Play vs. Film: Same Time, Next Year

     Some time ago, I wrote another post with the same title, in which I discussed a few plays on which some of my favorite films are based. Since then, I've read three more plays which have been made into feature films: 84, Charing Cross Road; Same Time, Next Year; and Shadowlands. Actually, 84, Charing Cross Road was a book and a television play before it was a stage play then a film, and Shadowlands was first of all a television play before it was adapted to the stage, then became a book, then finally a film (did you follow all that?), but I'll get into that later. For now, I'll just talk about Same Time, Next Year.

     The film Same Time, Next Year (1978, Alan Alda, Ellen Burstyn) has been a favorite of mine since I first saw it on cable in the '80s. Here's a very concise synopsis: It all starts in 1951. Doris and George, both in their 20's, meet in the restaurant of a seaside inn in California.



     They immediately hit it off and spend the night together, despite knowing that they're both married with children. By the end of the first scene, they know there's something much more between them than a one-night-stand, and they agree to meet at the inn every year at that same time (hence the title, get it?).



     We follow their relationship every five years or so until 1975. Throughout, we see that their lives reflect various historical events (the Viet Nam war, for instance) and social trends (hippies, women's liberation).

 





     But on a more intimate scale, we see these two endearingly human and quirky people change and grow as individuals, in their separate marriages as well as within their own very special, loving relationship. It's the most palatable portrayal of marital infidelity I've ever seen. And all done with no nudity!



     Ellen Burstyn repeated her Tony-winning portrayal of Doris, winning a Golden Globe and a nomination for the Best Actress Oscar, and deservedly so; she is a marvel, an absolute joy to watch. Alan Alda as George (Charles Grodin played the part on Broadway) gives a typical Alan Alda performance, very entertaining, but we saw pretty much the same performance for eleven years on M*A*S*H. However, the chemistry between him and Burstyn is delightful.

     Bernard Slade himself adapted his play (the first stage play he ever wrote, premiered 1975) for the screen. There is almost no difference in dialogue between the screenplay and the stage script, except a few lines omitted here and a couple of lines altered there. Despite the obvious fact that the film employs more settings than the play, which employs one single set, the film still feels very much like a stage play. Which to me isn't altogether a bad thing. However, I do find that, about halfway through the film, I've grown a little weary of the Oscar-nominated theme song ("The Last Time I Felt Like This" by Marvin Hamlisch, sung by Johnny Mathis and Jane Olivor), which is used as a scene marker to convey the passage of time.

     Final verdict: you don't need to read the play if you've seen the film, but if you haven't seen the film, it's worth reading the play if you can find a cheap copy or a copy in your library.

     You can find the play on Amazon here. Please pay no attention to the one (negative) customer review.

    

More Sleeping Beauties

Maxfield Parrish

Warwick Goble

Edward Burne-Jones

John Collier

Walter Crane

Edward Burne-Jones

Four Sleeping Beauties

Edward Frederick Brewtnall

Henry Meynell Rheam

Thomas Spence

Hans Zatska

Nineteen years ago today, I wrote ...

I would just like to mention that, in 1994, Carrabba's was not yet the big mega-chain restaurant it is today. Back then, I believe there were only two locations, both in Houston. I saw the owners there every time I went, which was about twice weekly for several years. It was truly a family-run place.

 

24 May 1994:  (Carrabba's)  At the next table, a floridly made-up woman with coal black hair (colored?), New York accent, speaks very loudly. Her voice has that particular brand of huskiness which comes of too much loud talking and raucous laughter in noisy, smoky places. She has informed her more sedate dinner companion that she's going to get him drunk. I'm not entirely sure he's pleased with the prospect.

     Had nothing to eat so far today except Reese's and Kit Kats. Will forego dessert. Seems wise.

     A new crop of waiters here which has evolved over the past few months, but now they all know me. It's pleasant here at my regular sunny table next to the window, the waiters waving and calling me by name.

     The loud woman is still laughing and saying that everything reminds her of her mother; I haven't yet been able to hear her companion's answers, which perhaps are so low-pitched in order to compensate for her loudness. They're obviously regulars here—Spencer-the-manager has just greeted them heartily. Funny that I haven't seen them in here before.

     She emits a husky chuckle, five staccato eighth notes; lips, generously coated with crayon-red lipstick, form a grossly exaggerated heart around large teeth.

     The room is half-full now, most of the patrons in the non-smoking area (of course). Men in ties and shirt-sleeves, their jackets stashed away in their Beamers, women with their manicured nails and carefully chosen jewelry speaking to each other over open menus which they do not read. They only read them when the waiter comes to take their orders. He stands with his hands on the back of an empty chair while they hem and haw and try to decide between ordering something healthy, or eschewing their "look how healthy I am" competitive personas and ordering what they really want.

 

25 May 1994:  (again at Carrabba's)  No loud-talking New York woman today. A pair of very old women in white, one has lost half an arm, poor thing. And the ever-present men in ties and shirtsleeves. I'm very hungry and it's been a trying day.

     I've been thinking a lot about my childhood lately. My early musical career. I entered my first competition when I was in the fifth grade, and gave my first solo recital at age 11. The first vocal recital I played for came a year later; it was with my junior high choral director, Mrs. Klier, for the Tuesday Musical Club, and my fee was $25. I remember some of the program: she opened with Brahms ("Botschaft," "Vergebliches Ständchen," a couple of others); there was a group of early Berg, both arias from Floyd's Susannah,  and Norina's aria. Big stuff for a 12-year-old.

