Design and Produce a Theatrical Event

DESIGN & PRODUCE A THEATRICAL EVENTPlan the production to the minutest detail possible. Include all description and illustration necessary to convince backers to fund your production.Format: Microsoft Word documentminimum pages: 15 script: The Boor 1) A LEGITIMATE (TRADITIONAL) THEATRICAL PLAY choose a theatre space (proscenium, thrust, arena, black box), design costumes, set, lighting, sound. Solve logistical problems. How many actors to portray the characters (double-casting?)? How many crew members? How much will it cost? How long from planning to opening? How long can it run? etc. Create a portfolio presentation on pdf, doc, or ppt form in as much detail as you think will convince backers to give you the money necessary to produce your show. attaches are the script for the project and some example
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THE BOOR
BY
ANTON TCHEKOV
The Boor is reprinted by special permission of Barrett H. Clark and of Samuel French,
publisher, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address Samuel
French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City.
ANTON TCHEKOV
Anton Tchekov, considered the foremost of contemporary Russian dramatists, was born in
1860 at Taganrog, Russia. In 1880 he was graduated from the Medical School of the
University of Moscow. Ill health soon compelled him to abandon his practice of medicine,
and in 1887 he sought the south. In 1904, the year of the successful appearance of his Cherry
Orchard, he died in a village of the Black Forest in Germany.
As a dramatist, Tchekov has with deliberate intent cast off much of the conventionalities
of dramatic technic. In his longer plays especially, like The Sea Gull, Uncle Vanya,
and Cherry Orchard, he somewhat avoids obvious struggles, time-worn commonplaces,
well-prepared climaxes, and seeks rather to spread out a panoramic canvas for our
contemplation. His chief aim is to show us humanity as he sees it. It is his interest in
humanity that gives him so high rank as a dramatist.
His one-act plays, a form of drama unusually apt for certain intimate aspects of Russian
peasant life, are more regular in their technic than his longer plays. Among the five or six
shorter plays that Tchekov wrote, The Boor and A Marriage Proposal are his best. In these
plays he shows the lighter side of Russian country life, infusing some of the spirit of the
great Gogol into his broad and somewhat farcical character portrayals. With rare good grace,
in these plays he appears to be asking us to throw aside our restraint and laugh with him at
the stupidity and naïveté, as well as good-heartedness, of the Russian people he knew so
well.
The Boor is a remarkably well-constructed one-act play, and is probably the finest one-act
play of the Russian school of drama.
PERSONS IN THE PLAY
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.
THE BOOR
TIME: The present.
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.
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 the 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.
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 toward 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.
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 horse-man he was! How fine he looked when he pulled at the reins 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, some one 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 Stepanovitch Smirnov! I’m compelled to bother you
about an exceedingly important matter.
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 tomorrow 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.
[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, to-day it is just seven months since the death of my husband, and
I am not in a 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 to-day.
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 me 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. Woman’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 the 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—mourningdresses 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.
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.
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 tomorrow? 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 sighs—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 seizes 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.
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!
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 of 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 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.
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.] …
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