Explore a dramatization of Walter van Tilburg Clark's short story “The Portable Phonograph”
Explore a dramatization of Walter van Tilburg Clark's short story “The Portable Phonograph”
In this 1977 dramatization of Walter van Tilburg Clark's short story “The Portable Phonograph” (1950), four men in search of comfort gather after a ruinous war.
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Transcript
JENKINS: ". . . Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
THE BOOK-LOVER: You're not stopping?
JENKINS: You'll forgive me.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh, please, just the part again, from "Our revels."
THE HARSH MAN: "Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, . . . spirits and
Are vanished into air, into thin air:
. . . like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces . . ."
JENKINS: "The solemn temples . . ."
THE HARSH MAN: "The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind."
THE BOOK-LOVER: I saw Lawrence Olivier as Prospero in "The Tempest" a few years ago in London. No--no, it was New York.
THE HARSH MAN: It was London. It wasn't Olivier, it was Paul Scofield or John Gielgud.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh, was it now? Well, you're probably right.
JENKINS: There were those, of course, who said that Shakespeare was not meant to be acted, but read, prepared for the library, not the stage.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh no, I don't believe that.
JENKINS: No more do I. It doesn't matter now. When I saw it was going to happen, I told myself, this is the end. I can't take much, I'll take these. Perhaps I was impractical. But, for myself, I don't regret. But what can we know of those who'll come after us? By the doddering remnant of a race of mechanical fools. I've saved what I love. The soul of what was good in us here. And perhaps the new ones will make a strong enough beginning not to fall behind when they become clever.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Could I? Shakespeare, the Bible, "Moby Dick," "Divine Comedy." You might have done worse.
JENKINS: Much worse.
THE HARSH MAN: Yes. You will have a little soul left until you die. It's more than is true of us. My brain becomes thick like my hands. I want paper to write on. But there's none--none.
JENKINS: This peat gives off but a petty warmth and not smoke. But the wood must be saved for winter, for the real cold.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Of course. This was a good starched dugout. The soldiers built well.
JENKINS: Much good it did.
THE BOOK-LOVER: I was a continent away from my home when it found my family. I never saw them. They were in the city. I wonder, if I had had the chance to save something, just a few things, what would they have been?
JENKINS: I met a man once shortly after it happened. He was bearing on his back a large suitcase, leather bound. So heavy, he could scarcely totter a few pitiful steps before he had to rest. It was stuffed with bank notes. Money. Thousands, millions. Who'd heard of this . . . It was impossible to convince him it was worthless. I didn't try, of course.
THE HARSH MAN: I saw a woman, an old woman. She had a canary cage. There was no canary in it. It seemed to mean something to her.
THE BOOK-LOVER: We thank you, Dr. Jenkins, for the reading.
JENKINS: We shall finish it another time, if you'd like. You wish to hear the phonograph?
THE BOOK-LOVER: Please.
THE MUSICIAN: Please.
JENKINS: This, too, I managed to save with some difficulty. I knew there'd be no electricity, no corner drugstores to buy transistor batteries. So when the time came, I retrieved this old friend, from the back of a closet where it had been relegated years ago, and these old records. They're 78s, of course. I've been using cactus thorns as needles.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Of course.
JENKINS: And tonight, because we welcome a stranger into our midst, a musician moreover, tonight I shall use a steel needle. There are only three left.
THE MUSICIAN: Oh no, please--please don't use the steel needle. The cactus thorns will do beauti . . .
JENKINS: No. I've become accustomed to the thorns. They're not really good. Tonight, my young friend, you shall have good music. After all they can't last forever.
THE HARSH MAN: No, nor we. The steel needle, by all means.
THE MUSICIAN: Thanks. Thanks.
JENKINS: The records, though, are a different matter. Already they're very worn. I don't play them more than once a week. One record, once a week, that's all I allow myself. More than a week, I can't stand it, not to hear music.
THE MUSICIAN: Oh no, how could you? And having the records here like this.