     Mrs. Klier is one of the few teachers that remain in my memory in a positive way. She was young (25), good-looking, was always fashionable in an unconventional way (to the amusement of the other teachers), and she wore a different wig every day. She was an excellent director, knew how to handle us kids, and we all adored her. When she left to have a baby, it was a huge calamity in our lives; we shed gallons of tears, but managed to send her off with a wonderful baby shower. I gave her a yellow blanket with matching rattle. She had a daughter, Tiffany, a beautiful dark-haired porcelain doll of a baby with enormous eyes.

     When we did Carousel  in 1990, I was pleasantly shocked to see that "little" Tiffany was one of the dancers. Yes, Mrs. Klier had said that she wanted her little girl to go to ballet school. And there she was at that first Carousel  rehearsal, still the dark-haired porcelain doll with those enormous eyes.

 

26 May 1994:  I took out my songs and poems, just to look again. They raise the question: why was I such a creative child? What made me write all those songs, some of which astonish me with their depth? Why did I start keeping a journal?

     Despite coming from a large family, despite my good friends, I was lonely. There was always turbulence inside me—I see it in my lyrics and the few poems that I still have from childhood; I hear it in the tapes of my playing. How well I remember the ever-present sense that I didn't belong, that no one liked me. Certainly no one really knew or understood me, just as no one knew or understood Alice. So I suppose, with all those songs and poems and my journal, I felt—still feel—a tremendous need to leave something behind that would explain everything. To whom? Doesn't matter. To someone. Anyone. Everyone.

     My family don't know me. They don't know me at all. I love them, but they don't know me. Maybe if they all outlive me, they will read these things and come to understand the Leticia they never really knew. And I will be a real person to them, instead of this eternally young, irresponsible, floundering little girl who never married.

     When I was very little, before I started school, the most vivid memories I have are of being afraid. A big dog would pass by, and my sisters would hide me because I was afraid. They would take me to the playground and were puzzled and exasperated because I was afraid to get on the monkey bars or  the big stone animals. When I started school, one of my sisters always had to take me to the bus stop because I was afraid to go alone.

     I was convinced that everyone in my family liked my friend Caroline better than me. She was very pretty and friendly and fearless. Everytime I liked a boy, I was convinced that he liked my best friend better because she (whoever it was at the time) was prettier, blonde, blue-eyed; she could talk to people without trembling; she wasn't afraid.

     I never felt accepted, popular. My music was such a blessed refuge. People liked me when I was onstage; I earned their respect and admiration; I didn't feel ugly and awkward and unwanted. Yet when my parents wanted me to play for "company," I always refused, or, if I complied, I did so very reluctantly. "Company" could never appreciate or understand the specialness of my music. I couldn't bear the stiff smiles and half-hearted compliments with which they tried to mask their ignorance and indifference. They were too close; I needed the stage. I just couldn't bear their patronizing "company" smiles. Those people just didn't know, they couldn't  know. I wanted sincerity. Don't say you like me when you really don't.

     What brought all this on?

Holiday in the Rain

The first poem was inspired by a trip to London I took in 1987. I stayed in a hotel around the corner from Russell Square. Every morning at sunrise, I had coffee at a sandwich bar in Sicilian Avenue, then took a cup "to take away" and went through the smaller Bloomsbury Square to Russell Square and spent a leisurely half hour just strolling.

 

The second poem was inspired by my first summer participating in the American Institute of Musical Studies in Graz, Austria. A group of us students had been told of a wonderful restaurant called Häuserl im Wald (Little House in the Woods), which was indeed in the middle of a heavily wooded park. We set out on foot through the woods and got caught in a rainstorm.

RUSSELL SQUARE

In the slate air
a medieval mist
hovers, mingles
with the steam from
my Styrofoam cup.
I pass benches
that are moist from
night's lingering breath
and take slow steps
round the flower beds,
drawing slender sips
from my cup, savoring
the waking of my limbs.
The pavement
beneath my feet
shudders with a sudden breath
as a lorry passes
unseen.  Beyond
antique roses
the great city stirs.


HÄUSERL IM WALD

With madcap exuberance
we forged ahead, swinging
our tightly furled umbrellas.
Cool drops from
piney clustered limbs
streamed in slim strands
down our hair,
into our collars, and we
chanted like children, giddy,
defiant of the thunder's
grumbled scolding.
Ahead lay the bright promise
of schnitzel and strudel.
Through the gloom
we went ever onward
toward the goal, undaunted
in primal mutual need,
leaving behind us not
a trail of crumbs, but
only the day's details.



© Leticia Austria 2013

From My Big Orange Book: Dante Gabriel Rossetti

self-portrait

Silent Noon

from "The House of Life"

 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass—

The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:

Your eyes smile peace.  The pasture gleams and glooms

'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.

All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,

Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge

Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.

'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

 

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly

Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:

So this winged hour is dropt to us from above.

Oh! clasp we to our hearts for deathless dower,

This close-companioned inarticulate hour

When twofold silence was the song of love.

 

 

Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams

Sir Thomas Allen, baritone

Malcolm Martineau, piano

 



Pentecost

Jean II Restout

Come, Holy Spirit!



