Playwright’s Biography
DIANE STUBBINGS’ plays include: The Possibility of Zero (shortlisted, Queensland Premier’s Drama Award, 2014), Entangled, The Local Void (shortlisted/semi-finalist, Internationalists’ Global Playwriting Competition, 2012), These are the things … (shortlisted, Rodney Seaborn Playwrights’ Award, 2011), and Prayer. Her book reviews have appeared in The Canberra Times and The Australian, and her study of Anglo-Irish Modernism was published by Macmillan/Palgrave in 2000. The Parricide is the first of her plays to have been produced.
FIRST PRODUCTION DETAILS
The Parricide was first produced at La Mama Theatre, Melbourne, on 7 May 2014 with the following cast:
FEDYA
Lyall Brooks
ANNA/KATYA
Anneli Bjorasen
KOLYA/MITYA
Nick Simpson-Deeks
ELENA/GRUSHENKA
Odette Joannidis
KARAKOZOV/ALYOSHA
Gabriel Partington
Writer, Diane Stubbings
Director, Karen Berger
Dramaturg, Dave Letch
DEVELOPMENT
The Parricide had its first reading at Parnassus’ Den (Sydney, May 2009) with the following cast and creatives:
FEDYA
Tony Sloman
ANNA
Sally Cahill
KOLYA
Anthony Phelan
ELENA
Linden Wilkinson
KARAKOZOV
Matt Minto
DIRECTOR
Dave Letch
The play had a second reading at Parnassus’ Den (October 2010) with the following cast changes:
ANNA
Kate Worsley
KOLYA
Jonathan Hardy
KARAKOZOV
Gus Murray
As a result of funding provided by the R.E. Ross Trust, The Parricide was workshopped in October 2011, with a subsequent reading at fortyfivedownstairs (Melbourne, November 2013) involving the following cast and creatives:
FEDYA
David Pidd
ANNA/KATYA
Isabella Dunwill
KOLYA/MITYA
Nick Simpson-Deeks
ELENA/GRUSHENKA
Odette Joannidis
KARAKOZOV/ALYOSHA
Gabriel Partington
DIRECTOR
Karen Berger
DRAMATURG
Dave Letch
SOUND
David Joseph
LIGHTING
Andy Turner
WRITER’S NOTE
The Parricide is a work of fiction. Based on the life of one of the world’s greatest novelists, it draws out from that life ideas about passion, fear and the creative instinct.
The writing of The Parricide began with Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s formidable novel The Brothers Karamazov. Reading this story of three brothers whose father is murdered, I was captured both by the intricate dynamics of the Karamazov family and the intense courtroom drama that plays out in the novel’s second half. But what most fascinated me—and what lingered long after I’d finished reading the novel—was the character of Ivan, the second of the Karamazov brothers.
While Dostoyevsky explicitly proffers Alexei, the youngest brother, as the hero of his novel, it was, for me, Ivan who gave the novel its emotional core. In Ivan’s deep (yet unrequited) love for his brother’s fiancée, there is something reminiscent of the great romantic heroes. But, more than that, I’d argue that it’s Ivan’s journey from conviction to doubt—and the ferocity of his intellectual engagement—that marks him as the true hero of The Brothers Karamazov.
Thinking about my own response to Dostoyevsky’s novel, I began to wonder about the extent to which an author is really in control of their own work. Could it be that there are other forces that push the writing beyond the author’s conscious control? Dostoyevsky might have told himself he was writing a novel about a young man—Alexei Karamazov—who finds truth and light in the form of the Christian God (and who in a projected, but never written, second volume goes on to kill the Tsar), but was Dostoyevsky, in fact, writing about something else entirely? Was it actually Ivan Karamazov—whose nihilism pulses so forcefully through the novel—who more fully captured Dostoyevsky’s imagination? And was Dostoyevsky as wound up in this dangerous nihilism as Ivan himself was?
This is the ground out of which The Parricide grew; and, reading more about Dostoyevsky’s life, I stumbled across a note which suggested that Dostoyevsky may have begun a draft of The Brothers Karamazov long before the final version was published. No trace of this earlier draft has ever been found (perhaps it did exist, perhaps it didn’t), but the possibility that these ideas—about God, nihilism, jealousy, truth and faith—had been tumbling about in Dostoyevsky’s mind for a very long time opened up all sorts of possibilities for me as a writer.
Researching Dostoyevsky’s life further, I came across the charming story of how he met his second wife, Anna; and the sense of order and purpose she brought to his personal life offered a striking contrast to (what I saw as) the inherent disorder of Dostoyevsky’s writing life. Bringing Dostoyevsky’s wooing of Anna together with an early attempt to write The Brothers Karamazov seemed a promising way forward dramatically. But the play still wanted more.
I found what I needed in Dostoyevsky’s arrest for conspiracy. Still in his twenties, and having just begun to make his mark in Russian letters, Dostoyevsky’s subsequent imprisonment shaped both him and his writing more than anything else he’d experienced. What, I wondered, must it be like to emerge from ten years of virtual isolation in Siberia and have to re-establish your place in society; to re-assert yourself as a writer of note? And what happens to the revolutionary flame, the revolutionary spirit, after a man has been so long incarcerated in such extreme conditions? Is it doused completely, or is there a spark that persists? And, when political unrest again stalks the streets, is it a spark that, in a man like Dostoyevsky, is bound to be resurrected?
These are the questions which underpin The Parricide. In the writing of it—and over numerous drafts—I’ve moved a fair way from the known facts of Dostoyevsky’s life, and I’ve telescoped several decades of history into a matter of weeks. This presented its own challenges: How to dramatise so many years of Russian history—and such a vast array of real and imagined characters—using only five actors?
Sometimes what at first seems like an intractable problem introduces all sorts of interesting possibilities. Seminal historical moments—such as the burning of St Petersburg—could be generated using light and sound effects. The tension between history and fabrication could be underscored by eschewing realistic sets and costumes in favour of something that gave both a modern and a historical sense. And rather than trying to hide the doubling of cast members, the actors’ transitions from one character to another could be made explicit, the audience fully aware of the shifts in voice, gesture and costume, thereby magnifying the lines between the real and the imagined. Further, by having characters directly recounting to the audience their own versions of Dostoyevsky’s life, it was possible to emphasise that the play is meant to be understood as a fiction—yet another rendering of Dostoyevsky’s life story—rather than something historically factual.
Through all this, I’ve endeavoured to remain true to the spirit of the man and his writing, and if I’ve misjudged in any way, I take heart in the fact that Dostoyevsky’s work will endure a lot longer than my own. At the very least, I hope The Parricide will entice people who don’t know Dostoyevsky’s work to discover his writing for themselves. The rewards of doing so are well worth the effort.
DIRECTOR’S NOTE
In October 2011, we were working on a script development of The Parricide. One morning, one of th
e actresses rang me, very flustered. There was a traffic jam on the freeway, she was running very late, but had I heard the news? There was a serious riot happening in Melbourne CBD! Her excitement was contagious and those of us already at rehearsal tuned in to listen to the battle between the police and Occupy Melbourne protestors. The energy and passion of that violence fed directly into our exploration of revolution in Dostoyevsky’s Russia, making it more real, less ‘historical’. We clearly saw that intense—sometimes violent—responses to an unjust society continue to happen. And though the Occupy movement is no longer active in Australia, the daily news from around the world forces us to think about the rights and wrongs of revolutionary activity.
The other aspect of The Parricide story that makes it so relevant to today (and every day) is the human relationships underlying societal forces. Playwright, Diane Stubbings, cleverly interweaves the stories of Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and The Gambler with Dostoyevsky’s relationships at the time of him meeting and marrying his second wife, Anna. Through this, she investigates the personal reasons for getting (or not getting) involved in social activism.
