Svengali

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(LION ROARING)

- Music -

(Crowd noise)

My usual, please.

Ah, that's better.

More than usual. Thank you.

What would you like?

Who is the new woman behind the bar?

The daughter of the one who used to be there.

What happened to her?

She died last winter.

Ah, the police.

Good evening.

What will it be?

How old are you?

She's not. She's 16.

That's a lie.

I'm 17, nearly 18.

Call the patrol.

Ahl!

I'm not going to get myself into trouble,

lying to the police.

You are too young to know how to handle

troublemakers.

I'm not too young.

I've got to earn my living.

I have a family to support.

At your age?

They should be supporting you.

I'm sorry, you'll have to come out from here.

Just a moment, Inspector.

I can fix you in a job.

No, thanks.

Oh, not with myself.

As an artist's model.

I've heard all about sitting for artists.

The one I have in mind is an absolute gentleman.

All you do is to sit still while he paints

you, and he pays five sou an hour.

Real money?

Cold, hard cash.

Your name is Trilby O'Farrell, and you're 22 years

old?

What made you take up modeling as a profession?

I have a family to support.

That's a heavy burden for such pretty shoulders.

They're strong enough.

Good. They'll need to be in this world.

I'm not afraid of the world.

Nor am I, only of love.

- Music -

There's been some quick social promotion around

here, I noticed.

Like mother, like daughter.

Always jealous.

Jealous of her? There's only one place she'll

end up. In the gutter she was born in.

I don't know. Sometimes the devil looks after his

own.

Lucky devil.

- Music -

- Music -

Papa, try and drink this.

What is it?

Soup.

Glory be that I am to die sober.

Ican'tgive you anything stronger. Doctorsaid not to.

- Music -

God will make it all right for you.

Somehow in the end for all of us.

I was a clergyman once, and I know he will.

I know he will, too.

We'll all be forgiven, I'm certain,

even the wickedest that ever lived.

All they need is their sense in the next world

to realize their wickedness in this.

And that'll be punishment enough, I'm thinking.

Of course it will. Of course.

Trilby, my poor child, what will become of you?

Don't worry. Nobody's going to do me any harm.

They will, child, they will.

And I'll not be here to protect you.

- Music -

(Crying)

- Music -

I like that music. Where's it coming from?

The studio across the landing.

From the old sculptor with the nanny goat whiskers?

Hmm? Oh, of course you wouldn't know.

You hardly evercome near me these days.

Nanny goat whiskers is gone.

Three Englishmen have moved in.

Painters.

Which one is playing the piano?

None of them.

That's that crazy scarecrow Svengali.

He goes in and uses their piano whenever he likes.

They'd do better to leave him out in the gutter where

he belongs.

Why?

Because he doesn't wash and he has the

evil eye, that's why.

He can play the piano.

It's 12:
00. That's my rest.

Ah, so it is.

Thank you. Shall we take lunch together for old

time's sake?

No. I'd rather have a look at the man with the evil

eye.

Oh? On your own head be it.

- Music -

I beg your pardon. Are you looking for somebody?

No, I was just listening to the music.

Please go on. Don't mind me.

I'm sure we'd all like to know who it is

we have the honor of addressing.

Oh, don't you know me?

I'm Trilby O'Farrell, the model.

I often pose for Durian, the sculptor across the way.

I pose in ensemble, you know? And who might I

have the pleasure of addressing?

My name's Taffy Wynn.

This is Sandy McAIlister, known as

The Laird because of his fierce Scotch whisky.

How do you do?

This is Billy Bagot.

He's the most recent arrival on these shores from

old England.

That's Gecko.

And the gentleman at the piano is...

Oh, I know who he is. Durian told me.

You're Svengali, aren't you? You've got the evil eye.

Mademoiselle.

I have genius, mademoiselle.

Durian would naturally not know the difference.

Now I came to look at you, I've often seen

you playing in the streets on a penny whistle.

On a flute, mademoiselle.

But you play beautifully. Please go on.

How can I deny such a charming appeal? Gecko.

My father could have been a great

musician, and he sang like an angel.

His name was Patrick Michael O'Farrell of

Trinity, Cambridge.

He was a gentleman and a scholar.

He used to sing Alice, Where Art Thou.

Do you know it?

It's the most famous song ever written.

I'm only a poor street musician,

mademoiselle.

I know Schubert, Chopin, Schumann,

Mendelssohn, Liszt, Scarlatti, Mozart,

Beethoven and a little Wagner, but I have

never heard of Alice Where Art Thou.

Gecko, have you heard of Alice Where Art Thou?

Not even Gecko has heard of Alice Where Art Thou.

What a shame.

I know it very well. It's a very charming old song.

Yes, isn't it? I can sing it. Shall I?

We'd like to hear it very much.

The bird sleeping gently, sweet Luna

gleameth bright, her rays tinge the forest,

and all seems glad tonight.

The wind's sighing by me, cooling my fevered

brow, the stream flows as ever, yet Alice, where art

thou?

Did you like it?

Very much. Thank you.

Unfortunately, it's the only song I know.

I conceal my disappointment.

The other day, I sang it for Lito.

He's the greatest composer in Paris.

He is indeed, mademoiselle, of

everything except music.

How can you say that?

The newspapers say he's the greatest composer

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