Mm-mm-mm, would you like to take a walk?

?
by Harrison Fisher

 

I first "met" this song in an old book of popular tunes which I found in a tiny antique shop in London, way back in 1974. I've always loved it, and I don't know why it's taken me till now to think of finding it on YouTube. But here it is, sung by the legendary Rudy Vallee & His Connecticut Yankees (1931).

 

 

Would You Like to Take a Walk?

Lyrics by Mort Dixon and Billy Rose

Music by Harry Warren

 

(unfortunately, minus the short opening verse)

 

Mm-mm-mm, would you like to take a walk?

Mm-mm-mm, do you think it's going to rain?

Mm-mm-mm, how about a sasparilla?

Gee, the moon is yella.

Somethin' good'll come from that.

Mm-mm-mm, have you heard the latest tune?

Mm-mm-mm, it's a very pretty strain.

Mm-mm-mm, don't you feel a little thrilly?

Gee, it's gettin' chilly.

Somethin' good'll come from that.

When you're strolling through the where-zis

You need a who-zis to lean upon.

But when you have no who-zis

To hug and what-zis, gosh darn!

Mm-mm-mm, would you like to take a walk?

Mm-mm-mm, do you think it's gonna rain?

Mm-mm-mm, ain't you tired of the talkies?

I prefer the walkies.

Somethin' good'll come from that.



The Silent Voice

She pushes on rusted wheels

the sum of her existence

 

furrowed mouth forming

words obscured by

 

hip-hop pounding

from passing cars

 

suits barking business

into bluetooths

 

the laborious sigh

of bus doors shutting

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2011

M-O-T-H-E-R (A Word that Means the World to Me)

The 1916 recording by Henry Burr

 

 

Only One Mother

by

George Cooper

 

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky,

Hundreds of shells on the shore together,

Hundreds of birds that go singing by,

Hundreds of lambs in the sunny weather.

 

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,

Hundreds of bees in the purple clover

Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,

But only one mother the wide world over.

 

This is one of the first poems I learned

by heart. It was in the poetry volume

of the old Childcraft set I grew up with.

 

 

 

Marco Praga: The Ideal Wife (Part Six)

To read parts 1-5, click "Italian Plays in Translation" above.

ACT III, cont'd.

 

Scene 5

GIULIA, GIANNINO, TERESA, ANDREA

 

GIULIA     (At the US door, calling out )  Teresa! Teresa! Fetch Giannino's coat and blue cap, will you?  (Goes to door L.)  Giannino!  (Giannino enters L, Teresa enters US and gives Giulia the hat and coat.)  Come darling; Papa is taking you for a walk.

GIANNINO     Where?

GIULIA     (Gives him a hug and kiss, then puts on his coat.)  To secure a box for the ballet this evening. Aren't you glad? Darling, how dirty you are! Look at your hands; they're positively black! Never mind -- just put on your gloves, and don't keep Papa waiting.  (Smooths his hair.)  There. Where are your gloves? In your pocket?  (Andrea enters and dons his fur coat.)  Now the other hand ... quickly, now! Papa is already here. Straighten your fingers. There! When will you ever learn to dress yourself? Already seven years old! Here we are. Go on, now, darling.

ANDREA     Forward, march!

GIULIA     Be good, Giannino.  (Andrea and Giannino exit, Giulia accompanies them to the door.)  Teresa? Teresa!

TERESA     (Enters US.)  Signora?

GIULIA     Dinner at seven, yes? Tell Antonietta to set the table with special care, please. Unlock the china cabinet and take out the floral porcelain.  (Teresa exits US. After a moment, the electric bell sounds OS. Giulia goes to the mirror and tidies her hair. Enter Gustavo, Costanzo.)

 

END SCENE

 

Scene 6

GIULIA, GUSTAVO, COSTANZO

 

GIULIA     Hello!  (Costanzo shakes her hand. Gustavo bows courteously, then stands aside, ill at ease. Giulia sits on the divan, inviting Costanzo to join her.)  Did you chance to meet my husband on your way here?

COSTANZO     We saw him walking out with Giannino, but they went toward the piazza. I don't think he saw us, did he, Gustavo?

GUSTAVO     What? No, I don't believe so.

GIULIA     He was going to the theatre to secure a box for tonight. He promised Giannino some time ago.  (Silence.)  He was so keen to go.

COSTANZO     Who?

GIULIA     Giannino.  (Silence.)

COSTANZO     Ah, to the ballet!

GIULIA     Sieba.

COSTANZO     Yes, the Manzotti production.  (Silence.)  It's very extravagant.

GIULIA     Really? I don't remember. I saw it at La Scala when it premiered. But that was some time ago.

COSTANZO     Yes, ten years, at least.  (Silence. Then to Giulia, softly.)  The conversation seems to be lagging.  (Silence.)  The music is quite lovely.

GIULIA     What music?

COSTANZO     Sieba.  Wasn't that what we were speaking of?

GIULIA     Oh! Yes.  (Silence.)

COSTANZO     Written by Marenco, yes?

GIULIA     I'm not sure ....

COSTANZO     Gustavo, the music of Sieba was written by Marenco, yes?

GUSTAVO     Marenco. Yes.  (Silence.)

GIULIA     You'll be coming with us to the ballet, will you not, Monticelli?

COSTANZO     (Softly.)  You're being cruel!

GIULIA     (Softly.)  Am I?  (Aloud. )  Velati -- have you nothing to say?  (Gustavo, ill at ease, makes a gesture indicating "no."  Giulia rises, crosses US, where there is a small cupboard. She opens it, touches a spring which opens a secret compartment, and extracts from it a packet of letters tied with blue ribbon. She closes the cupboard and crosses back DS. Without looking a Gustavo, she hands him the letters.)  These are your letters.  (He makes a move to take them, but she pulls back her hand imperceptibly.)  Will you take them?

GUSTAVO     If you like.

GIULIA     Take them.  (He does so.)  Well ... it's ended, then? Really ended?  (Pause.)  You'll probably say I want it so. Won't you? Because it was I who asked you to come here, and for that reason.

GUSAVO     (After a pause, without looking at her.)  My friend -- things have reached the point in which -- I think --   (Costanzo has stood and gone to the door in an attempt to make a discreet exit.)

GIULIA     Monticelli, are you leaving?  (Sits on the divan.)

COSTANZO     I was ....

GIULIA     Please don't go.  (To Gustavo.)  You were saying?

GUSTAVO     Things have reached the point in which -- after what occurred yesterday -- whatever you may think of me, I promise -- it isn't true that --

COSTANZO     (Aside.)  Good God, what a fool he's making of himself!

GUSTAVO     After all, it would be in your own best interests, and for your own peace of mind -- perhaps it's for the best. I must speak frankly with you. Aside from any personal consideration of min -- that is -- it is certainly not my wish -- not that I -- whatever people say of my engagement, I could tell you it's all rubbish -- but it's best to say, the situation for both of us being -- I don't know --

COSTANZO     (Aside.)  Well said!

GIULIA     Are you quite finished? Would you like me to be frank with you?  (Stands and crosses nearer to him.)  You're no better than any other man. You kept me for two years, which is as long as you felt comfortable. Then you wearied of it; but out of habit, or laziness, or perhaps fear, you allowed your love for me to become a chain which you could not break. A man -- a real  man, not a puppet -- would have had the courage to tell me. And, being the kind of woman I am, you might have told me without trepidation. You know very well that even if I still loved -- which I do not, I assure you -- I would do nothing to keep you bound to me, because there is something that matters more to me than you. I could, if I wanted to, force you to stay bound to me, and you would do so, out of fear. I could keep you and even enjoy it, now that I no longer love you. a puppet such as you wouldn't rebel. But I find it isn't really worth the trouble. You needn't worry -- you see how calm I am. Take care, though. I'll tell you what I told Monticelli. Take care what you do. Marry, or don't marry; it makes no difference to me. But keep appearances in front of my husband. Don't suddenly estrange yourself from us, for he wouldn't understand such behaviour. He may -- not doubt, no -- but he may wonder, remember the past and what happened yesterday; he might reconstruct every detail. And he might lose that complete trust -- that blind trust -- in me, which I hold so dear and of which I have such great need. Ah! I wish I could do as I please, even take another lover if I like, without having to pretend as I have done. But you know I love my husband -- in my own way, to be sure; but I do love him, and I mustn't give him the slightest cause to worry. Do we understand each other? Come to see us whenever you like -- that is, when the meagre amount of honor and good sense in you deem it advisable. And don't worry that seeing you may cause me any pain, or that my memories of you may rob me of any sleep or appetite. Oh, no! It shall be as tedious for me to see you as it will be for you to come here -- but it must be done. You may pride yourself on having escaped all of this unscathed, but put out of your mind the presumption that you leave me with any regrets. I don't love you any more. I don't know that I ever truly loved you. It does seem incomprehensible that I could have loved a man such as you. Yesterday when I left you, I said, "Don't even think of marrying her!" Poor girl! How I feel for her! Don't think she'll love you as you believe I did -- yes, I hope she is smarter than I, and understands at once that loving you isn't worth it. It's a waste of time! Oh -- one last thing. Do me the courtesy to return everything you have of me: letters, notes, photographs -- everything. Please don't be so low as to keep anything. It wouldn't do ever to boast of having been my lover, nor to congratulate yourself. I shall send for the things tomorrow.  (The bell sounds OS. Costanzo hurries to the US door and looks out.)  Do we understand each other?

COSTANZO     Signora, your husband!

GIULIA     Do we understand each other?

COSTANZO     (Agitatedly.)  Your husband is in the anteroom!

GIULIA     (Turning to Costanzo.)  I'm quite finished.  (Enter Andrea.)

 

END SCENE

 

Scene 7

GIULIA, ANDREA, GUSTAVO, COSTANZO

 

GIULIA     (Going to Andrea.)  Did you secure a box?

ANDREA     Yes.  (To Gustavo.)  Good evening, my friend. Has Monticelli told you? Everything's done. It's  over!

COSTANZO     (Aside.)  You'll never know how right you are!

GIULIA     I was afraid there'd be no tickets left; it's so late.

ANDREA     There was no problem.

GIULIA     And Giannino?

ANDREA     I sent him up with Teresa to get washed and dressed.

GIULIA     Such a good father!  (To Costanzo.)  May I offer you a vermouth?

COSTANZO     Thank you; I never indulge.

TERESA     (Entering US.)  Dinner is served.

GIULIA     (To Costanzo.)  And you were too late.  (To Gustavo.)  May I take your arm?  (All exit to the dining room.)

 

CURTAIN

END PLAY

On the Ascension

     In many parts of the world, today is the Solemnity of the Ascension and a holy day of obligation. In some dioceses, however, Ascension is moved to the following Sunday (the 7th week of Easter). I live in one of those dioceses.

     It's a little complicated to explain, but in those places where the Ascension is celebrated on the 7th Sunday of Easter, the readings in the Divine Office are moved a day forward from today(Wednesday) till the following Monday. So, for us, the second reading in today's Office of Readings is from a sermon by Saint Leo the Great. I love the writings of St Leo; somehow, they speak to me more deeply than almost any other saint's writings. This passage especially moved me, and for those of you who do not pray the Office, I offer it for your meditation:

At Easter, beloved brethren, it was the Lord's resurrection which was the cause of our joy; our present rejoicing is on account of his ascension into heaven. With all due solemnity we are commemorating that day on which our poor human nature was carried up, in Christ, above all the hosts of heaven, above all the ranks of angels, beyond the highest heavenly powers to the very throne of God the Father. It is upon this ordered structure of divine acts that we have been firmly established, so that the grace of God may show itself still more marvelous when, in spite of the withdrawal from men's sight of everything that rightly felt to command their reverence, faith does not fail, hope is not shaken, charity does not grow cold.

For such is the power of great minds, such the light of truly believing souls, that they put unhesitating faith in what is not seen with the bodily eye; they fix their desires on what is beyond sight. Such fidelity could never be born in our hearts, nor could anyone be justified by faith, if our salvation lay only in what was visible.

And so our Redeemer's visible presence has passed into the sacraments. Our faith is nobler and stronger because sight has been replaced by a doctrine whose authority is accepted by believing hearts, enlightened from on high. This faith was increased by the Lord's ascension and strengthened by the gift of the Spirit; it would remain unshaken by fetters and imprisonment, exile and hunger, fire and ravening beasts, and the most refined tortures ever devised by brutal persecutors. Throughout the world women no less than men, tender girls as well as boys, have given their life's blood in the struggle for this faith. It is a faith that has driven out devils, haled the sick and raised the dead.

Even the blessed apostles, though they had been strengthened by so many miracles and instructed by so much teaching, took fright at the cruel suffering of the Lord's passion and could not accept his resurrection without hesitation. Yet they made such progress through his ascension that they now found joy in what had terrified them before. They were able to fix their minds on Christ's divinity as he sat at the right hand of his Father, since what was presented to their bodily eyes no longer hindered them from turning all their attention to the realization that he had not left his Father when he came down to earth, nor had he abandoned his disciples when he ascended into heaven.

The truth is that the Son of man was revealed as Son of God in a more perfect and transcendent way once he had entered into his Father's glory; he now began to be indescribably more present in his divinity to those from whom he was further removed in his humanity. A more mature faith enabled their minds to stretch upward to the Son in his equality with the Father; it no longer needed contact with Christ's tangible body, in which as man he is inferior to the Father. For while his glorified body retained the same nature, the faith of those who believed in him was now summoned to heights where, as the Father's equal, the only-begotten Son is reached not by physical handling but by spiritual discernment.

Which of the "Little Women" are you?

    

Jessie Wilcox Smith

     I doubt there are any readers of Little Women who have not likened themselves to one of the March sisters. Nor do I believe there are any readers of the book who have not wished they were one of the sisters they knew they were not like. I also doubt there has ever been a sentence more convoluted than that last one.

     Of course, I used to think I was most like Jo. Doesn't everyone? And why is that? Is it because she's the most flawed? The most ambitious? The most out of sync with her environment? Or, if she is the March sister we most want to emulate, is it because we admire her ambition and fierce independence? Because she's funny and fun to be around? Because, despite all her flaws, she was able, with the help of her family and friends, to work through her difficulties and accomplish what she set out to do? To be honest, I thought I was most like Jo because I fancied myself to be colorful, interesting, unusual. Like her, I always hated following the crowd.

     Now, through the filter of intervening years during which I hope my self-knowledge has grown more acute, I see I have only two things in common with Jo: her desire to write and her hot temper. At the same time, I see I have much more in common with Amy than I thought. She's persnickety. Pretentious. Selfish. She loves to correct everyone. She has delusions of grandeur. Thankfully, Amy turns out very well in the end. As Marmee says, she finally becomes a gentlewoman in the true sense of the word.

     And what of Meg? Have you ever noticed that she's the one readers seem to forget? And have you ever stopped to think that perhaps the reason for that is because she represents the kind of person most of us really are and know? Think about it. She starts out at sixteen a rather vain, shallow girl who worries about her looks and her clothes. And boys. She dreams about marrying a wealthy man and living in the lap of luxury for the rest of her days, never having to risk harming her beautiful white hands with manual labor. Yet she falls in love with a humble tutor who can only give her a humble home and two beautiful children. And she ends up happier than she ever hoped. Yup. Most of the women I know are Megs.

     Then there's Beth. It distresses me to hear and read disparaging remarks about Beth. "She's too good to be true." "She's boring." "She's a wimp." I think people say those things about her because she makes them uncomfortable. Yes, she's good. What's wrong with that? Isn't that what we're all supposed  to be? The one vocation we all have in common in this world is holiness. Holiness is our true vocation, no matter what career we follow. Boring? Why? Because she loved her family so much that all she wanted to do in life was serve them and make their lives happier and more comfortable? Because she made toys and dropped them out the window to the poor neighborhood children? She realized the greatest earthly ambition a human being could ever aspire to: serving others. It may not have been in a grand, global way, but who would put a measure on true charity? As for being a wimp—look at how she struggled against her social anxiety disorder. She went to that picnic out of respect for Laurie. She pushed aside her painful shyness to talk to a disabled boy because everyone else left him alone with no one to talk to. Look at how she, who loved music so deeply, had to put up with that crappy piano, until Mr Laurence gave her a new one, not because she asked for it, but because she deserved it. Most of all, look at how she faced her own death—yes, she regretted not being there to see her baby niece and nephew grow up; yes, she regretted leaving her family. She even regretted never being in love and not being more "ambitious." But she never railed against her illness. She lived out her life doing everything she loved to do, working for others, until her strength gave out, then she faced the end with a peacefulness and strength that only her deep faith could give. She was eager to reach her true home. If you ask me, Beth is the true heroine of the four. She's the one I choose to emulate.

     But I think, even at this midlife point, I'm still very much the 12-year-old Amy with a smattering of Jo.

Spring Things

It's a little late in the season, true, but better la— oh, you know.

 

Spring read:  The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey from Hollywood to Holy Vows. This is the life story of Mother Dolores Hart, Prioress of the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut, who cut short a successful career in film to enter cloistered religious life. I think it's very appropriate for spring, as it is all about dying to an old life and beginning a new and better one. I've only just started it, but I can say that so far it is engrossing, moving, entertaining, funny, surprising, and well written. Co-authored with her long-time friend, Richard DeNeut, with plenty of photographs.

 

Spring watch:  I Capture the Castle (2003), starring Romola Garai, is a charming and fairly faithful adaptation of Dodie Smith's much-beloved novel of the same name, and the story—coming of age, first love—is very spring-appropriate, despite the decaying castle and the blocked writer/father (brilliantly played by Bill Nighy). Return to Me (2000), with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny, is a romantic comedy with a unique premise: Minnie plays a heart transplant recipient whose new heart was acquired from David Duchovny's character's dead wife (got that?). Carroll O'Conner (of All in the Family  fame) is wonderful as Minnie's grandfather, and his poker-playing/bowling cronies are so endearingly quirky. This is one of my favorite go-to films if I'm in the mood for something really sweet, PG, and tear-jerking. And, since spring is the season when God's creatures look for mates, Emma, Jane Austen's irrepressible matchmaker, is a must. For me, the only filmed version worth watching is ITV's 1996 version with Kate Beckinsale. I saw Gwenyth Paltrow's a few times, and the most recent BBC one with Romola Garai once, and that was quite enough  for me. Blech. (If you want a more detailed account than "blech," you can read my Amazon review for the BBC version here, on my reviews page—scroll down a bit—where you can also find my positive review of the ITV version.)

 

Spring listen: I was a pianist, after all, so naturally I'd turn to piano repertoire; namely, Mozart's early piano sonatas and concertos. Specifically, his Concerto in E-flat, No. 9 ("Jeunehomme"—literally, "young man"). Here is the first movement in an incandescent performance by that exquisite Mozartean, Mitsuko Uchida, with Jeffrey Tate conducting the Mozarteum Orchestra.



Marco Praga: The Ideal Wife (Part Five)

To read Acts I and II, click "Italian Plays in Translation" above. To remind you of the characters, here is the cast:
     ANDREA CAMPIANI, stockbroker
     GIULIA, his wife
     GIANNINO, their 7-year-old son
     GUSTAVO VELATI, lawyer
     COSTANZO MONTICELLI, his associate
     TERESA, the Campiani's maid
     ETTORE, servant

ACT III

A salon in the Campiani's house.

 

Scene 1

GIULIA, COSTANZO

 

(An electric bell rings OS.)

 

GIULIA     (To Costanzo, who enters through the US door.)  Oh, hello! So early? And is it just you?

COSTANZO     How are you?

GIULIA     Very well, thank you. Are you alone?

COSTANZO     At the moment. Forgive me, but -- you seem very nervous.

GIULIA     I'm not at all.

COSTANZO     In that case, I need to ask a great favour: that you remain calm and listen to what I have to say.

GIULIA     What have you to say? Didn't you come for dinner? Is Velati not coming?

COSTANZO     Stay calm, I beg you.

GIULIA     I am very calm!

COSTANZO     You don't seem to be. Is your husband out?

GIULIA     Yes.

COSTANZO     And ... ?

GIULIA     And what?

COSTANZO     Did anything happen?

GIULIA     When?

COSTANZO     After your -- visit -- yesterday.

GIULIA     Such as?

COSTANZO     I don't know -- a suspicion -- some doubt on your husband's part --

GIULIA     My husband has never doubted me.

COSTANZO     I only ask, because Gustavo was very much troubled.

GIULIA     Oh, no; you are mistaken. My husband behaved yesterday as he always does.

COSTANZO     Gustavo said he was upset.

GIULIA     Because he thought it imprudent of me to go to Gustavo's house; nothing more.

COSTANZO     But Gustavo feared that perhaps your husband might have had other thoughts afterward; that, upon reflection --

GIULIA     My dear boy, it is up to the wife to guide and inspire her husband's thoughts.
COSTANZO     Well, you see, you were so flustered, he feared you might not have been able to control yourself.
GIULIA     Your friend doesn't know me at all.
COSTANZO     On the contrary, he claims to know you very well. But what happened yesterday was so unprecedented.
GIULIA     I never lose my composure, no matter what the circumstances. What's more, my friend, it takes more than an awkward incident, however serious, to destroy such trust as I know how to earn. And this is why I am not afraid, why I can take such risks when necessary, or simply when I want to. But what a coward your friend is! The slightest hint of a duel sends him into a panic!
COSTANZO     Oh, no, not Gustavo. He is a gentleman, a man of courage --
GIULIA     A man of courage! You think so? But let's not talk of nonsense. Is he coming? You did receive my note, did you not? And you told him of our invitation?
COSTANZO     Yes.
GIULIA     I wrote to you because I imagined you had been apprised of everything. Oh, I'm not annoyed with him for confiding in you; rather, you men are fortunate to have each other to ask advice. That isn't the case among women. And he has such need of advice! Is he coming, then?
COSTANZO     If you want him.
GIULIA     Certainly I do. I am most anxious that he come. My husband extended the invitation to you both. Should he not come, after what happened yesterday, it would seem very strange indeed. My husband would .... Everything must go smoothly; nothing, but nothing, must remind him of yesterday. Gustavo must come, as if nothing had happened.
COSTANZO     He might invent an excuse in order to avoid an awkward situation.
GIULIA     But why should it be awkward?
COSTANZO     Anyhow, you have such influence over your husband; you said so yourself.
GIULIA     Oh, must I always fight my own battles, and save myself? No, he should come and help me; it's his duty. Ah -- I see. He'd rather not face me today! I thought not. Which is why I wrote to you; I know you have some influence with him, and can make him be reasonable. Then tell him to come, or he'd better take care!
COSTANZO     You frighten me, Signora. What would you do?
GIULIA     I don't know. I could become so annoyed, disgusted -- not at his indifference, no, but at his selfishness -- that I wouldn't manage to conceal it from my husband; I wouldn't be as I normally am towards him. What would happen then? And, whatever the consequences, would your friend be disposed to bear them? At any rate, if he doesn't come today, he shall have to come tomorrow, or the next day; he cannot be so naive as to think that, just because he is no longer my -- my lover -- , he can cease to be our friend. I have taken great pains not to compromise myself during this affair. I've no intention of doing so now that it's ended.
COASTANZO     But --
GIULIA     My dear, when one has been the lover of a woman such as I, one must be prepared to bear the consequences. He shall marry and start a new life. Perhaps he'll not introduce his wife to us; I shouldn't care to know her. By and by shall stop visiting us, then we shan't see him at all. But make this quite clear to him: until that time, he must divide his attentions between her and me. Rather, between her and us. Nothing else will do.  (Enter Andrea through US door.) Oh, Andrea -- here is Monticelli!

END SCENE

 

Scene 2

GIULIA, ANDREA, COSTANZO

 

ANDREA     Monticelli, my good man!

GIULIA     He wishes to convey Velati's regrets that he shall not be dining with us.

ANDREA     Oh! Why not?

GIULIA     One of their clients has arrived from Turin; they have an important meeting with him at nine, and thought it impolite to leave us immediately after dinner. But I urged them to come just the same.

ANDREA     Of course! We'd much rather have your company even for a little than not at all.

GIULIA     No need to insist; I've already convinced Monticelli. And he's promised to fetch Velati.

ANDREA     No need to stand on ceremony with us.

GIULIA     Are we going to the ballet?

ANDREA     Ballet?

GIULIA     Yes, we promised Giannino, if you remember.

ANDREA     We shall go, if you wish.  (To Costanzo.)  Forgive me; I must leave you. There is some business to be taken care of before dinner concerning Velati. However, you may tell him that everything is under control. He may rest assured. Until later, then.  (Exits.)

 

END SCENE

 

Scene 3

GIULIA, COSTANZO

 

COSTANZO     (Bowing.)  Signora ....

GIULIA     You're leaving?

COSTANZO     Yes, I'm going to Gustavo's -- and then to see that client from Turin that you so cleverly invented for me.

GIULIA     I didn't invent him; I saw the appointment in his diary.

COSTANZO     Ah.

GIULIA     You could send Velati to the meeting alone. You needn't both be there, surely?

COSTANZO     Not at all!

GIULIA     Then you may come with us to the ballet.

COSTANZO     I shall see you at dinner.

GIULIA     With Velati!

COSTANZO     Yes, but -- please be indulgent. You have such understanding of life and know how to take things into your own hands. You must make allowances for the weakness of human nature.

GIULIA     For a man's nature, especially. Men are made of weaker stuff than women; you may believe that.

COSTANZO     Then you'll lighten his sentence.

GIULIA     Of course.

COSTANZO     And you're perfectly calm, are you not?

GIULIA     Perfectly.

COSTANZO     And your husband is in the house.

GIULIA     My husband is in the house.

COSTANZO     In short, what's done is done. We shall speak no more of the past.

GIULIA     Friends, just as before!  (Gazes at him a moment. )  What an excellent friend Velati has in you! And how you underestimate yourself, for his sake.

COSTANZO     I simply follow your lead. You've taken your side. It's best, after all.

GIULIA     Yes. And perhaps you think ill of me, seeing me so -- how shall I put it? -- so resigned. You are thinking: this woman has never truly loved, and she pretends to be so indifferent about being otssed aside because --

COSTANZO     No, I don't think that, I assure you. Rather, I think you a modern woman who uses her head. There is a strange, yet agreeable, balance in you between love for a man and devotion to your home. And with the word "home," I refer to the entire conglomeration of persons, affections, duties, etc., which a young woman acquires upon becoming a wife. You sacrifice and risk everything for a man who is not your husband, yes; but not to the point of compromising your devotion to your home. The day that this devotion is put in danger, you retreat. As long as you can be both wife and lover, you are both, with all the passion and enthusiasm within you. But when it becomes necessary to choose one or the other, you choose wife. You are playing a role in the comedy of love: "Commedia Appassionata," if you will, but one with a happy ending. The tragic ending is not for you. And you have now reached a point in your relationship with Gustavo which, if pressed, may cause the drama to go awry. It is that certain "balance" in you that makes you exit from the scene.

GIULIA     So that is your estimation of me. But you deny me my impulses, my spirit --

COSTANZO     Those things always prove fatal!  (Almost whispering in ear.)  You have a lover, yet your husband is the happiest of men. There are women that are deemed honest who do not make their husbands as happy and content as you make yours.

GIULIA     (Looking at him penetratingly. )  Would you like a wife such as I?

COSTANZO     That's another question! But this much is true of your husband -- he has his cake, and gets to enjoy it too. You -- you are certainly not the worst of women! Do you think I judge you ill?

GIULIA     I think you're a cynic!

COSTANZO     A cynic? But why? I rather think I possess the admirable ability to see the good in everyone. Well, then -- goodbye until this evening.  (Shakes her hand and exits US. )

 

END SCENE

 

Scene 4

GIULIA, ANDREA

 

GIULIA     (To Andrea, who has entered R and proceeds to look for something in the room.)  What are you looking for?

ANDREA     I didn't leave some papers in here a little while ago, did I? Ah, here they are. I'll be in my study.

GIULIA     Working on Sunday? Aren't you going out at all today?

ANREA     No.

GIULIA     Giannino has not budged an inch all day; you should take him for a walk.

ANDREA     Won't you be going out yourself?

GIULIA     No. You know very well that one must supervise when one is expecting guests. Teresa and Antonietta can't really be trusted. You should trot over to the theatre with Giannino to secure a box for tonight.

ANDREA     But it's half-past five.

GIULIA     There's planty of time before dinner.

ANDREA     Very well; see that Giannino is dressed.  (Begins to leave.)

GIULIA     Andrea what is the matter?

ANDREA     What? Nothing.

GIULIA     Are you still angry?

ANDREA     I never was. I told you what I thought right to tell you. That is all.

GIULIA     Then what is it?

ANDREA     You must understand that I'm still a bit worried.

GIULIA     Why?

ANDREA     Your heedlessness gives me cause for concern -- a heedlessness of which you are unaware. I've never lectured you, nor have I ever imposed upon you any desire that you be one of those ridiculously prudish women who abide by appearances, and who so often confuse the maintaining of appearances with honor. And while I have never before been disturbed by your ease and assurance. Yesterday's impropriety does disturb me greatly.

GIULIA     One mistake, one foolish little mistake, and your head spins with all sorts of worries and imaginings -- and doubts, perhaps! what else are you husbands capable of?

ANDREA     You're wrong to talk so, Giulia! Sometimes you speak in the same way that you act -- without thinking. and you speak of things that, if you understood their significance, would make you blush to speak of!

GIULIA     Then why do you oblige me to say them?

ANDREA     I?

GIULIA     Yes. You know exactly how to goad me. Yesterday you made me see what a mistake I had made, and lectured me for it. I asked you to forgive me. That should be the end ot it! But, no -- you are still lecturing!

ANDREA     No, my dear. I only fear that you should forget, that tomorrow you might make another mistake -- less serious, perhaps, but mistake nonetheless.

GIULIA     Didn't I have good reason to see Velati? I wanted to warn him, despite what you said, because you didn't want to do it; you didn't want to worry him. But I didn't want you to involve yourself in any trouble on account of someone else. Do you understand?

ANDREA     And if I hadn't by chance met you there, you perhaps wouldn't have informed me of what you had done.

GIULIA     On the contrary; I would have told you as soon as possible. Have I ever concealed anything from you?

ANDREA     I don't know -- I don't believe so. But, Giulia, you should've written Velati to come here. He lives alone, in the center of town; people know he's our friend, but --

GIULIA     All right, I understand! I was wrong. People talk, rumours get started .... How fortunate he is engaged to be married!

ANDREA     Oh, Giulia! I'm a poor man if you feel you have to say such a thing to placate me! It's quite obvious you don't think clearly!  (Turns to leave.)

GIULIA     Andrea!  (Approaches him tenderly. )  Please forgive me. Don't scold anymore.

ANDREA    It's only that I love you, Giulia, and am very mindful of your reputation. I know that the smallest indiscretion has often been the cause of great misfortune. You see -- I wish all our acquaintance might have seen you yesterday as you left this house arm-in-arm with me. There! We'll speak no more about this. Go and dress Giannino. I shall replace these papers and return shortly.  (Exits R. )

 

END SCENE

 

[To be continued. ]