How does the objective differ and cause conflict?
It is not necessary that the audience must love the protagonist, but the protagonist must demonstrate some genuine reason for trust. A protagonist who is shown "petting the dog" early on has won our trust, even a cruel mafia don may earn our trust by a symbolic action of trust on some level. Something about Madam Popov makes us cautious about trusting her, and we see her as a bitter and vain woman, almost a comic figure, yet we are sympathetic to her and Smirnov's apperance makes us hopeful, but he is also a let down, and the verbal duel steadily grows into a farce until Smirnov begins to recognize the absolutely brutal honesty in his opponent, and he falls in love with her, and then all the way to the literal duel, we are presented with a splendid specimen of dramatic conflict, and in the final moment of transparency, when the two who were antagonists to each other, to us, suddenly, emerge as hero and heroine.Beginning writers, don't worry about the format. Keep a book of plays close by and simply imitate the stage directions, dialogue conventions and all that format stuff. Don’t be hard on yourself, at least at first. Go. Keep going. Complete it. Do it fast. Get a first draft down expending all your creative energy, and keep the critic at bay.
A play can be a domestic story, or a theatrical experiment that breaks conventional models, both are fine. Ultimately, it is all about PEEPING and SEEING and SHOWING and giving words for actors to shout and cry and push and shove so that your words will have greater ring of truth. You can even do it without dialogue. Remember Athol Fugard's play THE DRUMMER, which has no dialogue.
As you start writing, I can bet that you will feel unsure, then, just take a good look at Chekhov's THE BOOR or any of the great plays he has given us.
Dramatis Personae
HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV, a young widow, mistress of a country estate
GRIGORI STEPANOVITCH SMIRNOV, proprietor of a country estate
LUKA, servant of MRS. POPOV
A gardener. A Coachman. Several workmen.
TIME: The present.
This English translation was published in Contemporary One-Act Plays. Ed. B. Roland Lewis. New York: Scribner's Sons, 1922.
SCENE: A well-furnished reception-room in MRS. POPOV'S home. MRS. POPOV is discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. LUKA is also present.LUKA: It isn't right, ma'am. You're wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries; everything that breathes is enjoying life; even the cat knows how to be happy--slips about the courtyard and catches birds--but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister. Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven't left this house for a whole year. Exposition: Note how Madam Popov has already come alive in her servant's words.
MRS. POPOV: And I shall never leave it--why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead.
LUKA: There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead; it was the will of the Lord, and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it's time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourning forever! My wife died a few years ago. I grieved for her. I wept a whole month--and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He sighs.] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you receive no one. We live--you'll pardon me--like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by mice--as though there weren't any more nice people in the world! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. The regiment is stationed in Riblov--officers--simply beautiful! One can't see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live--! Beauty can't last forever. When ten short years are over, you'll be glad enough to go out a bit and meet the officers--and then it'll be too late.
Note how the direction of the play is hinted effortlessly, with humor, again by the servant.MRS. POPOV: [Resolutely.] Please don't speak of these things again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems so. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him! I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust to me, cruel, and--he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove to him how I can love. There, in the Beyond, he'll find me the same as I was until his death.
Note the true nature of Madam's resolve. Her character has been established.LUKA: What is the use of all these words, when you'd so much rather go walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors?
MRS. POPOV: [Weeping.] Oh!
LUKA: Madam, dear madam, what is it? In Heaven's name!
MRS. POPOV: He loved Tobby so! He always drove him to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horseman he was! How fine he looked when he pulled at the reigns with all his might! Tobby, Tobby--give him an extra measure of oats to-day!
LUKA: Yes, ma'am.
[A bell rings loudly.]
MRS. POPOV: [Shudders.] What's that? I am at home to no one.
LUKA: Yes, ma'am.
[He goes out, centre.]
MRS. POPOV: [Gazing at the photograph.] You shall see, Nikolai, how I can love and forgive! My love will die only with me--when my poor heart stops beating. [She smiles through her tears.] And aren't you ashamed? I have been a good, true wife; I have imprisoned myself and I shall remain true until death, and you--you--you're not ashamed of yourself, my dear monster! You quarrelled with me, left me alone for weeks--
[LUKA enters in great excitement.]
LUKA: Oh, ma'am, someone is asking for you, insists on seeing you--
MRS. POPOV: You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one?
LUKA: I said so, but he won't listen; he says it is a pressing matter.
