Four by Sondheim
Page 39
NURSE: Well, it is very warm.
OLD LADY: Hand me my parasol.
NURSE: I am, Madame.
(NURSE stands up and opens the parasol for the OLD LADY. FRANZ, a coachman, enters; stares at the two woman for a moment, then moves downstage. He sees GEORGE, and affects a pose as he sits)
DOT: Oh, no.
GEORGE: What?
DOT: Look. Look who is over there.
GEORGE: So?
DOT: When he is around, you know who is likely to follow.
GEORGE: You have moved your arm.
DOT: I think they are spying on you, George. I really do.
GEORGE: Are you going to hold your head still?
(The NURSE has wandered over in the vicinity of FRANZ)
NURSE: You are here awfully early today.
FRANZ (Speaks with a German accent): Ja. So are you.
NURSE: And working on a Sunday.
FRANZ: Ja ...
NURSE: It is a beautiful day.
FRANZ (Sexy): It is too hot.
NURSE: Do you think?
OLD LADY: Where is my fan!
NURSE: I have to go back.
OLD LADY: Nurse, my fan!
NURSE: You did not bring it today, Madame.
OLD LADY: Of course I brought it!
FRANZ: Perhaps we will see each other later.
NURSE: Perhaps ...
OLD LADY: There it is. Over there.
(OLD LADY picks up the fan)
NURSE: That is my fan —
OLD LADY: Well, I can use it. Can I not? It was just lying there ... What is all that commotion?
FRANZ: Jungen! Nicht so laut! Ruhe, bitte!
(The following is heard simultaneously from the characters in the tableau)
BOY: Yoo-hoo! Dumb and fat!
YOUNG MAN: Hey! Who you staring at?
MAN: Look at the lady with the rear!
(The YOUNG MAN gives a loud Bronx cheer)
BOY: Yoo-hoo — kinky beard!
YOUNG MAN: Kinky beard.
YOUNG MAN and BOY: Kinky beard!
(GEORGE gestures, as when an artist raises and extends his right arm to frame an image before him — all freeze. Silence. A frame comes in around them. JULES and YVONNE, a well-to-do middle-aged couple, stroll on and pause before the painting)
JULES: Ahh ...
YVONNE: Ooh ...
JULES: Mmm ...
YVONNE: Oh, dear.
JULES: Oh, my.
YVONNE: Oh, my dear.
JULES (Sings):
It has no presence.
YVONNE (Sings):
No passion.
JULES:
No life.
(They laugh)
It’s neither pastoral
Nor lyrical.
YVONNE (Giggling):
You don’t suppose that it’s satirical?
(They laugh heartily)
JULES:
Just density
Without intensity —
YVONNE:
No life.
(Speaks)
Boys with their clothes off —
JULES (Mocking): I must paint a factory next!
YVONNE:
It’s so mechanical.
JULES:
Methodical.
YVONNE:
It might be in some dreary
Socialistic periodical.
JULES (Approvingly): Good.
YVONNE:
So drab, so cold.
JULES:
And so controlled.
BOTH:
No life.
JULES: His touch is too deliberate, somehow.
YVONNE: The dog.
(They shriek with laughter)
JULES:
These things get hung —
YVONNE: Hmm.
JULES:
And then they’re gone.
YVONNE: Ahhh ...
Of course he’s young —
(JULES shoots her a look. Hastily)
But getting on.
JULES: Oh ...
All mind, no heart.
No life in his art.
YVONNE:
No life in his life —
(JULES nods in approval)
BOTH:
No —
(They giggle and chortle)
Life.
(Arpeggio. The BOYS in the picture give a loud Bronx cheer. )
NURSE (Seeing JULES): There is that famous artist — what is his name ...
OLD LADY: What is his name?
NURSE: I can never remember their names.
(JULES tips his hat to the ladies. The couple continues towards GEORGE)
JULES: George! Out very early today.
(GEORGE nods as he continues sketching. DOT turns her back on them)
GEORGE: Hello, Jules.
YVONNE: A lovely day ...
JULES: I couldn’t be out sketching today — it is too sunny!
(YVONNE laughs)
GEORGE: Have you seen the painting?
JULES: Yes. I was just going to say! Boys bathing — what a curious subject.
(YVONNE stops him)
We must speak.
YVONNE (Sincere): I loved the dog.
(Beat)
JULES: I am pleased there was an independent exhibition.
GEORGE: Yes ...
JULES: We must speak. Really.
(Beat)
YVONNE: Enjoy the weather.
JULES: Good day.
(As they exit, YVONNE stops JULES and points to DOT)
YVONNE: That dress!
(They laugh and exit)
DOT: I hate them!
GEORGE: Jules is a fine painter.
DOT: I do not care. I hate them.
(JULES and YVONNE return)
JULES: Franz!
YVONNE: We are waiting!
