Sabrina

Once upon a time,

on the North Shore of Long Island,

some 30 miles from New York,

there lived a small girl

on a large estate.

The estate was very large indeed

and had many servants.

There were gardeners

to take care of the gardens

and a tree surgeon on a retainer.

There was a boatman to put the boats

in the water in the spring

and scrape their bottoms

in the winter.

There were specialists

to take care of the grounds,

the outdoor tennis court

and the indoor tennis court,

the outdoor swimming pool

and the indoor swimming pool.

And a man of no particular title

took care of a small pool in the

garden for a goldfish named George.

Also on the estate there was

a chauffeur by the name of Fairchild,

who had been imported from England

years ago,

together with a new Rolls-Royce.

Fairchild was a fine chauffeur

of considerable polish,

like the eight cars in his care.

And he had a daughter

by the name of... Sabrina.

It was the eve of

the annual six-metre-yacht races

and, as had been traditional

for the past 30 years,

the Larrabees were giving a party.

It never rained on the night

of the Larrabee party.

The Larrabees

wouldn't have stood for it.

There were four Larrabees in all -

father, mother and two sons.

Maude and Oliver Larrabee

were married in 1906.

Among their many wedding presents

was a town house in New York

and this estate for weekends.

The town house has since been

converted into Saks Fifth Avenue.

Linus Larrabee, the elder son,

graduated from Yale,

where his classmates voted him

the man most likely

to leave his alma mater $50 million.

His brother, David, went through

several of the best Eastern colleges

for short periods of time,

and through several marriages

for even shorter periods of time.

He is now a successful

six-goal polo player

and is listed on Linus's tax return

as a $600 deduction.

Life was pleasant among

the Larrabees,

for this was as close to heaven

as one could get on Long Island.

Come on down from there, Sabrina!

Come on.

You'd better finish your packing.

Who's that girl, Father,

dancing with David?

Her name is Gretchen Van Horn.

Chase National Bank.

I hate girls that giggle

all the time.

You hate every girl David looks at.

You can't go on like this about

David. You've got to get over it.

Yes, Father.

It's good you're going away.

I only hope it's far enough.

Yes, Father.

Come along, Sabrina.

In a minute, Father. You go ahead.

I'll be up soon.

- Oh, it's you, Sabrina.

- Hello, David.

I thought I heard somebody.

No, it's nobody.

Gretchen! Yoo-hoo!

Tennis, anyone?

Gretchen?

What is this, mixed singles?

No! You have to stay on your side

of the net.

That'll be a little difficult,

Gretchen.

- You know the rules of the game.

- OK, I'll serve.

Sabrina!

Yes, Father?

- Don't leave your passport tomorrow.

- No, Father.

It's not every girl

that's lucky enough to go to Paris.

And it's the best cooking school

in the world.

If your mother were alive,

she'd be happy you were going there.

She was the best cook

on Long Island.

I'm not saying you have to be a cook,

as she was,

or that I want you to marry

a chauffeur.

But you know how I feel.

Your mother and I

had a good life together.

We were respected by everyone.

That's as much as anyone can want.

Don't reach for the moon, child.

No, Father.

Besides, it never hurt a young girl

to learn how to cook, did it?

I'll wake you at seven.

The boat goes at noon. Good night.

Good night.

What's going on?

Fairchild!

Anybody here?

Who's that?

Sabrina, come out of there. Come on.

Rate this script:(3.00 / 2 votes)