THE HARSH MAN: A man can stand anything. Anything.
THE MUSICIAN: Please, the music.
JENKINS: Very well. But first, we must make our choice. Only the one, you understand. In the long run we'll remember more that way. Beethoven, Violin Concerto in D; Nathan Milstein and the London Symphony Orchestra conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham; Pablo Casals playing the Bach Suite No. 5 in C Minor for cello unaccompanied; Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, Oscar Levant at the piano; Bela Bartok, String Quartet No. 6 performed by the Budapest; Claude Debussy, piano pieces played by Walter Gieseking; Mozart, Symphony No. 40, Chicago Symphony conducted by Bruno Walter; Piano Concerto No. 21, Mozart, pianist Edwin Fischer; Stravinsky, The Rite of Spring; Pierre Monteux conducting the Paris Symphony; Beethoven, Quartet, the last, again the Budapest String Quartet; and Bach, St. Matthew Passion--not all of it of course--The New York Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus, conducted by Arturo Toscanini. Well?
THE HARSH MAN: Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue.
THE MUSICIAN: No--no--no.
THE HARSH MAN: Well, you choose. I don't care.
THE MUSICIAN: I've forgotten, I cannot hear them clearly. Something's missing.
JENKINS: I know. I thought I knew all of Shelley's poetry by heart, every line. I should have brought Shelley.
THE HARSH MAN: That's more soul than we can use. "Moby Dick" is better. Thank God we can understand that.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Here we need the ideal. If we're to keep a grasp on anything, anything but this existence--the cold, the rabbit snares.
THE HARSH MAN: Shelley desired an absolute ideal. It's too much. It's no good, no earthly good.
JENKINS: Be that as it may, let us choose the music we are to hear. It's your first time at one of our gatherings: suppose you make the choice.
THE MUSICIAN: We have, Gieseking. Play the Debussy, Nocturne.
JENKINS: You were a pianist?
[Music]
THE BOOK-LOVER: Well, good night Dr. Jenkins, and thank you very much.
THE HARSH MAN: Good night. Thanks.
JENKINS: Come again, in a week. We shall have the Gershwin. Good night, my young friend. You're welcome to come again, if you wish.
[Music]
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
THE BOOK-LOVER: You're not stopping?
JENKINS: You'll forgive me.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh, please, just the part again, from "Our revels."
THE HARSH MAN: "Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, . . . spirits and
Are vanished into air, into thin air:
. . . like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces . . ."
JENKINS: "The solemn temples . . ."
THE HARSH MAN: "The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind."
THE BOOK-LOVER: I saw Lawrence Olivier as Prospero in "The Tempest" a few years ago in London. No--no, it was New York.
THE HARSH MAN: It was London. It wasn't Olivier, it was Paul Scofield or John Gielgud.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh, was it now? Well, you're probably right.
JENKINS: There were those, of course, who said that Shakespeare was not meant to be acted, but read, prepared for the library, not the stage.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Oh no, I don't believe that.
JENKINS: No more do I. It doesn't matter now. When I saw it was going to happen, I told myself, this is the end. I can't take much, I'll take these. Perhaps I was impractical. But, for myself, I don't regret. But what can we know of those who'll come after us? By the doddering remnant of a race of mechanical fools. I've saved what I love. The soul of what was good in us here. And perhaps the new ones will make a strong enough beginning not to fall behind when they become clever.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Could I? Shakespeare, the Bible, "Moby Dick," "Divine Comedy." You might have done worse.
JENKINS: Much worse.
THE HARSH MAN: Yes. You will have a little soul left until you die. It's more than is true of us. My brain becomes thick like my hands. I want paper to write on. But there's none--none.
JENKINS: This peat gives off but a petty warmth and not smoke. But the wood must be saved for winter, for the real cold.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Of course. This was a good starched dugout. The soldiers built well.
JENKINS: Much good it did.
THE BOOK-LOVER: I was a continent away from my home when it found my family. I never saw them. They were in the city. I wonder, if I had had the chance to save something, just a few things, what would they have been?