Dostoyevsky was a passionate and fascinating man: the initial moments of his ongoing epilepsy gave him instances of almost unbearable bliss; his addiction to gambling, where catastrophic losses meant he felt pure and inspired to write; his liaisons with some of Russia’s most intellectual women. These subjects alone would make this play intriguing, but we also have the pleasure of investigating the genesis of some of his works of literary genius. Rich and dramatic territory indeed!
Karen Berger
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND SOURCES
Particular thanks is owed to the R.E. Ross Trust and Parnassus’ Den who have generously supported the development of this play.
Thanks also to Dave Letch whose guidance and expertise have been indispensable in getting the play to this point, and to Timothy Daly, who first saw the potential in this story and encouraged me to keep working on it.
Thank you to everyone at La Mama, particularly Maureen Hartley, and to Drayton Morley from Parnassus’ Den for the work he puts into fostering Australian writing.
The play owes much to Joseph Frank’s five volume biography of Dostoyevsky; Anna Dostoyevskaya’s Reminiscences; David Magarshack’s translation of The Brothers Karamazov; both the David Magarshack and the David McDuff translations of Crime & Punishment; the diaries of Polina Suslova; Selected Letters of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, edited by Joseph Frank and David I. Goldstein; and, The Odd Man Karakozov by Claudia Verhoeven.
Finally, thank you to all the actors who have worked on the play, especially David Pidd, Tony Sloman, Linden Wilkinson and Jonathan Hardy. Your insights and criticisms have been greatly appreciated.
CHARACTERS
FEDYA, a novelist (early–mid 40s)
ANNA, a stenographer (about 20)
KOLYA, a publisher (late 30s)
ELENA, a feminist and revolutionary (30s)
KARAKOZOV, a student revolutionary (20s)
MITYA, a soldier (late 20s–early 30s)
ALYOSHA, a novice monk (early 20s)
GRUSHENKA, Mitya’s lover (30s)
KATYA, Mitya’s fiancée (20s)
The parts of KOLYA/ MITYA, KARAKOZOV/ALYOSHA, ELENA/GRUSHENKA and ANNA/KATYA should be doubled.
Other parts—LANDLADY, SOLDIER, STUDENTS, OFFICERS, etc.—are played by the Company.
The play requires a cast of five: two women and three men.
SETTING
St Petersburg, Russia, 1860s.
The set should be open and sparse, and able to accommodate a number of different settings. There may be some chairs scattered about, as well as numerous piles of books and papers. While it will overwhelmingly represent Fedya’s dark and dingy flat, it needs to also serve as offices, streets, and the flats of other characters.
SCENE ONE
Darkness.
A slow, slow pounding. It starts soft, but gradually gets louder.
The pace of the pounding quickens.
OLD MAN: [from out of the darkness] Who’s there?
The OLD MAN lights a lamp. In the glow of the lamp, we see FEDYA. He is lost in thought.
Who’s there?
Barely seen, a hand comes down violently on the OLD MAN’s head. The blow knocks the OLD MAN off his feet. He loses hold of the lamp. Another blow to the OLD MAN’s head.
Monster! Parricide!
The light around the fallen lamp begins to take on a reddish tinge.
More blows to the OLD MAN’s head. The blows are fevered. Urgent. The OLD MAN’s groans slowly subside.
The noise of the blows morphs into that of a broom banging against a ceiling.
LANDLADY: [off] Murder! Murder!
FEDYA: Be quiet…
LANDLADY: [off] Officers. Hurry—!
FEDYA: Be quiet.
LANDLADY: [off] Before it’s me he kills—!
An explosion. Sudden. Distant.
A second explosion.
[Off] Mother of God! Mother of God!
A commotion somewhere outside. Voices. Whistles. All moving away from where we are.
Then a silence—a waiting silence.
A third distant explosion.