(They exit)
FRANZ: Ja, Madame, Monsieur. At your service.
(FRANZ, who has been hiding behind a tree, eyeing the NURSE, quickly dashes offstage after JULES and YVONNE. GEORGE closes his pad. DOT remains frozen)
GEORGE: Thank you.
(Beat)
DOT (Moving): I began to do it.
GEORGE: What?
DOT: Concentrate. Like you said.
GEORGE (Patronizing): You did very well.
DOT: Did I really?
GEORGE (Gathering his belongings): Yes. I’ll meet you back at the studio.
DOT (Annoyed): You are not coming?
GEORGE: Not now.
(Angry, DOT begins to exit)
Dot. We’ll go to the Follies tonight.
(She stops, looks at him, then walks off. GEORGE walks to the NURSE and OLD LADY)
Bon jour.
NURSE: Bon jour, Monsieur.
GEORGE: Lovely morning, ladies.
NURSE: Yes.
GEORGE: I have my pad and crayons today.
NURSE: Oh, that would —
OLD LADY: Not today!
GEORGE (Disappointed): Why not today?
OLD LADY: Too warm.
GEORGE: It is warm, but it will not take long. You can go —
OLD LADY (Continues to look out across the water): Some other day, Monsieur.
(Beat)
GEORGE (Kneeling): It’s George, Mother.
OLD LADY (As if it is to be a secret): Sssh ...
GEORGE (Getting up): Yes. I guess we will all be back.
(He exits as lights fade to black)
(GEORGE’s studio. Downstage, DOT [in a likeness of Seurat’s “La Poudreuse”] is at her vanity, powdering her face. Steady, unhurried, persistent rhythmic figure underneath )
DOT (As she powders rhythmically): George taught me all about concentration. “The art of being still,” he said.
( Checks herself, then resumes powdering)
I guess I did not learn it soon enough.
(Dips puff in powder)
George likes to be alone.
(Resumes powdering)
Sometimes he will work all nigh
t long painting. We fought about that. I need sleep. I love to dream.
(Upstage, GEORGE on a scaffold, behind a large canvas, which is a scrim, comes into view. He is painting. It is an in-progress version of the painting “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte”)
George doesn’t need as much sleep as everyone else.
(Dips puff, starts powdering neck)
And he never tells me his dreams. George has many secrets.
(Lights down on DOT, up on GEORGE. A number of brushes in his hand, he is covering a section of the canvas — the face of the woman in the foreground — with tiny specks of paint, in the same rhythm as DOT’s powdering)
GEORGE (Pauses, checks): Order.
(Dabs with another color, pauses, checks, dabs palette)
Design.
(Dabs with another brush)
Composition.
Tone.
Form.
Symmetry.
Balance.
(Sings)
More red ...
(Dabs with more intensity)
And a little more red ...
(Switches brushes)
Blue blue blue blue
Blue blue blue blue
Even even ...
(Switches quickly)
Good...
(Humming)
Bumbum bum bumbumbum
Bumbum bum ...
(Paints silently for a moment)
More red ...
(Switches brushes again)
More blue ...
(Again)
More beer ...
(Takes a swig from a nearby bottle, always eyeing the canvas, puts the bottle down)
More light!
(He dabs assiduously, delicately attacking the area he is painting)
Color and light.
There’s only color and light.
Yellow and white.
Just blue and yellow and white.
(Addressing the woman he is painting)
Look at the air, Miss —
(Dabs at the space in front of her)
See what I mean?
No, look over there, Miss —
(Dabs at her eye, pauses, checks it)
That’s done with green ...
(Swirling a brush in the orange cup)
Conjoined with orange ...
(Lights down on GEORGE, up on DOT, now powdering her breasts and armpits. Rhythmic figure persists underneath)
DOT: Nothing seems to fit me right.
(Giggles)
The less I wear, the more comfortable I feel.
(Sings, checking herself)
More rouge ...
(Puts puff down, gets rouge, starts applying it in small rhythmic circles, speaks)
George is very special. Maybe I’m just not special enough for him.
(Puts rouge down, picks up eyebrow tweezers, sings)
If my legs were longer.
(Plucks at her eyebrow)
If my bust was smaller.
(Plucks)
If my hands were graceful.
(Plucks)
If my waist was thinner.
(Checks herself)
If my hips were flatter.
(Plucks again)
If my voice was warm.
(Plucks)
If I could concentrate —
(Abruptly, her feet start to can-can under the table)
I’d be in the Follies.
I’d be in a cabaret.
Gentlemen in tall silk hats
And linen spats
Would wait with flowers.
I could make them wait for hours.
Giddy young aristocrats
With fancy flats
Who’d drink my health,
And I would be as
Hard as nails . . .
(Looks at her nails, reaches for the buffer)
And they’d only want me more . . .
(Starts buffing nails rhythmically)
If I was a Folly girl . . .
