Four by Sondheim

by Stephen Sondheim

(She plucks something off a pie, holds it up)

  What is that?

  But you’d think we had the plague —

  (She drops it on the floor and stamps on it)

  From the way that people —

  (She, flicks something off a pie with her finger)

  Keep avoiding —

  (Spotting it moving)

  No you don’t!

  (She smacks it with her hand)

  Heaven knows I try, sir!

  (Lifts her hand, looks at it)

  Ick!

  (She wipes it on the edge of the counter)

  But there’s no one comes in even to inhale —Tsk!

  (She blows the last dust off the pie as she brings it to him)

  Right you are, sir. Would you like a drop of ale?

  (TODD nods)

  Mind you, I can’t hardly blame them —

  (Pouring a tankard of ale)

  These are probably the worst pies in London.

  I know why nobody cares to take them —

  I should know,

  I make them.

  But good? No,

  The worst pies in London —

  Even that’s polite.

  The worst pies in London —

  If you doubt it, take a bite.

  (He does)

  Is that just disgusting?

  You have to concede it.

  It’s nothing but crusting —

  Here, drink this, you’ll need it —

  (She puts the ale in front of him)

  The worst pies in London —

  (During the following, she slams lumps of dough on the counter and rolls them out, grunting frequently as she goes)

  And no wonder with the price of meat

  What it is

  (Grunt)

  When you get it.

  (Grunt)

  Never

  (Grunt)

  Thought I’d live to see the day men’d think it was a treat Finding poor

  (Grunt)

  Animals

  (Grunt)

  Wot are dying in the street.

  Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop,

  Does a business, but I notice something weird —

  Lately all her neighbors’ cats have disappeared.

  (Shrugs)

  Have to hand it to her —

  Wot I calls

  Enterprise,

  Popping pussies into pies.

  Wouldn’t do in my shop —

  Just the thought of it’s enough to make you sick.

  And I’m telling you them pussy cats is quick.

  No denying times is hard, sir —

  Even harder than

  The worst pies in London.

  Only lard and nothing more —

  (As TODD gamely tries another mouthful)

  Is that just revolting?

  All greasy and gritty,

  It looks like it’s molting,

  And tastes like —

  Well, pity

  A woman alone

  With limited wind

  And the worst pies in London!

  (Sighs heavily)

  Ah sir,

  Times is hard. Times is hard.

  (She finishes one of the crusts with a flourish, then notices TODD having difficultly with his pie, speaks)

  Spit it out, dear. Go on. On the floor. There’s worse things than that down there.

  (As he does)

  That’s my boy.

  TODD: Isn’t that a room up there over the shop? If times are so hard, why don’t you rent it out? That should bring in something.

  MRS. LOVETT: Up there? Oh, no one will go near it. People think it’s haunted. You see — years ago, something happened up there. Something not very nice.

  (Sings)

  There was a barber and his wife,

  And he was beautiful,

  A proper artist with a knife,

  But they transported him for life.

  (Sighs)

  And he was beautiful . . .

  (Speaks, music continuing under)

  Barker, his name was — Benjamin Barker.

  TODD: Transported? What was his crime?

  MRS. LOVETT: Foolishness.

  (Sings)

  He had this wife, you see,

  Pretty little thing.

  Silly little nit

  Had her chance for the moon on a string —

  Poor thing. Poor thing.

  (As she sings, her narration is acted out. First we see the pretty young WIFE in the empty upstairs room dancing her household chores. During the following the JUDGE and his obsequious assistant, the BEADLE, approach the house, gazing up at the WIFE lecherously. The WIFE remains demure, sewing)

  There were these two, you see,

  Wanted her like mad,

  One of ‘em a Judge,

  T’other one his Beadle.

  Every day they’d nudge

  And they’d wheedle.

  But she wouldn’t budge

  From her needle.

  Too bad. Pure thing.

  (Far upstage, in very dim light, shapes appears. A swirl of cloth, glints of jewels, the faces of people masked as animals and demons. During the following lyric, the WIFE takes an imaginary baby from an imaginary cot and sits on the floor, cradling it in her arms as she sobs)

  So they merely shipped the poor bugger off south,

  they did,

  Leaving her with nothing but grief and a year-old kid.

  Did she use her head even then? Oh no, God forbid!

  Poor fool.

  Ah, but there was worse yet to come —

  (Intake of breath)

  Poor thing.

  (Again the shapes appear, this time a bit more distinctly. MRS. LOVETT speaks, musingly)

  Johanna, that was the baby’s name . . . Pretty little Johanna...

  (Drifts off in reminiscence)

  TODD (Tensely): Go on.

  MRS. LOVETT (Eyeing TODD sharply): My, you do like a good story, don’t you?

  (The BEADLE reappear, gazing up at the WIFE, miming in a solicitous manner for her to come down. MRS. LOVETT, warming to the tale, sings)

  Well, Beadle calls on her, all polite,

  Poor thing, poor thing.