MRS. POPOV: I receive no one!
LUKA: I told him that, but he's a wild man; he swore and pushed himself into the room; he's in the dining-room now.
MRS. POPOV: [Excitedly.] Good. Show him in. The impudent--!
[LUKA goes out, centre.]
MRS. POPOV: What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my peace? [She sighs.] Yes, it is clear I must enter a convent. [Meditatively.] Yes, a convent.
[SMIRNOV enters, followed by LUKA.]
SMIRNOV: [To LUKA.] Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [Discovering MRS. POPOV--politely.] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself: Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country gentleman, Grigori Stapanovitch Smirnov! I'm compelled to bother you about an exceedingly important matter.
Yet another magnificent characterization, followed by the servant's description of his entry, and then his speech.MRS. POPOV: [Without offering her hand.] What is it you wish?
SMIRNOV: Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be acquainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred roubles. Inasmuch as I have to pay the interest to-morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the money to-day.
MRS. POPOV: Twelve-hundred--and for what was my husband indebted to you?
SMIRNOV: He bought oats from me.
MRS. POPOV: [With a sigh, to LUKA.] Don't forget to give Tobby an extra measure of oats.
Note the two oats references, first set-up and then a pay-off[LUKA goes out.]
MRS. POPOV: [To SMIRNOV.] If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I shall, of course, pay you, but I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will return from the city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your request. Furthermore, today is just seven months since the death of my husband, and I am not in the mood to discuss money matters.
SMIRNOV: And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll seize my estate!
MRS. POPOV: Day after to-morrow you will receive the money.
SMIRNOV: I don't need the money day after to-morrow; I need it to-day.
MRS. POPOV: I'm sorry I can't pay you today.
SMIRNOV: And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.
MRS. POPOV: But what can I do if I haven't it?
SMIRNOV: So you can't pay?
MRS. POPOV: I cannot.
SMIRNOV: Hm! Is that your last word?
MRS. POPOV: My last.
SMIRNOV: Absolutely?
MRS. POPOV: Absolutely.
SMIRNOV: Thank you. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And they expect me to stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked why I was always worrying. Why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept; in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money, and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?
MRS. POPOV: I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then you will get your money.
SMIRNOV: I did not come to see the manager; I came to see you. What the devil--pardon the language--do I care for your manager?
MRS. POPOV: Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you any further.
[She goes out, left.]
SMIRNOV: What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! Do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? The husband is dead and all that; the manager is--the devil with him!--travelling somewhere. Now, tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or knock my head against a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarrelled with Kurzin and came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov is ill and this woman has--moods! Not one of them will pay up! And all because I've spoiled them, because I'm an old whiner, dish-rag! I'm too tender-hearted with them. But wait! I allow nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge until she pays! Brr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger, and I can hardly breathe! I'm even growing ill! [He calls out.] Servant!
[LUKA enters.]
LUKA: What is it you wish?
SMIRNOV: Bring me Kvas or water! [LUKA goes out.] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is on the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss money matters. Women's logic! That's why I never liked to talk to women, and why I dislike doing it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!--I'm getting cold as ice; this affair has made me so angry. I need only to see such a romantic creature from a distance to get so angry that I have cramps in my calves! It's enough to make one yell for help!
[Enter LUKA.]
LUKA: [Hands him water.] Madam is ill and is not receiving.
SMIRNOV: March! [LUKA goes out.] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't receive, either! I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As Heaven is my witness, I'll get the money. You don't disturb me with your mourning--or with your dimples. We know these dimples! [He calls out the window.] Simon, unharness! We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again. [Imitating him.] Stop! I'll show you how. Stop! [Leaves window.] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no money, didn't sleep last night and now--mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches; perhaps I ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [Calling.] Servant!
LUKA: What do you wish?
SMIRNOV: Something to drink! [LUKA goes out. SMIRNOV sits down and looks at his clothes.] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest--the lady probably took me for a highwayman. [He yawns.] It was a little impolite to come into a reception-room with such clothes. Oh, well, no harm done. I'm not here as a guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors.
LUKA: [Entering with glass.] You take great liberty, sir.
SMIRNOV: [Angrily.] What?
LUKA: I--I--I just----
SMIRNOV: Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet.
LUKA: [Angrily.] Nice mess! This fellow won't leave!
[He goes out.]
SMIRNOV: Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world! I even feel ill! Servant!