Nah, I wouldn’t like it much.
Married men and stupid boys
And too much smoke and all that noise
And all that color and light . . .
(Lights up on GEORGE, talking to the woman in the painting. Rhythmic figure continues underneath)
GEORGE: Aren’t you proper today, Miss? Your parasol so properly cocked, your bustle so perfectly upright. No doubt your chin rests at just the proper angle from your chest.
(Addressing the figure of the man next to her)
And you, Sir. Your hat so black. So black to you, perhaps. So red to me.
DOT (Spraying herself with perfume):
None of the others worked at night . . .
GEORGE: So composed for a Sunday.
DOT:
How do you work without the right
(Sprays)
Bright
(Sprays)
White
(Sprays)
Light?
(Sprays)
How do you fathom George?
GEORGE (Sings in a mutter, trancelike, as repaints):
Red red red red
Red red orange
Red red orange
Orange pick up blue
Pick up red
Pick up orange
From the blue-green blue-green
Blue-green circle
On the violet diagonal
Di-ag-ag-ag-ag-ag-o-nal-nal
Yellow comma yellow comma
(Humming, massaging his numb wrist)
Numnum num numnumnum
Numnum num ...
(Sniffs, smelling DOT’s perfume)
Blue blue blue blue
Blue still sitting
Red that perfume
Blue all night
Blue-green the window shut
Dut dut dut
Dot Dot sitting
Dot Dot waiting
Dot Dot getting fat fat fat
More yellow
Dot Dot waiting to go
Out out out but
No no no George
Finish the hat finish the hat
Have to finish the hat first
Hat hat hat hat
Hot hot hot it’s hot in here . . .
(Whistles a bit, then joyfully)
Sunday!
Color and light!
DOT (Pinning up her hair): But how George looks. He could look forever.
GEORGE:
There’s only color and light.
DOT: As if he sees you and he doesn’t all at once.
GEORGE:
Purple and white . . .
DOT: What is he thinking when he looks like that?
GEORGE:
... And red and purple and white.
DOT: What does he see? Sometimes, not even blinking.
GEORGE (To the young girls in the painting):
Look at this glade, girls,
Your cool blue spot.
DOT: His eyes. So dark and shiny.
GEORGE:
No, stay in the shade, girls.
It’s getting hot . . .
DOT: Some think cold and black.
GEORGE:
It’s getting orange . . .
DOT (Sings):
But it’s warm inside his eyes . . .
GEORGE (Dabbing more intensely):
Hotter . . .
DOT:
And it’s soft inside his eyes . . .
(GEORGE steps around the canvas to get paint or clean a brush. He glances at DOT. Their eyes meet for a second, then DOT turns back to her mirror)
And he burns you with his eyes . . .
GEORGE: Look at her looking.
DOT:
And you’re studied like the light.
GEORGE: Forever with that mirror. What does she see? The round face, the tiny pout, the soft mouth, the creamy skin . . .
DOT:
And you look inside the eyes.
GEORGE: The pink lips, the red cheeks . . .
D
OT:
And you catch him here and there.
GEORGE: The wide eyes. Studying the round face, the tiny pout...
DOT:
But he’s never really there.
GEORGE: Seeing all the parts and none of the whole.
DOT:
So you want him even more.
GEORGE (Sings):
But the way she catches light . . .
DOT:
And you drown inside his eyes . . .
GEORGE:
And the color of her hair . . .
DOT: GEORGE:
I could look at him I could look at her
Forever... Forever...
(A long beat. Music holds under, gradually fading)
GEORGE (At his work table): It’s going well . . .
DOT: Should I wear my red dress or blue?
GEORGE: Red.
(Beat)
DOT: Aren’t you going to clean up?
GEORGE: Why?
DOT: The Follies, George!
(Beat)
GEORGE: I have to finish the hat.
(He returns to his work. DOT slams down her brush and stares at the back of the canvas. She exits. Lights fade downstage as the rhythmic figure resumes. As he paints)
Damn. The Follies. Will she yell or stay silent? Go without me or sulk in the corner? Will she be in the bed when the hat and the grass and the parasol have finally found their way? ...
(sings)
Too green . . .
Do I care? . . .
Too blue . . .
Yes . . .
Too soft . . .
What shall I do?
(Thinks for a moment)
Well . . .
Red.
(Continues painting; music sells as he is consumed by light)
(Afternoon. Another Sunday on the island. Downstage right GEORGE sketches a BOATMAN; a cut-out of a black dog stands close by; NURSE and OLD LADY sit near their tree. CELESTE #1 and CELESTE #2, young shopgirls, sit on a bench stage left)
BOATMAN: The water looks different on Sunday.
GEORGE: It is the same water you boat on all week.
BOATMAN (Contentious): It looks different from the park.
GEORGE: You prefer watching the boats to the people promenading?