  The Judge, he tells her, is all contrite,

  He blames himself for her dreadful plight,

  She must come straight to his house tonight!

  Poor thing, poor thing.

  (Excited, almost gleeful)

  Of course, when she goes there,

  Poor thing, poor thing.

  They’re havin’ this ball all in masks.

  (The shapes are now clear. A ball is in progress at the JUDGE’s house: the company, wearing grotesque masks, is dancing a slow minuet. The BEADLE, leading the WIFE, appears, moving with her through the dancers. He gives her champagne. She looks dazedly around, terrified)

  There’s no one she knows there,

  Poor dear, poor thing.

  She wanders tormented, and drinks,

  Poor thing.

  The Judge has repented, she thinks,

  Poor thing.

  “Oh, where is Judge Turpin?” she asks.

  (During the following, the JUDGE appears, tears off his mask, then his cloak, revealing himself naked. The WIFE screams as he reaches for her, struggling wildly as the BEADLE hurls her to the floor. He holds her there as the JUDGE mounts her and the masked dancers pirouette around the ravishment, giggling)

  He was there, all right —

  Only not so contrite!

  She wasn’t no match for such craft, you see,

  And everyone thought it so droll.

  They figured she had to be daft, you see,

  So all of ’em stood there and laughed, you see.

  Poor soul!

  Poor thing!

  TODD (A wild shout): Would no one have mercy on her?

  (The dumb show vanishes. Music stops. TODD and MRS. LOVETT gaze at each other)

  MRS. LOVETT (Coolly): So it is you �
� Benjamin Barker.

  TODD (Frighteningly vehement): Not Barker! Not Barker! Todd now! Sweeney Todd! Where is she?

  MRS. LOVETT: So changed! Good God, what did they do to you down there in bloody Australia or wherever?

  TODD: Where is my wife? Where’s Lucy?

  MRS. LOVETT: She poisoned herself. Arsenic from the apothecary on the corner. I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen to me.

  TODD: And my daughter?

  MRS. LOVETT: Johanna? He’s got her.

  TODD: He? Judge Turpin?

  MRS. LOVETT: Even he had a conscience tucked away, I suppose. Adopted her like his own. You could say it was good luck for her . . . almost.

  TODD: Fifteen years sweating in a living hell on a trumped up charge. Fifteen years dreaming that, perhaps, I might come home to a loving wife and child.

  (Strikes ferociously on the pie counter with his fists)

  Let them quake in their boots — Judge Turpin and the Beadle — for their hour has come.

  MRS. LOVETT (Awed): You’re going to — get ‘em? You? A bleeding little nobody of a runaway convict? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll never get His ’igh and Mightiness! Nor the Beadle neither. Not in a million years.

  (No reaction from TODD)

  You got any money?

  (Still no reaction)

  Listen to me! You got any money?

  TODD: No money.

  MRS. LOVETT: Then how you going to live even?

  TODD: I’ll live. If I have to sweat in the sewers or in the plague hospital, I’ll live — and I’ll have them.

  MRS. LOVETT: Oh, you poor thing! You poor thing!

  (A sudden thought)

  Wait!

  (She disappears behind a curtained entrance leading to her parlor. For a beat TODD stands alone, almost exalted. MRS. LOVETT returns with a razor case. She holds it out to him)

  See! It don’t have to be the sewers or the plague hospital.

  When they come for the little girl, I hid ‘em. I thought,

  who knows? Maybe the poor silly blighter’ll be back again

  someday and need ’em. Cracked in the head, wasn’t I?

  Times as bad as they are, I could have got five, maybe ten

  quid for ’em, any day. See? You can be a barber again.

  (Music begins. She opens the case for him to look inside. TODD stands a long moment gazing down at the case)

  My, them handles is chased silver, ain’t they?

  TODD: Silver, yes.

  (Quietly, looking into the box, sings)

  These are my friends.

  See how they glisten.

  (Picks up a small razor)

  See this one shine,

  How he smiles in the light.

  My friend, my faithful friend.

  (Holding it to his ear, feeling the edge with his thumb)

  Speak to me, friend.

  Whisper, I’ll listen.

  (Listening)

  I know, I know —

  You’ve been locked out of sight

  All these years —

  Like me, my friend.

  Well, I’ve come home

  To find you waiting.

  Home,

  And we’re together,

  And we’ll do wonders,

  Won’t we?

  (MRS. LOVETT, who has been looking over his shoulder, starts to feel his other ear lightly, absently, in her own trance. TODD lays the razor back in the box and picks out a larger one. They sing simultaneously)

  TODD:

  You there, my friend. Come, let me hold you. MRS. LOVETT:

  I’m your friend too, Mr. Todd. If you only knew, Mr. Todd —Ooh, Mr. Todd, You’re warm In my hand. You’ve come home. Always had a fondness for you, I did.

  Now, with a sigh You grow warm In my hand, My friend, My clever friend.

  Never you fear, Mr. Todd, You can move in here, Mr. Todd. Splendors you never have dreamed All your days Will be yours. I’m your friend. Don’t they shine beautiful? Silver’s good enough for me,

  (Putting it back)

  Rest now, my friends. Soon I’ll unfold you. Soon you’ll know splendors

  You never have dreamed

  All your days, My lucky friends. Till now your shine Was merely silver. Friends,

  You shall drip rubies, Mr. T....

  You’ll soon drip precious

  Rubies . . .

  (TODD holds up the biggest razor to the light as the music soars sweetly, then stops. He speaks into the silence)

  TODD: My right arm is complete again!

  (Lights dim except for a scalding spot on the razor as music blares forth from both the organ and the orchestra. The company, including the JUDGE and the BEADLE, appears and sings)

  COMPANY:

  Lift your razor high, Sweeney!

  Hear it singing, “Yes!”

  Sink it in the rosy skin

  Of righteousness!

  (Variously)

  His voice was soft, his manner mild.

  He seldom laughed but he often smiled.

  He’d seen how civilized men behave.

  He never forgot and he never forgave,

  Not Sweeney,

  Not Sweeney Todd,

  The Demon Barber of Fleet Street . . .

  (They disappear. There is a moment of darkness in which we hear the trilling and twittering of songbirds. Light comes up on the facade of JUDGE TURPIN’s mansion. A BIRD SELLER enters carrying a bizarre construction of little wicker birdcages tied together. It is in these that the birds are singing. At an upper level of the JUDGE’s mansion appears a very young, exquisitely beautiful girl with a long mane of shining blonde hair. This is JOHANNA. For a moment she stands disconsolate, then her eyes fall on the birds)

  JOHANNA: And how are they today?

  BIRD SELLER: Hungry as always, Miss Johanna.

  (He lifts the cages up to her)

  JOHANNA (Sings):

  Green finch and linnet bird,

  Nightingale, blackbird,

  How is it you sing?

  How can you jubilate,

  Sitting in cages,

  Never taking wing?

  Outside the sky waits,

  Beckoning, beckoning,

  Just beyond the bars.

  How can you remain,

  Staring at the rain,

  Maddened by the stars?

  How is it you sing

  Anything?

  How is it you sing?

  Green finch and linnet bird,

  Nightingale, blackbird,

  How is it you sing?

  Whence comes this melody constantly flowing?

  Is it rejoicing or merely halloing?

  Are you discussing or fussing

  Or simply dreaming?

  Are you crowing?

  Are you screaming?

  Ringdove and robinet,

  Is it for wages,

  Singing to be sold?

  Have you decided it’s

  Safer in cages,

  Singing when you’re told?

  (ANTHONY enters. Instantly he sees her and stands transfixed by her beauty)

  My cage has many rooms,

  Damask and dark.

  Nothing there sings,

  Not even my lark.

  Larks never will, you know,

  When they’re captive.

  Teach me to be more adaptive.

  Green finch and linnet bird,

  Nightingale, blackbird,

  Teach me how to sing.

  If I cannot fly,

  Let me sing.

  (She gazes into the middle distance disconsolately)

  ANTHONY (Gazing at her, sings softly):

  I have sailed the world,

  Beheld its wonders,

  From the pearls of Spain

  To the rubies of Tibet,

  But not even in London

  Have I seen such a wonder . . .

  (Breathlessly)

  Lady look at me look at me miss oh

  Look at
me please oh

  Favor me favor me with your glance.

  Ah, miss,

  What do you what do you see off

  There in those trees oh

  Won’t you give won’t you give me a chance?

  Who would sail to Spain

  For all its wonders,

  When in Kearney’s Lane

  Lies the greatest wonder yet?

  Ah, miss,

  Look at you look at you pale and

  Ivory-skinned oh

  Look at you looking so sad so queer.

  Promise

  Not to retreat to the darkness

  Back of your window

  Not till you not till you look down here.

  Look at

  ANTHONY: JOHANNA:

  Me! Green finch and linnet bird,

  Look at Nightingale, blackbird,

  Me! Teach me how to sing.

  If I cannot fly,

  Look at me ... Let me sing . . .

  (As JOHANNA turns back to go inside, their eyes meet and the song dies on their lips. A hushed moment. Then suddenly a clawlike hand darts out from a pile of trash. ANTHONY jumps and looks down to see the BEGGAR WOMAN, who has been sleeping in the garbage under a discarded shawl, thrusting her bowl at him. JOHANNA, frightened, slips back out of sight)

  BEGGAR WOMAN (Sings):

  Alms! ... Alms! ...

  For a miserable woman . . .

  (ANTHONY hurriedly digs out a coin and drops it in her bowl; she peers at him)

  Beg your pardon, it’s you, sir . . .

  Thank yer ... Thank yer kindly . . .

  (ANTHONY turns back to discover JOHANNA gone and the window shut. The BEGGAR WOMAN starts off)

  ANTHONY: One moment, mother.

  (She turns)

  Perhaps you know whose house this is?

  BEGGAR WOMAN: That! That’s the great Judge Turpin’s house, that is.