[MRS. POPOV comes in with downcast eyes.]
MRS. POPOV: Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg you, please to cease disturbing my rest.
Note Madam's choice of words in her "diaologue"; each word reveals her character, her standoffish mood.
SMIRNOV: Pay me my money and I'll leave.
MRS. POPOV: I told you once, plainly, in your native tongue, that I haven't the money at hand; wait until day after to-morrow.
SMIRNOV: And I also had the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow.
Smirnov's response matches her tone.
MRS. POPOV: But what can I do if I haven't the money?
SMIRNOV: So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not?
MRS. POPOV: I cannot.
SMIRNOV: Then I'll sit here until I get the money. [He sits down.] You will pay day after to-morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [Jumps up.] I ask you, do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?
MRS. POPOV: Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.
SMIRNOV: I'm not talking about stables, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not?
MRS. POPOV: You have no idea how to treat a lady.
SMIRNOV: Oh, yes, I have.
MRS. POPOV: No, you have not. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person! Respectable people don't speak so to ladies.
SMIRNOV: How remarkable! How do you want one to speak to you? In French, perhaps! Madame, je vous prie! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day! And how this mourning becomes you!
[He makes a low bow with mock ceremony.]
MRS. POPOV: Not at all funny! I think it vulgar!
SMIRNOV: [Imitating her.] Not at all funny--vulgar! I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times have I fought duels for women, twelve I jilted and nine jilted me. There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bowed and scraped. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, loved in every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender passion, until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sights--for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a kopeck! I am not speaking of present company, but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [he strikes his forehead] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the romantic creatures before him he imagines he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights; but if one looks into the soul--it's nothing but a common crocodile. [He siezes the arm-chair and breaks it in two.] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines it is a masterpiece of creation, and that it has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman! When she is in love, all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she swings her train about and tries to lead him by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, and naturally you know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? Never! Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock, than a faithful woman.
Allow an eloquent moment like this for your characters. The trick is to capture speech that is raw, vivid, newly minted. And again, here the pay-off for the "faithful woman" theme set up early on in the play.
MRS. POPOV: But allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps?
SMIRNOV: Yes, indeed! The man!
MRS. POPOV: The man! [She laughs sarcastically.] The man true and faithful in love! Well, that is something new! [Bitterly.] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! So long as we have gone thus far, I may as well say that of all the men I have known, my husband was the best; I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love; I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshipped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of men betrayed me in every possible way. After his death I found his desk filled with love-letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months--it is horrible even to think about it--he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings--and in spite of everything I trusted him and was true to him. And more than that: he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.
SMIRNOV: [Laughing disrespectfully.] Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, gaze up at the windows, and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!
MRS. POPOV: [Springing up.] What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?
SMIRNOV: You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder your nose!
The dialogue has now turned into a duel.MRS. POPOV: How dare you speak so?
SMIRNOV: Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to call things by their right names. I am not a woman, and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream.
MRS. POPOV: I'm not screaming. It is you who are screaming. Please leave me, I beg you.
SMIRNOV: Pay me my money, and I'll leave.
MRS. POPOV: I won't give you the money.
SMIRNOV: You won't? You won't give me my money?
MRS. POPOV: I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me!
SMIRNOV: As I haven't had the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, please don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it.
MRS. POPOV: [Breathing hard.] You are going to sit down?
SMIRNOV: I already have.
Thrive on the comedy of the situation, the conflict between words and action, the incongruence between the characters and their motives...
MRS. POPOV: Kindly leave the house!
SMIRNOV: Give me the money.
MRS. POPOV: I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going?
SMIRNOV: No.
MRS. POPOV: No?
SMIRNOV: No.
MRS. POPOV: Very well.
[She rings the bell. Enter LUKA.]
MRS. POPOV: Luka, show the gentleman out.
LUKA: [Going to SMIRNOV.] Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want?
SMIRNOV: [Jumping up.] Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.
LUKA: [Puts his hand to his heart.] Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill; I can't breathe!
MRS. POPOV: Where is Dascha? [Calling.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha!
[She rings.]
LUKA: They're all gone! I'm ill! Water!
MRS. POPOV: [To SMIRNOV.] Leave! Get out!
SMIRNOV: Kindly be a little more polite!
MRS. POPOV: [Striking her fists and stamping her feet.] You are vulgar! You're a boor! A monster!
SMIRNOV: What did you say?
MRS. POPOV: I said you were a boor, a monster!
SMIRNOV: [Steps toward her quickly.] Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me?
MRS. POPOV: What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you?
SMIRNOV: And you think that because you are a romantic creature you can insult me without being punished? I challenge you!
LUKA: Merciful Heaven! Water!
SMIRNOV: We'll have a duel!
MRS. POPOV: Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck I am afraid of you?
SMIRNOV: I allow no one to insult me, and I make no exception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex!"
MRS. POPOV: [Trying to cry him down.] Boor, boor, boor!
SMIRNOV: It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only the man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let their be equity in all things. There's a limit!
MRS. POPOV: You wish to fight a duel? Very well.
SMIRNOV: Immediately.
MRS. POPOV: Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [She hurries away, then turns.] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you!
[She goes out.]
An actual duel is now inevitable! Dialogue has escalated into duel.
SMIRNOV: I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental young puppy. For me there is no weaker sex!
LUKA: Oh, sir. [Falls to his knees.] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have frightened me to death already, and now you want to fight a duel.
SMIRNOV: [Paying no attention.] A duel. That's equity, emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? [Imitating her.] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can one say to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor, it's the first time in my life that I ever saw such a woman.
LUKA: Oh, sir. Go away. Go away!
SMIRNOV: That is a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No shilly-shallying, but fire, powder, and noise! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that.
Note the shift in the man's tone, the virulence shifts into a strange understading.LUKA: [Weeping.] Oh, sir, go away.
[Enter MRS. POPOV.]
MRS. POPOV: Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel, please show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before!
Oh Oh! But comedy can't get any better.LUKA: God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman. Why has this horror come to us?
[He goes out.]
SMIRNOV: [Looking at the pistols.] You see, there are different kinds. There are special duelling pistols, with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors; fine pistols! A pair like that cost at least ninety roubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [Aside.] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman!
MRS. POPOV: Like this?
SMIRNOV: Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back--so--then you aim--put your head back a little. Just stretch your arm out, please. So--then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble.
MRS. POPOV: It isn't well to shoot inside; let's go into the garden.
SMIRNOV: Yes. I'll tell you now, I am going to shoot into the air.
MRS. POPOV: That is too much! Why?
SMIRNOV: Because---because. That's my business.
MRS. POPOV: You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no flinching! Please follow me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that head I hate so much. Are you afraid?
SMIRNOV: Yes, I'm afraid.
MRS. POPOV: You are lying. Why won't you fight?
SMIRNOV: Because--because--I--like you.
The ultimate duel has now begun. Again, each is behaving in character, this is the inevitable outcome of who they are.
MRS. POPOV: [With an angry laugh.] You like me! He dares to say he likes me! [She points to the door.] Go.
SMIRNOV: [Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and starts. At the door he stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he approaches her, hesitating.] Listen! Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me--how can I express myself? The thing is like this--such things are-- [He raises his voice.] Now, is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the back of the chair, which breaks.] The devil know what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand? I--I'm almost in love!
MRS. POPOV: Leave! I hate you.
SMIRNOV: Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap.
MRS. POPOV: Go, or I'll shoot.
SMIRNOV: Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand! I'm mad! Consider it and decide immediately, for if I go now, we shall never see each other again. Decide--speak--I am a noble, a respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air. I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife?
MRS. POPOV: [Swings the revolver angrily.] I'll shoot!
SMIRNOV: My mind is not clear--I can't understand. Servant--water! I have fallen in love like any young man. [He takes her hand and she cries with pain.] I love you! [He kneels.] I love you as I have never loved before. Twelve women I jilted, nine jilted me, but not one of them all have I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost; I lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand. Shame and disgrace! For five years I haven't been in love; I thanked the Lord for it, and now I am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your hand! Yes or no? Will you?--Good!
[He gets up and goes quickly to the door.]
MRS. POPOV: Wait a minute!
SMIRNOV: [Stopping.] Well?
MRS. POPOV: Nothing. You may go. But--wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or--no; don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! [She throws the revolver on to the chair.] My finger is swollen from this thing. [She angrily tears her handkerchief.] What are you standing there for? Get out!
SMIRNOV: Farewell!
MRS. POPOV: Yes, go. [Cries out.] Why are you going? Wait--no, go!! Oh, how angry I am! Don't come too near, don't come too near--er--come--no nearer.
SMIRNOV: [Approaching her.] How angry I am with myself! Fall in love like a schoolboy, throw myself on my knees. I've got a chill! [Strongly.] I love you. This is fine--all I needed was to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun, and then you appear! [He takes her in his arms.] I can never forgive myself.
MRS. POPOV: Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you--you--this is--
[A long kiss. Enter LUKA with an axe, the gardener with a rake, the coachman with a pitchfork, and workmen with poles.]
Look at the marvel of this moment when all the assorted servants marshall their forces and come to save their lady!LUKA: [Staring at the pair.] Merciful heavens!
[A long pause.]
MRS. POPOV: [Dropping her eyes.] Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats.
CURTAIN
A beginning writer is advised to start a play
with a monologue. Imagine your central character, the protagonist in a
crucial moment of action and freewrite with a sense of abandon, without
any censoring, without any vested interest, just write, get it out:
Here is a good example of a sustained monologue, eloquent, passionate,
not necessarily orderly, yet clear in some way. This is from Chekhov's
UNCLE VANYA.
VOITSKI: He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a really
splendid subject for a book!
Imagine it, the life of a retired professor, as stale
as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches,
and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy
and envy, living on the estate of his first wife,
although he hates it, because he can't afford to live in town. He is everlastingly
whining about his hard
lot, though, as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the
son of a common deacon and has
attained the professor's chair, become the son-in-law of a senator, is
called "your Excellency," and so
on. But I'll tell you something; the man has been
writing on art for twenty-five years, and he doesn't
know the very first thing about it. For twenty-five years he has
been reading and writing things that
clever men have long known and stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five
years he has been
making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the
man's self-conceit and
presumption all this time! For twenty-five years he has been masquerading
in false clothes and has
now retired, absolutely unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking
across the earth like a
demi-god! And look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan himself
was not more
favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was
a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven
there above us, noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils,
and she loved him as0
only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as pure and beautiful
as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother,
adores him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe
in her. His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant
beauty; she married him in his old age and has surrendered all the glory
of her beauty and freedom to him. Why? What for?
Such fidelity is false and unnatural. It is thought immoral for a woman
to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but to
strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire from
her heart--this is allowed!
Here is another monologue, this one in a female voice, from THE SEAGULL by Chekhov:
NINA: All men and beasts, lions, eagles, and quails,
horned stags, geese, spiders, silent fish that inhabit the
waves,
starfish from the sea, and creatures invisible to the eye--in one word,
life--all, all life, completing the
dreary
round imposed upon it, has died out at last. A thousand years have passed
since the earth last bore a
living
creature on her breast, and the unhappy moon now lights her lamp in vain.
No longer are the cries of
storks
heard in the meadows, or the drone of beetles in the groves of limes. All
is cold, cold. All is void, void,
void. All is terrible, terrible-- [A pause.] The bodies of all living
creatures have dropped to dust, and eternal
matter
has transformed them into stones and water and clouds; but their spirits
have flowed together into
one, and
that great world-soul am I! In me is the spirit of
the great Alexander, the spirit of Napoleon, of
Caesar, of Shakespeare, and of the tiniest leech that swims. In
me the consciousness of man has joined hands
with the
instinct of the animal; I understand all, all, all, and each life lives
again in me. [A pause.] I am alone.
Once
in a hundred years my lips are opened, my voice echoes mournfully
across the desert earth, and no one
hears.
And you, poor lights of the marsh, you do not hear me. You are engendered
at sunset in the putrid
mud, and
flit wavering about the lake till dawn, unconscious, unreasoning, unwarmed
by the breath of life.
Satan,
father of eternal matter, trembling lest the spark of life should glow
in you, has ordered an unceasing
movement
of the atoms that compose you, and so you shift and change forever. I,
the spirit of the universe, I
alone
am immutable and eternal. [A pause.] Like a captive in a dungeon deep and
void, I know not where I
am, nor
what awaits me. One thing only is not hidden from
me: in my fierce and obstinate battle with Satan,
the source
of the forces of matter, I am destined to be victorious in the end. Matter
and spirit will then be one
at last
in glorious harmony, and the reign of freedom will begin on earth. But
this can only come to pass by
slow degrees,
when after countless eons the moon and earth and shining Sirius himself
shall fall to dust. Until
that hour
... [A pause.] Satan, my mighty foe, advances; I
see his dread and lurid eyes!