With each explosion, the intensity of the red light has increased. It is as though FEDYA is swimming in blood.
Another silence.
The sound of the broom thumping.
LANDLADY: [off] They’ve bombed Apraksin market, Fyodor Mikhailovich. The students have bombed the market square.
Do you hear me?!
FEDYA: Yes.
Yes.
I hear you, yes.
The banging of the broom again.
LANDLADY: And the rent from last month, Fyodor Mikhailovich! The rent from last month. I’m still waiting for it.
Silence.
FEDYA in a pool of red light.
On the other side of the stage—from a distant corner of his imagination—a figure emerges. It is MITYA, but it is impossible to see him clearly. He is just a shape in the darkness.
MITYA: [to FEDYA] Who of us—tell me, brother—who of us hasn’t wanted him dead?
SCENE TWO
FEDYA’s flat. The room is darkened.
FEDYA is working, scribbling notes in a notebook. (This notebook should be distinctive. It should be clear that when FEDYA is writing in the notebook—as opposed to loose sheets of scrap paper—he is working on his story of the parricide.)
MITYA—the figure from his imagination—is clearly there in the room with him. He watches over FEDYA’s shoulder as he writes.
MITYA: You have it wrong.
[Pointing to the notebook] There.
I said I wanted him dead.
I didn’t say I killed him.
FEDYA: [without looking at him] You were jealous—
MITYA: Of my father?
FEDYA: There’s a woman—
MITYA: You think I’d kill him because of her?
FEDYA: And money.
Arguments about money.
MITYA: When have there not been?
FEDYA: She led you on, this woman. Feigned that she would accept your father’s proposal. Made you desperate…
FEDYA writes.
MITYA: Beauty’s a terrible thing, brother. Mysterious and terrible all in the one moment. I look at her and want nothing more than to destroy myself. And then to have to listen to father—boasting how he keeps three thousand roubles in the house—just so he can have her…
Footsteps on the stairs.
ELENA enters. She opens the shutters on the window, letting in a cold, blue daylight.
MITYA is no longer in the room.
ELENA kisses FEDYA.
FEDYA: Not now.
ELENA: You’re working, yes. We could hear you all the way down the stairs.
FEDYA: We?
ELENA: [going to the door, calling through] It’s fine. He’ll see us.
KARAKOZOV enters. He fidgets. He seems nervous.
ELENA: [to FEDYA] You’ve been killing people again, your landlady tells us.
FEDYA: Who’s this?
ELENA: [to KARAKOZOV] Fedya likes to live out his imaginings. Don’t you, Fedya? Play-act the deed before he commits it to paper.
FEDYA: I’m a curiosity for strangers, am I?
ELENA: What’s it about this time, Fedya?
Another romantic triangle by the sound of it. A young man obsessed with a beautiful woman. And the old man who comes between them.
A stale sort of idea, don’t you think?
FEDYA: What do you want?
ELENA: Has the young man killed the old one? Is that how it works?
FEDYA: [referring to KARAKOZOV] Your new pet, is he?
ELENA: It’s not me who keeps the pets.
A beat.
ELENA: This is Dmitri Karakozov, Fedya.
He’s a student. / Or was.
FEDYA: You were the bombs. Last night.
KARAK: Not me.
FEDYA: Your brothers then.
ELENA: He’s barely been here two days. He knows nothing of the bombings.
The university in Kazan expelled him. For not paying his fees.
KARAK: It’s an honour—
FEDYA: I’ve no money for poor students.
ELENA: He’s not come here asking for money.
FEDYA: What were you studying?
KARAK: Science.
FEDYA: Science? You believe then that a man is built from the scraps of the earth—?
KARAK: No—
FEDYA: A raking together of the right measure of dirt and grease and steel—and there he is—
KARAK: No—
FEDYA: A mere engine, driven by nothing other than the cold spark of reason—
ELENA: That a man has the right to be free—that is what he believes.
The Parricide Page 1