=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *= This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ The Cocktail Party _Date of first publication:_ 1950 _Author:_ T. S. (Thomas Stearns) Eliot (1888-1965) _Date first posted:_ May 26, 2020 _Date last updated:_ May 26, 2020 Faded Page eBook #20200559 This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] T. S. Eliot’s _The Cocktail Party_ By T. S. Eliot THE COMPLETE POEMS AND PLAYS OF T. S. ELIOT _verse_ COLLECTED POEMS 1909-1962 FOUR QUARTETS THE WASTE LAND: A FACSIMILE AND TRANSCRIPT OF THE ORIGINAL DRAFTS THE WASTE LAND _edited by Valerie Eliot_ SELECTED POEMS _children’s verse_ OLD POSSUM’S BOOK OF PRACTICAL CATS _plays_ MURDER IN THE CATHEDRAL THE FAMILY REUNION THE COCKTAIL PARTY THE CONFIDENTIAL CLERK THE ELDER STATESMAN _literary criticism_ SELECTED ESSAYS THE USE OF POETRY _and_ THE USE OF CRITICISM TO CRITICIZE THE CRITIC ON POETRY AND POETS FOR LANCELOT ANDREWES THE VARIETIES OF METAPHYSICAL POETRY _edited by Ronald Schuchard_ SELECTED PROSE OF T. S. ELIOT _edited by Frank Kermode_ _social criticism_ NOTES TOWARDS THE DEFINITION OF CULTURE _letters_ THE LETTERS OF T. S. ELIOT _Volume 1—1898-1922_ _edited by Valerie Eliot_ =T. S. Eliot= =_The Cocktail Party_= First published in 1950 © T. S. Eliot 1950 I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to two critics. To Mr. E. Martin Browne, who was responsible for the first production of this play at the Edinburgh Festival, 1949: for his criticism of the structure, from the first version to the last; for suggestions most of which have been accepted, and which, when accepted, have all been fully justified on the stage. And to Mr. John Hayward, for continuous criticism and correction of vocabulary, idiom and manners. My debt to both of these censors could be understood only by comparison of the successive drafts of this play with the final text. T. S. E. _November 1949_ In addition to some minor corrections, certain alterations in Act III, based on the experience of the play’s production, were made in the fourth impression of the text. T. S. E. _August 1950_ Persons Edward Chamberlayne Julia (Mrs. Shuttlethwaite) Celia Coplestone Alexander MacColgie Gibbs Peter Quilpe An Unidentified Guest, _later identified as_ Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly Lavinia Chamberlayne A Nurse-Secretary Two Caterer’s Men The scene is laid in London The Cocktail Party Act One. Scene 1 _The drawing-room of the Chamberlaynes’ London flat. Early evening._ Edward Chamberlayne, Julia Shuttlethwaite, Celia Coplestone, Peter Quilpe, Alexander MacColgie Gibbs, _and an_ Unidentified Guest. ALEX You’ve missed the point completely, Julia: There _were_ no tigers. _That_ was the point. JULIA Then what were you doing, up in a tree: You and the Maharaja? ALEX My dear Julia! It’s perfectly hopeless. You haven’t been listening. PETER You’ll have to tell us all over again, Alex. ALEX I never tell the same story twice. JULIA But I’m still waiting to know what happened. I know it started as a story about tigers. ALEX I said there were no tigers. CELIA Oh do stop wrangling, Both of you. It’s your turn, Julia. Do tell us that story you told the other day, about Lady Klootz and the wedding cake. PETER And how the butler found her in the pantry, rinsing her mouth out with champagne. I like that story. CELIA I love that story. ALEX _I’m_ never tired of hearing that story. JULIA Well, you all seem to know it. CELIA Do we all know it? But we’re never tired of hearing _you_ tell it. I don’t believe everyone here knows it. [_To the_ Unidentified Guest] You don’t know it, do you? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, I’ve never heard it. CELIA Here’s one new listener for you, Julia; And I don’t believe that Edward knows it. EDWARD I may have heard it, but I don’t remember it. CELIA And Julia’s the only person to tell it. She’s such a good mimic. JULIA Am I a good mimic? PETER You _are_ a good mimic. You never miss anything. ALEX She never misses anything unless she wants to. CELIA Especially the Lithuanian accent. JULIA Lithuanian? Lady Klootz? PETER I thought she was Belgian. ALEX Her father belonged to a Baltic family— One of the _oldest_ Baltic families With a branch in Sweden and one in Denmark. There were several very lovely daughters: I wonder what’s become of them now. JULIA Lady Klootz was very lovely, once upon a time. What a life she led! I used to say to her: ‘Greta! You have too much vitality.’ But she enjoyed herself. [_To the_ Unidentified Guest] Did _you_ know Lady Klootz? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, I never met her. CELIA Go on with the story about the wedding cake. JULIA Well, but it really isn’t my story. I heard it first from Delia Verinder Who was there when it happened. [_To the_ Unidentified Guest] Do _you_ know Delia Verinder? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, I don’t know her. JULIA Well, one can’t be too careful Before one tells a story. ALEX Delia Verinder? Was she the one who had three brothers? JULIA How many brothers? Two, I think. ALEX No, there were three, but you wouldn’t know the third one: They kept him rather quiet. JULIA Oh, you mean _that_ one. ALEX He was feeble-minded. JULIA Oh, not feeble-minded: He was only harmless. ALEX Well then, harmless. JULIA He was very clever at repairing clocks; And he had a remarkable sense of hearing— The only man I ever met who could hear the cry of bats. PETER Hear the cry of bats? JULIA He could hear the cry of bats. CELIA But how do you know he could hear the cry of bats? JULIA Because he said so. And I believed him. CELIA But if he was so . . . harmless, how could you believe him? He might have imagined it. JULIA My darling Celia, You needn’t be so sceptical. I stayed there once At their castle in the North. How he suffered! They had to find an island for him Where there were no bats. ALEX And is he still there? Julia is really a mine of information. CELIA There isn’t much that Julia doesn’t know. PETER Go on with the story about the wedding cake. [Edward _leaves the room_] JULIA No, we’ll wait until Edward comes back into the room. Now I want to relax. Are there any more cocktails? PETER But do go on. Edward wasn’t listening anyway. JULIA No, he wasn’t listening, but he’s such a strain— Edward without Lavinia! He’s quite impossible! Leaving it to me to keep things going. What a host! And nothing fit to eat! The only reason for a cocktail party For a gluttonous old woman like me Is a really nice tit-bit. I can drink at home. [Edward _returns with a tray_] Edward, give me another of those delicious olives. What’s that? Potato crisps? No, I can’t endure them. Well, I started to tell you about Lady Klootz. It was at the Vincewell wedding. Oh, so many years ago! [_To the_ Unidentified Guest] Did _you_ know the Vincewells? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, I don’t know the Vincewells. JULIA Oh, they’re both dead now. But I wanted to know. If they’d been friends of yours, I couldn’t tell the story. PETER Were they the parents of Tony Vincewell? JULIA Yes. Tony was the product, but not the solution. He only made the situation more difficult. You know Tony Vincewell? You knew him at Oxford? PETER No, I never knew him at Oxford: I came across him last year in California. JULIA I’ve always wanted to go to California. Do tell us what you were doing in California. CELIA Making a film. PETER Trying to make a film. JULIA Oh, what film was it? I wonder if I’ve seen it. PETER No, you wouldn’t have seen it. As a matter of fact It was never produced. They did a film But they used a different scenario. JULIA Not the one you wrote? PETER Not the one I wrote: But I had a very enjoyable time. CELIA Go on with the story about the wedding cake. JULIA Edward, do sit down for a moment. I know you’re always the perfect host, But just try to pretend you’re another guest At Lavinia’s party. There are so many questions I want to ask you. It’s a golden opportunity Now Lavinia’s away. I’ve always said: ‘If I could only get Edward alone And have a really _serious_ conversation!’ I said so to Lavinia. She agreed with me. She said: ‘I wish you’d try.’ And this is the first time I’ve ever seen you without Lavinia Except for the time she got locked in the lavatory And couldn’t get out. I know what you’re thinking! I know you think I’m a silly old woman But I’m really very serious. Lavinia takes me seriously. I believe that’s the reason why she went away— So that I could make you talk. Perhaps she’s in the pantry Listening to all we say! EDWARD No, she’s not in the pantry. CELIA Will she be away for some time, Edward? EDWARD I really don’t know until I hear from her. If her aunt is very ill, she may be gone some time. CELIA And how will you manage while she is away? EDWARD I really don’t know. I may go away myself. CELIA Go away yourself! JULIA Have you an aunt too? EDWARD No, I haven’t any aunt. But I might go away. CELIA But, Edward . . . what was I going to say? It’s dreadful for old ladies alone in the country, And almost impossible to get a nurse. JULIA Is that her Aunt Laura? EDWARD No; another aunt Whom you wouldn’t know. Her mother’s sister And rather a recluse. JULIA Her favourite aunt? EDWARD Her aunt’s favourite niece. And she’s rather difficult. When she’s ill, she insists on having Lavinia. JULIA I never heard of her being ill before. EDWARD No, she’s always very strong. That’s why when she’s ill She gets into a panic. JULIA And sends for Lavinia. I quite understand. Are there any prospects? EDWARD No, I think she put it all into an annuity. JULIA So it’s very unselfish of Lavinia Yet very like her. But really, Edward, Lavinia may be away for weeks, Or she may come back and be called away again. I understand these tough old women— I’m one myself. I feel as if I knew All about that aunt in Hampshire. EDWARD Hampshire? JULIA Didn’t you say Hampshire? EDWARD No, I didn’t say Hampshire. JULIA Did you say Hampstead? EDWARD No, I didn’t say Hampstead. JULIA But she must live somewhere. EDWARD She lives in Essex. JULIA Anywhere near Colchester? Lavinia loves oysters. EDWARD No. In the _depths_ of Essex. JULIA Well, we won’t probe into it. You have the address, and the telephone number? I might run down and see Lavinia On my way to Cornwall. But let’s be sensible: Now you must let me be _your_ maiden aunt— Living on an annuity, of course. I am going to make you dine alone with me On Friday, and talk to me about everything. EDWARD Everything? JULIA Oh, you know what I mean. The next election. And the secrets of your cases. EDWARD Most of my secrets are quite uninteresting. JULIA Well, you shan’t escape. You dine with me on Friday. I’ve already chosen the people you’re to meet. EDWARD But you asked me to dine with you alone. JULIA Yes, alone! Without Lavinia! You’ll like the other people— But you’re to talk to me. So that’s all settled. And now I must be going. EDWARD Must you be going? PETER But won’t you tell the story about Lady Klootz? JULIA What Lady Klootz? CELIA And the wedding cake. JULIA Wedding cake? I wasn’t at her wedding. Edward, it’s been a delightful evening: The potato crisps were really excellent. Now let me see. Have I got everything? It’s such a nice party, I hate to leave it. It’s such a nice party, I’d like to repeat it. Why don’t you _all_ come to dinner on Friday? No, I’m afraid my good Mrs. Batten Would give me notice. And now I must be going. ALEX I’m afraid _I_ ought to be going. PETER Celia— May I walk along with you? CELIA No, I’m sorry, Peter; I’ve got to take a taxi. JULIA You come with me, Peter: You can get _me_ a taxi, and then I can drop you. I expect you on Friday, Edward. And Celia— I must see you very soon. Now don’t all go Just because I’m going. Good-bye, Edward. EDWARD Good-bye, Julia. [_Exeunt_ Julia _and_ Peter] CELIA Good-bye, Edward. Shall I see you soon? EDWARD Perhaps. I don’t know. CELIA Perhaps you don’t know? Very well, good-bye. EDWARD Good-bye, Celia. ALEX Good-bye, Edward. I do hope You’ll have better news of Lavinia’s aunt. EDWARD Oh . . . yes . . . thank you. Good-bye, Alex, It was nice of you to come. [_Exeunt_ Alex _and_ Celia] [_To the_ Unidentified Guest] Don’t go yet. Don’t go yet. We’ll finish the cocktails. Or would you rather have whisky? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Gin. EDWARD Anything in it? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST A drop of water. EDWARD I want to apologise for this evening. The fact is, I tried to put off this party: These were only the people I couldn’t put off Because I couldn’t get at them in time; And I didn’t know that _you_ were coming. I thought that Lavinia had told me the names Of all the people she said she’d invited. But it’s only that dreadful old woman who mattered— I shouldn’t have minded anyone else, [_The doorbell rings._ Edward _goes to the door, saying_:] But she always turns up when she’s least wanted. [_Opens the door_] Julia! [_Enter_ Julia] JULIA Edward! How lucky that it’s raining! It made me remember my umbrella, And there it is! Now what are you two plotting? How very lucky it was my umbrella, And not Alexander’s—_he’s_ so inquisitive! But _I_ never poke into other people’s business. Well, good-bye again. I’m off at last. [_Exit_] EDWARD I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know your name. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST I ought to be going. EDWARD Don’t go yet. I very much want to talk to somebody; And it’s easier to talk to a person you don’t know. The fact is, that Lavinia has left me. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Your wife has left you? EDWARD Without warning, of course; Just when she’d arranged a cocktail party. She’d gone when I came in, this afternoon. She left a note to say that she was leaving me; But I don’t know where she’s gone. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST This is an occasion. May I take another drink? EDWARD Whisky? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Gin. EDWARD Anything in it? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Nothing but water. And I recommend you the same prescription . . . Let me prepare it for you, if I may . . . Strong . . . but sip it slowly . . . and drink it sitting down. Breathe deeply, and adopt a relaxed position. There we are. Now for a few questions. How long married? EDWARD Five years. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Children? EDWARD No. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Then look at the brighter side. You say you don’t know where she’s gone? EDWARD No, I do not. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Do you know who the man is? EDWARD There was no other man— None that I know of. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Or another woman Of whom she thought she had cause to be jealous? EDWARD She had nothing to complain of in my behaviour. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Then no doubt it’s all for the best. With another man, she might have made a mistake And want to come back to you. If another woman, She might decide to be forgiving And gain an advantage. If there’s no other woman And no other man, then the reason may be deeper And you’ve ground for hope that she won’t come back at all. If another man, then you’d want to re-marry To prove to the world that somebody wanted you; If another woman, you might have to marry her— You might even imagine that you wanted to marry her. EDWARD But I want my wife back. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST That’s the natural reaction. It’s embarrassing, and inconvenient. It was inconvenient, having to lie about it Because you can’t tell the truth on the telephone. It will all take time that you can’t well spare; But I put it to you . . . EDWARD Don’t put it to me. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Then I suggest . . . EDWARD And please don’t suggest. I have often used these terms in examining witnesses, So I don’t like them. May I put it to _you_? I know that I invited this conversation: But I don’t know who you are. This is not what I expected. I only wanted to relieve my mind By telling someone what I’d been concealing. I don’t think I want to know who you are; But, at the same time, unless you know my wife A good deal better than I thought, or unless you know A good deal more about us than appears— I think your speculations rather offensive. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST I know you as well as I know your wife; And I knew that all you wanted was the luxury Of an intimate disclosure to a stranger. Let me, therefore, remain the stranger. But let me tell you, that to approach the stranger Is to invite the unexpected, release a new force, Or let the genie out of the bottle. It is to start a train of events Beyond your control. So let me continue. I will say then, you experience some relief Of which you’re not aware. It will come to you slowly: When you wake in the morning, when you go to bed at night, That you are beginning to enjoy your independence; Finding your life becoming cosier and cosier Without the consistent critic, the patient misunderstander Arranging life a little better than you like it, Preferring not quite the same friends as yourself, Or making your friends like her better than you; And, turning the past over and over, You’ll wonder only that you endured it for so long. And perhaps at times you will feel a little jealous That she saw it first, and had the courage to break it— Thus giving herself a permanent advantage. EDWARD It might turn out so, yet . . . UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Are you going to say, you love her? EDWARD Why, I thought we took each other for granted. I never thought I should be any happier With another person. Why speak of love? We were used to each other. So her going away At a moment’s notice, without explanation, Only a note to say that she had gone And was not coming back—well, I can’t understand it. Nobody likes to be left with a mystery: It’s so . . . unfinished. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Yes, it’s unfinished; And nobody likes to be left with a mystery. But there’s more to it than that. There’s a loss of personality; Or rather, you’ve lost touch with the person You thought you were. You no longer feel quite human. You’re suddenly reduced to the status of an object— A living object, but no longer a person. It’s always happening, because one is an object As well as a person. But we forget about it As quickly as we can. When you’ve dressed for a party And are going downstairs, with everything about you Arranged to support you in the role you have chosen, Then sometimes, when you come to the bottom step There is one step more than your feet expected And you come down with a jolt. Just for a moment You have the experience of being an object At the mercy of a malevolent staircase. Or, take a surgical operation. In consultation with the doctor and the surgeon, In going to bed in the nursing home, In talking to the matron, you are still the subject, The centre of reality. But, stretched on the table, You are a piece of furniture in a repair shop For those who surround you, the masked actors; All there is of you is your body And the ‘you’ is withdrawn. May I replenish? EDWARD Oh, I’m sorry. What were you drinking? Whisky? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Gin. EDWARD Anything with it? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Water. EDWARD To what does this lead? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST To finding out What you really are. What you really feel. What you really are among other people. Most of the time we take ourselves for granted, As we have to, and live on a little knowledge About ourselves as we were. Who are you now? You don’t know any more than I do, But rather less. You are nothing but a set Of obsolete responses. The one thing to do Is to do nothing. Wait. EDWARD Wait! But waiting is the one thing impossible. Besides, don’t you see that it makes me ridiculous? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous. Resign yourself to be the fool you are. That’s the best advice that _I_ can give you. EDWARD But how can I wait, not knowing what I’m waiting for? Shall I say to my friends, ‘My wife has gone away’? And they answer ‘Where?’ and I say ‘I don’t know’; And they say, ‘But when will she be back?’ And I reply ‘I don’t know that she _is_ coming back’. And they ask ‘But what are you going to do?’ And I answer ‘Nothing’. They will think me mad Or simply contemptible. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST All to the good. You will find that you survive humiliation. And that’s an experience of incalculable value. EDWARD Stop! I agree that much of what you’ve said Is true enough. But that is not all. Since I saw her this morning when we had breakfast I no longer remember what my wife is like. I am not quite sure that I could describe her If I had to ask the police to search for her. I’m sure I don’t know what she was wearing When I saw her last. And yet I want her back. And I _must_ get her back, to find out what has happened During the five years that we’ve been married. I must find out who she is, to find out who I am. And what is the use of all your analysis If I am to remain always lost in the dark? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST There is certainly no purpose in remaining in the dark Except long enough to clear from the mind The illusion of having ever been in the light. The fact that you can’t give a reason for wanting her Is the best reason for believing that you want her. EDWARD I want to see her again—here. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST You shall see her again—here. EDWARD Do you mean to say that you know where she is? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST That question is not worth the trouble of an answer. But if I bring her back it must be on one condition: That you promise to ask her no questions Of where she has been. EDWARD I will not ask them. And yet—it seems to me—when we began to talk I was not sure I wanted her; and now I want her. Do I want her? Or is it merely your suggestion? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST We do not know yet. In twenty-four hours She will come to you here. You will be here to meet her. [_The doorbell rings_] EDWARD I must answer the door. [Edward _goes to the door_] So it’s you again, Julia! [_Enter_ Julia _and_ Peter] JULIA Edward, I’m so glad to find you. Do you know, I must have left my glasses here, And I simply can’t see a thing without them. I’ve been dragging Peter all over town Looking for them everywhere I’ve been. Has anybody found them? You can tell if they’re mine— Some kind of a plastic sort of frame— I’m afraid I don’t remember the colour, But I’d know them, because one lens is missing. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST [_Sings_] _As I was drinkin’ gin and water,_ _And me bein’ the One-Eyed Riley,_ _Who came in but the landlord’s daughter_ _And she took my heart entirely._ You will keep our appointment? EDWARD I shall keep it. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST [_Sings_] _Tooryooly toory-iley,_ _What’s the matter with One-Eyed Riley?_ [_Exit_] JULIA Edward, who _is_ that dreadful man? I’ve never been so insulted in my life. It’s very lucky that I left my spectacles: _This_ is what I call an adventure! Tell me about him. You’ve been _drinking_ together! So this is the kind of friend you have When Lavinia is out of the way! Who is he? EDWARD _I_ don’t know. JULIA _You_ don’t know? EDWARD I never saw him before in my life. JULIA But how did he come here? EDWARD _I_ don’t know. JULIA _You_ don’t know! And what’s his name? Did I hear him say his name was Riley? EDWARD I don’t know his name. JULIA You don’t know his _name_? EDWARD I tell you I’ve no idea who he is Or how he got here. JULIA But what did you talk about Or were you singing songs all the time? There’s altogether too much mystery About this place to-day. EDWARD I’m very sorry. JULIA No, I love it. But that reminds me About my glasses. That’s the greatest mystery. Peter! Why aren’t you looking for them? Look on the mantelpiece. Where was I sitting? Just turn out the bottom of that sofa— No, this chair. Look under the cushion. EDWARD Are you quite sure they’re not in your bag? JULIA Why no, of course not: that’s where I keep them. Oh, here they are! Thank you, Edward; That really was very clever of you; I’d never have found them but for you. The next time I lose _anything_, Edward, I’ll come straight to you, instead of to St. Anthony. And now I must fly. I’ve kept the taxi waiting. Come along, Peter. PETER I hope you won’t mind If I don’t come with you, Julia? On the way back I remembered something I had to say to Edward . . . JULIA Oh, about Lavinia? PETER No, not about Lavinia. It’s something I want to consult him about, And I could do it now. JULIA Of course I don’t mind. PETER Well, at least you must let me take you down in the lift. JULIA No, you stop and talk to Edward. I’m not helpless yet. And besides, I like to manage the machine myself— In a lift I can meditate. Good-bye then. And thank you—both of you—very much. [_Exit_] PETER I hope I’m not disturbing you, Edward. EDWARD I seem to have been disturbed already; And I did rather want to be alone. But what’s it all about? PETER I want your help. I was going to telephone and try to see you later; But this seemed an opportunity. EDWARD And what’s your trouble? PETER This evening I felt I could bear it no longer. That awful party! I’m sorry, Edward; Of course it was really a very nice party For everyone but me. And that wasn’t your fault. I don’t suppose you noticed the situation. EDWARD I did think I noticed one or two things; But I don’t pretend I was aware of everything. PETER Oh, I’m very glad that you didn’t notice: I must have behaved rather better than I thought. If you didn’t notice, I don’t suppose the others did, Though I’m rather afraid of Julia Shuttlethwaite. EDWARD Julia is certainly observant, But I think she had some other matter on her mind. PETER It’s about Celia. Myself and Celia. EDWARD Why, what could there be about yourself and Celia? Have you anything in common, do you think? PETER It seemed to me we had a great deal in common. We’re both of us artists. EDWARD I never thought of that. What arts do you practise? PETER You won’t have seen my novel, Though it had some very good reviews. But it’s more the cinema that interests both of us. EDWARD A common interest in the moving pictures Frequently brings young people together. PETER Now you’re only being sarcastic: Celia was interested in the art of the film. EDWARD As a possible profession? PETER She might make it a profession; Though she had her poetry. EDWARD Yes, I’ve seen her poetry— Interesting if one is interested in Celia. Apart, of course, from its literary merit Which I don’t pretend to judge. PETER Well, I can judge it, And I think it’s very good. But that’s not the point. The point is, I thought we had a great deal in common And I think she thought so too. EDWARD How did you come to know her? [_Enter_ Alex] ALEX Ah, there you are, Edward! Do you know why _I_’ve looked in? EDWARD I’d like to know first how you _got_ in, Alex. ALEX Why, I came and found that the door was open And so I thought I’d slip in and see if anyone was with you. PETER Julia must have left it open. EDWARD Never mind; So long as you both shut it when you go out. ALEX Ah, but you’re coming with me, Edward. I thought, Edward may be all alone this evening, And I know that he hates to spend an evening alone, So you’re going to come out and have dinner with me. EDWARD That’s very thoughtful of you, Alex, I’m sure; But I rather _want_ to be alone, this evening. ALEX But you’ve got to have some dinner. Are you going out? Is there anyone here to get dinner for you? EDWARD No, I shan’t want much, and I’ll get it myself. ALEX Ah, in that case I know what I’ll do. I’m going to give you a little surprise: You know, I’m rather a famous cook. I’m going straight to your kitchen now And I shall prepare you a nice little dinner Which you can have alone. And then we’ll leave you. Meanwhile, you and Peter can go on talking And I shan’t disturb you. EDWARD My dear Alex, There’ll be nothing in the larder worthy of your cooking. I couldn’t think of it. ALEX Ah, but that’s my special gift— Concocting a toothsome meal out of nothing. Any scraps you have will do. I learned that in the East. With a handful of rice and a little dried fish I can make half-a-dozen dishes. Don’t say a word. I shall begin at once. [_Exit to kitchen_] EDWARD Well, where did you leave off? PETER You asked me how I came to know Celia. I met her here, about a year ago. EDWARD At one of Lavinia’s amateur Thursdays? PETER A Thursday. Why do you say amateur? EDWARD Lavinia’s attempts at starting a salon, Where I entertained the minor guests And dealt with the misfits, Lavinia’s mistakes. But you were one of the minor successes For a time at least. PETER I wouldn’t say that. But Lavinia was awfully kind to me And I owe her a great deal. And then I met Celia. She was different from any girl I’d ever known And not easy to talk to, on that occasion. EDWARD Did you see her often? ALEX’S VOICE Edward, have you a double boiler? EDWARD I suppose there must be a double boiler: Isn’t there one in every kitchen? ALEX’S VOICE I can’t find it. There goes _that_ surprise. I must think of another. PETER Not very often. And when I did, I got no chance to talk to her. EDWARD You and Celia were asked for different purposes. Your role was to be one of Lavinia’s discoveries; Celia’s, to provide society and fashion. Lavinia always had the ambition To establish herself in two worlds at once— But she herself had to be the link between them. That is why, I think, her Thursdays were a failure. PETER You speak as if everything was finished. EDWARD Oh no, no, everything is left unfinished. But you haven’t told me how you came to know Celia. PETER I saw her again a few days later Alone at a concert. And I was alone. I’ve always gone to concerts alone— At first, because I knew no one to go with, And later, I found I preferred to go alone. But a girl like Celia, it seemed very strange, Because I had thought of her merely as a name In a society column, to find her there alone. Anyway, we got into conversation And I found that she went to concerts alone And to look at pictures. So we often met In the same way, and sometimes went together. And to be with Celia, that was something different From company or solitude. And we sometimes had tea And once or twice dined together. EDWARD And after that Did she ever introduce you to her family Or to any of her friends? PETER No, but once or twice she spoke of them And about their lack of intellectual interests. EDWARD And what happened after that? PETER Oh, nothing happened. But I thought that she really cared about me. And I was so happy when we were together— So . . . contented, so . . . at peace: I can’t express it; I had never imagined such quiet happiness. I had only experienced excitement, delirium, Desire for possession. It was not like that at all. It was something very strange. There was such . . . tranquillity . . . EDWARD And what interrupted this interesting affair? [_Enter_ Alex _in shirtsleeves and an apron_] ALEX Edward, I can’t find any curry powder. EDWARD There isn’t any curry powder. Lavinia hates curry. ALEX There goes another surprise, then. I must think. I didn’t expect to find any mangoes, But I _did_ count upon curry powder. [_Exit_] PETER That is exactly what I want to know. She has simply faded—into some other picture— Like a film effect. She doesn’t want to see me; Makes excuses, not very plausible, And when I do see her, she seems preoccupied With some secret excitement which I cannot share. EDWARD Do you think she has simply lost interest in you? PETER You put it just wrong. I think of it differently. It is not her interest in _me_ that I miss— But those moments in which we seemed to share some perception, Some feeling, some indefinable experience In which we were both unaware of ourselves. In your terms, perhaps, she’s lost interest in me. EDWARD That is all very normal. If you could only know How lucky you are. In a little while This might have become an ordinary affair Like any other. As the fever cooled You would have found that she was another woman And that you were another man. I congratulate you On a timely escape. PETER I should prefer to be spared Your congratulations. I had to talk to someone. And I have been telling you of something real— My first experience of reality And perhaps it is the last. And you don’t understand. EDWARD My dear Peter, I have only been telling you What would have happened to you with Celia In another six months’ time. There it is. You can take it or leave it. PETER But what am I to do? EDWARD Nothing. Wait. Go back to California. PETER But I must see Celia. EDWARD Will it be the same Celia? Better be content with the Celia you remember. Remember! I say it’s already a memory. PETER But I must see Celia at least to make her tell me What has happened, in her terms. Until I know that I shan’t know the truth about even the memory. Did we really share these interests? Did we really feel the same When we heard certain music? Or looked at certain pictures? There was something real. But what is the reality . . . [_The telephone rings_] EDWARD Excuse me a moment. [_Into telephone_] Hello! . . . I can’t talk now . . . Yes, there is . . . Well then, I’ll ring you As soon as I can. [_To_ Peter] I’m sorry. You were saying? PETER I was saying, what is the reality Of experience between two unreal people? If I can only hold to the memory I can bear any future. But I must find out The truth about the past, for the sake of the memory. EDWARD There’s no memory you can wrap in camphor But the moths will get in. So you want to see Celia. I don’t know why I should be taking all this trouble To protect you from the fool you are. What do you want me to do? PETER See Celia for me. You knew her in a different way from me And you are so much older. EDWARD So much older? PETER Yes, I’m sure that she would listen to you As someone disinterested. EDWARD Well, I will see Celia. PETER Thank you, Edward. It’s very good of you. [_Enter_ Alex, _with his jacket on_] ALEX Oh, Edward! I’ve prepared you such a treat! I really think that of all my triumphs This is the greatest. To make something out of nothing! