The Low Road E-Book

Bruce Norris

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A young entrepreneur sets out on a quest for wealth with priceless ambition and a purse of gold. Bruce Norris's play The Low Road is a startling fable of free-market economics and cut-throat capitalism. It was premiered at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in March 2013.

Leseprobe

Bruce Norris

THE LOW ROAD

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Author’s Note

Original Production

Characters and Note on the Text

Act One

Act Two

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Author’s Note

The set should be open and flexible and suggest the plain, whitewashed interior of a New England meeting house circa 1790. Several doors open onto the stage. All other scenery – stairs, tables, etc. – should be introduced into this space as necessary to establish a scene. When Act Two begins, the visual change should conceal the look of Act One. Then, of course, we return to the original configuration for the remainder of the act.

The time is from 1759–1776, with a brief detour to the present.

As to accents – since no one really knows what anyone sounded like in the late 1700s, I’d suggest that some distinction be made between the English characters (such as Shirley) and the thoroughly American ones. And if Jim’s accent is anachronistically American-contemporary, all the better.

B.N.

The Low Road was first performed at the Royal Court Jerwood Theatre Upstairs in London on 22nd March 2013. The cast was as follows:

REDCOAT/HESSIAN/FARADAY/MUSICIAN

Jared Ashe

QUESTIONER/MUSICIAN

Jack Benjamin

SERGEANT MANLEY/ATTENDANT/MUSICIAN

Kit Benjamin

MRS TRUMPETT/BELINDA/MARGARITA LOW

Elizabeth Berrington

PEG/SISTER ELIZABETH/MUSICIAN

Helen Cripps

JIM TRUMPETT

Johnny Flynn

COMPANY

Charlyne Francis

FARMER/NATHANIEL PUGH/ED

Ian Gelder

HESSIAN/PANDIT

Raj Ghatak

OLD ONE-EYED TIZZY/NTOMBI/MARY CLEERE

Natasha Gordon

JOHN BLANKE

Kobna Holdbrook-Smith

PROSTITUTE/CONSTANCE PUGH/QUESTIONER

Ellie Kendrick

THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH/HESSIAN/QUESTIONER/OFFICER

Edward Killingback

YOUNG JIM TRUMPETT

Frederick Neilson/Will Thompson

CAPTAIN SHIRLEY/POOR TIM/DICK TRUMPETT

Simon Paisley Day

ADAM SMITH

Bill Paterson

SLAVE MERCHANT/BROTHER AMOS/HESSIAN/IVAN/LAGARDE

Harry Peacock

PROSTITUTE/SISTER COMFORT/DELILAH LOW

Leigh Quinn

GREASY-HAIRED MAN/MARTIN/ISAAC LOW

John Ramm

COMPANY

Joseph Rowe

Director

Dominic Cooke

Designer

Tom Pye

Lighting Designer

Jean Kalman

Sound Designer

Carolyn Downing

Composer

Gary Yershon

Characters

ACT ONE

ADAM SMITH

MOHEGAN BRAVE

SHADOWY FIGURE (GREASY-HAIRED MAN)

MRS TRUMPETT

PEG

OLD ONE-EYED TIZZY

REDCOAT

CAPTAIN SHIRLEY

GUNNERY SGT. MANLEY

YOUNG JIM, age six

HENRY SCOTT, 3rd DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH

JIM TRUMPETT

FARMER

SLAVE MERCHANT

FEMALE SLAVE

JOHN BLANKE

HIGHWAYMAN

BROTHER NATHANIEL PUGH

CONSTANCE PUGH

SISTER ELIZABETH

POOR TIM

BROTHER AMOS

SISTER COMFORT

HESSIANS 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Also PROSTITUTES and their CUSTOMERS, TOWNSPEOPLE, AFRICAN SLAVES, MERCHANTS, CONGREGANTS.

ACT TWO

BELINDA

ED

DICK

PANDIT

NTOMBI

MARTIN

IVAN

MALE 1 (voice)

MALE 2 (voice)

ATTENDANT

MALE 3 (voice)

FEMALE

ISAAC LOW

MARGARITA LOW

FOOTMAN

DELILAH LOW

SERVANT (FARADAY)

LAGARDE

MARY CLEERE

OFFICERS 1, 2 and 3

ALIENS 1 and 2

Also PROTESTERS, SECURITY POLICE, SERVANTS, ACTORS, DINNER GUESTS, SOLDIERS.

Note on the Text

Dialogue spoken simultaneously is laid out in columns; where many characters are speaking simultaneously, a thin vertical line also runs alongside the text.

German translations by Barbara Christ.

ACT ONE

Before house lights darken, a door at the back of the stage opens and ADAM SMITH – that Adam Smith – enters, walking stick in hand, dressed in a greatcoat and tricorne hat. He carefully removes these, hanging them on pegs by the door, then shuffles toward a small lectern, clutching a leather folio. A nearby sign reads: ‘Mr Adam Smith, LLD and FRS’ and smaller, ‘Professor of Moral Philosophy, University of Glasgow’. He opens the folio to the first page, mutters to himself, squints into the auditorium.

SMITH (pronounced Scottish accent). Lights, please?

The house lights dim. He clears his throat, produces a small atomiser, administers two squirts to his tonsils, clears throat again, then:

Chapter One.

Thunder, lightning, darkness. We hear a thin tune played on a Native American flute. Out of the darkness, a MOHEGAN BRAVE steps into a shaft of moonlight. He assumes a series of ritual postures as SMITH relates the following:

The Mohegan people of present-day Massachusetts believed their forefather to be a benevolent giant whose wife was a spirit of the trees, and that thunder and lightning were the result of the married couple quarrelling in the sky. At the approach of a thunderstorm, they would beseech these magical ancestors to restore peace to the heavens and bestow blessings upon themselves and their grandchildren. Of course, as we now know, such blessings would never come to pass. Quite the reverse; their descendants were to be placed in internment camps and, in subsequent generations, work in gambling casinos and sell discount cigarettes.

The BRAVE hears a noise from offstage and pulls a knife from his waist. A gunshot rings out. The BRAVE drops dead and the flute music stops.

This particular narrative, however, does not concern them.

A SHADOWY FIGURE in a cloak and broad-brimmed hat steps out of the shadows, smoking pistol in one hand. In the other, a covered basket.

Nor does it concern this man, though he will come to play a dramatic role in its unfolding some minutes from now.

The SHADOWY FIGURE places the basket in front of a wooden door, knocks, and exits again. The door opens to reveal MRS TRUMPETT, candle in hand, with PEG, a prostitute, and OLD ONE-EYED TIZZY, a hunchbacked African slave. MRS TRUMPETT kneels to inspect the basket, extracting a letter.

Rather, it is with regard to the individual within this basket that we shall confine the account, and the course of encounters that would determine his education, his progress and his eventual undoing.

Another rumble of thunder. A title reads: ‘WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS, 1759’. From the basket, the cries of an infant.

MRS TRUMPETT (reading letter). ‘To whomsoever Providence and I have delivered this bastard child: Circumstances force me to beg you care for him and bring him into manhood and should you be good enough to do so, in his seventeenth year you shall find yourself generously compensated.’ Signed ‘G. Washington of Virginia’.

She picks up the basket as SMITH speaks.

SMITH. The woman was called Dorothy Trumpett, or Dolly to some. And as she had none of her own, and reasoning correctly that the child would occupy but a tenth the space of an adult and consume correspondingly little –

PEG (to MRS TRUMPETT). Shall we bring him in, then?

SMITH. – she took him in, as she’d taken in the girls of her establishment before him.

MRS TRUMPETT. But only fer the night.

Festive music as we move inside what is clearly a brothel. PROSTITUTES in petticoats dance with OLD MEN and drunken BRITISH REGULARS. A half-naked PROSTITUTE screams as a SOLDIER chases her through the room. MRS TRUMPETT sits with the baby as SMITH continues.

SMITH. The tavern in which she conducted her business stood conveniently upon a crossroads, and as the ladies within had no marketable skills to speak of, they set about to purvey the only commodity available to them.

The music and debauchery conclude and the baby grows quiet as lights change to morning and birds begin to chirp. Others exit, leaving only MRS TRUMPETT and TIZZY behind with GUNNERY SGT. MANLEY face down on a table.

Mrs Trumpett sat ’til morning with the child. But milk to soothe its hunger was not to be had, as cattle were scarce and even swine a luxury. And thus, lacking other recourse, she husbanded the labour of bees to supplement her income.

A door opens and a hungover REDCOAT stumbles downstairs, fastening his trousers. He rudely tosses a pair of coins on the table.

MRS TRUMPETT (proffering a jar). Pot of honey fer yer family, sir?

REDCOAT (as he exits). Fuck off.

SMITH. And she discovered that if she were to place the tip of her finger into the honeypot and from there to the child’s mouth he would suck it clean directly.

The baby gurgles. A title reads: ‘WHAT THE WIDOW TRUMPETT FORECAST FOR THE BASTARD CHILD’.

MRS TRUMPETT (to the infant). Shhh… What a greedy little fella y’are. Greedy, greedy, wee fella with no manners at all. But you’ll grow up to be a gent some day, won’t ya? Oh yes ya will! A right gent with servants to serve ya and shine the brass buckles on your best boots, and you’ll sit at yer table in the biggest house in town and dine on beefsteak and partridges and wear a pointed hat with a feather sticking outta the top, and you’ll sit atop the best white horse and ev’ry time ya ride past folks will look up and say what a fine gent he is.

TIZZY hobbles up on her cane, smoking a clay pipe.

SMITH. But not all in the household were in agreement as to his destiny.

TIZZY (Caribbean accent). Can’t come to no good.

SMITH exits.

MRS TRUMPETT. What can’t?

TIZZY. ’Tiz a bad child, miz.

MRS TRUMPETT. What an awful thing to say.

TIZZY. Somtin’ ’bout him.

MRS TRUMPETT. How could there be any fault in a dear wee baby?

TIZZY. Got hisself the mark.

MRS TRUMPETT. What mark?

TIZZY. Seen it dere on his backside. Iz a perfeckly round spot like a copper penny been fastened direckly to his rump.

MRS TRUMPETT. P’raps it portends a great fortune.

TIZZY. Nooo. Somtin’ wrong with dat child.

A door opens and CAPTAIN SHIRLEY – tall, brisk, polite, English, swagger, stick in hand – enters, sits next to MRS TRUMPETT.

SHIRLEY. Morning.

MRS TRUMPETT. Morning, sir. I trust you slept well?

SHIRLEY. Tolerably well – if not altogether soundly.

MRS TRUMPETT. Tizzy, fetch tea fer the commander.

SHIRLEY. With sugar, please?

MRS TRUMPETT. Will honey do?

SHIRLEY. If need be.

MRS TRUMPETT. ’Twas such a rain we had last night I hope we kept ya dry.

SHIRLEY. Passably dry, though I must report the bedding falls something short of hygienic.

MRS TRUMPETT. I’ll give ’em a wash.

SHIRLEY. But if I might speak to you on an unrelated matter – (To MANLEY.) look sharp, Sergeant.

SHIRLEY pokes MANLEY.

MANLEY (awaking with a start). Aye, sir.

MRS TRUMPETT (to TIZZY). And tea fer the sergeant as well.

SHIRLEY. Now, Mrs Trumpett. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you we live in contentious times.

MRS TRUMPETT. O, I know.

SHIRLEY. I mean, here we are doing our level best to conclude this business with the bloody French, while at the same time the lack of hospitality my fellows receive in the cities is positively scandalous.

MRS TRUMPETT. O, it’s true.

SHIRLEY. And I’d like to know on whose behalf they suppose we’re fighting?

MRS TRUMPETT. What a shame.

SHIRLEY. I mean, we all kneel before the same sovereign, don’t we? So what is to be gained from disparaging the very fellows who are here to look after your interests?

MRS TRUMPETT. ’Tain’t right.

SHIRLEY. The larger point being that, what with the prevailing sentiments in town and the scarcity of alternatives, I’m afraid I must ask you to quarter another dozen of my officers in your outlying buildings.

MRS TRUMPETT. But – there ain’t no room, sir – (Continues.)

SHIRLEY (overlapping). Mmmmyes. I’m sure you’ll find a way.

PEG – the prostitute from earlier – has entered, and timidly sidled up to SHIRLEY.

MRS TRUMPETT. – we already got nine of ’em in the cellar and four more in the –

SHIRLEY. Well, we can hardly have the officers’ rank lying about in the rain, can we? (Seeing PEG.) What’s this?

PEG (clears throat, then, in a small voice). You ain’t paid me.

SHIRLEY. Hm? Couldn’t hear.

MRS TRUMPETT. Not now, Peg.

PEG. But he ain’t paid, miz.

MANLEY (to PEG, cockney accent). Shut up.

SHIRLEY (to MANLEY). Steady on, Sergeant. (To PEG.) What’s your name, child?

PEG (in a small voice). It’s Peg.

SHIRLEY. Ah, yes.

PEG. I’m the one what sucked your cock last night.

SHIRLEY. And a cracking job you did of it. But: I am having a bit of a chat –

MRS TRUMPETT (to PEG). We’ll settle it later, dear.

PEG. Why izzit they don’t pay like the others, miz? ’Tain’t right.

MANLEY roughly shoves PEG to the ground.

MANLEY. Shut it, ya bitch.

SHIRLEY (to MANLEY). Now, see here. We’ll have none of that.

MANLEY. Aye, sir.

PEG creeps meekly away as the others continue without pausing.

MRS TRUMPETT. It’s just my girls ain’t been paid in two months, and they got so little to eat – (Continues.)

SHIRLEY (overlapping). Mmmyes, it’s a difficult time.

MRS TRUMPETT. – and you know why they gets angry, it’s cuz yer countrymen won’t take none o’ their paper money exceptin’ to pay our taxes –

SHIRLEY (peremptory). Well, we all have to pay our taxes, don’t we? Otherwise there’d be no militia to protect you.

MRS TRUMPETT. But who is it we’s being protected from?

SHIRLEY. Why, agitators and insurrectionists.

MRS TRUMPETT. But… it’s you they agitate against.

SHIRLEY (with a sigh). Oh dear.

MRS TRUMPETT. Cuz you don’t pay no taxes, do ya?

SHIRLEY. Mrs Trumpett. You provide commendable service to my men and in return we provide you with protection. Now, surely that’s a fair exchange, yes?

MRS TRUMPETT. But –

The baby cries.

SHIRLEY. And if you don’t mind my saying it, in a trade such as yours, given the disapproval of your less permissive countrymen, ’twould hardly seem prudent to be without protection.

MRS TRUMPETT. But – but – but – as long as we don’t got –

SHIRLEY (standing, dismissively). Yes, yes. Manley?

MANLEY. Aye, sir.

SHIRLEY. If you’d muster the fellows?

MANLEY salutes, exits.

(Re: the baby.) And who’s this obstreperous young lad?

MRS TRUMPETT. Erm –

SHIRLEY. One of the girls’, is it?

MRS TRUMPETT. He’s… erm – (Turns to TIZZY.)

TIZZY (improvising). It’s called Jim.

MRS TRUMPETT (to TIZZY). Jim?

SHIRLEY. Jim, you say?

TIZZY. Jim.

SHIRLEY (to the child). Ah, Jim.

MRS TRUMPETT (fondly, to the baby). Jim.

SHIRLEY. Prodigious lung capacity.

MRS TRUMPETT. Cuz he’s hungry.

SHIRLEY (to infant JIM). You denied me a full night’s sleep, my boy.

MRS TRUMPETT (showing the baby to SHIRLEY). But don’t he got the look of a gent about him? I told him how he’s going to be a proper gentleman some day.

SHIRLEY (dubious). Mmmyes.

MRS TRUMPETT. With a white horse and a feather in his cap!

SHIRLEY. Erm. Not to put too fine a point – has he property, then?

MRS TRUMPETT. Has he – ?

SHIRLEY. That is to say, inasmuch as a fellow is lacking in property – or the pecuniary equivalent – ’twould be something of an exaggeration to call oneself a gentleman. Feathered cap or no.

MRS TRUMPETT. Erm – He ain’t got property at present.

SHIRLEY (satisfied). Well, there we are, then.

MRS TRUMPETT (improvising). But he’ll inherit it.

SHIRLEY. A legacy, has he? And where might be the father?

MRS TRUMPETT. Virginia.

SHIRLEY. Splendid.

MRS TRUMPETT. He’s a man of breeding.

SHIRLEY. Is he now? A pedigree! And has the fellow a name?

TIZZY. Washington.

SHIRLEY (cocking an ear). – Say again?

MRS TRUMPETT. Mister G. Washington?

SHIRLEY (dubious). George Washington, is it?

MRS TRUMPETT. Very like.

SHIRLEY. Of Virginia?

MRS TRUMPETT. Do you know him, sir?

SHIRLEY. Well – By reputation.

MRS TRUMPETT. And he’s a man of breeding?

SHIRLEY. He’s a man of many – He’s a tall fellow.

MRS TRUMPETT. And has he property?

SHIRLEY. Oh, I should say. Some threescore acres in tobacco, as I hear.

MRS TRUMPETT (avidly). Then he’s a man of fortune?

SHIRLEY. Well, his fortunes may have somewhat declined since – I say, are you quite sure of this?

MRS TRUMPETT. Oh, he’s the father, sir.

TIZZY. We got a letter.

MRS TRUMPETT. With a signature.

TIZZY. Mister G. Washington.

MRS TRUMPETT. Of Virginia.

SHIRLEY (sotto). Then might I suggest we keep this bit between us, shall we, as the man is something allied to our mutual cause – ?

MRS TRUMPETT. Is he now?