JENKINS: I met a man once shortly after it happened. He was bearing on his back a large suitcase, leather bound. So heavy, he could scarcely totter a few pitiful steps before he had to rest. It was stuffed with bank notes. Money. Thousands, millions. Who'd heard of this . . . It was impossible to convince him it was worthless. I didn't try, of course.
THE HARSH MAN: I saw a woman, an old woman. She had a canary cage. There was no canary in it. It seemed to mean something to her.
THE BOOK-LOVER: We thank you, Dr. Jenkins, for the reading.
JENKINS: We shall finish it another time, if you'd like. You wish to hear the phonograph?
THE BOOK-LOVER: Please.
THE MUSICIAN: Please.
JENKINS: This, too, I managed to save with some difficulty. I knew there'd be no electricity, no corner drugstores to buy transistor batteries. So when the time came, I retrieved this old friend, from the back of a closet where it had been relegated years ago, and these old records. They're 78s, of course. I've been using cactus thorns as needles.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Of course.
JENKINS: And tonight, because we welcome a stranger into our midst, a musician moreover, tonight I shall use a steel needle. There are only three left.
THE MUSICIAN: Oh no, please--please don't use the steel needle. The cactus thorns will do beauti . . .
JENKINS: No. I've become accustomed to the thorns. They're not really good. Tonight, my young friend, you shall have good music. After all they can't last forever.
THE HARSH MAN: No, nor we. The steel needle, by all means.
THE MUSICIAN: Thanks. Thanks.
JENKINS: The records, though, are a different matter. Already they're very worn. I don't play them more than once a week. One record, once a week, that's all I allow myself. More than a week, I can't stand it, not to hear music.
THE MUSICIAN: Oh no, how could you? And having the records here like this.
THE HARSH MAN: A man can stand anything. Anything.
THE MUSICIAN: Please, the music.
JENKINS: Very well. But first, we must make our choice. Only the one, you understand. In the long run we'll remember more that way. Beethoven, Violin Concerto in D; Nathan Milstein and the London Symphony Orchestra conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham; Pablo Casals playing the Bach Suite No. 5 in C Minor for cello unaccompanied; Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, Oscar Levant at the piano; Bela Bartok, String Quartet No. 6 performed by the Budapest; Claude Debussy, piano pieces played by Walter Gieseking; Mozart, Symphony No. 40, Chicago Symphony conducted by Bruno Walter; Piano Concerto No. 21, Mozart, pianist Edwin Fischer; Stravinsky, The Rite of Spring; Pierre Monteux conducting the Paris Symphony; Beethoven, Quartet, the last, again the Budapest String Quartet; and Bach, St. Matthew Passion--not all of it of course--The New York Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus, conducted by Arturo Toscanini. Well?
THE HARSH MAN: Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue.
THE MUSICIAN: No--no--no.
THE HARSH MAN: Well, you choose. I don't care.
THE MUSICIAN: I've forgotten, I cannot hear them clearly. Something's missing.
JENKINS: I know. I thought I knew all of Shelley's poetry by heart, every line. I should have brought Shelley.
THE HARSH MAN: That's more soul than we can use. "Moby Dick" is better. Thank God we can understand that.
THE BOOK-LOVER: Here we need the ideal. If we're to keep a grasp on anything, anything but this existence--the cold, the rabbit snares.
THE HARSH MAN: Shelley desired an absolute ideal. It's too much. It's no good, no earthly good.
JENKINS: Be that as it may, let us choose the music we are to hear. It's your first time at one of our gatherings: suppose you make the choice.
THE MUSICIAN: We have, Gieseking. Play the Debussy, Nocturne.
JENKINS: You were a pianist?
[Music]
THE BOOK-LOVER: Well, good night Dr. Jenkins, and thank you very much.
THE HARSH MAN: Good night. Thanks.
JENKINS: Come again, in a week. We shall have the Gershwin. Good night, my young friend. You're welcome to come again, if you wish.
[Music]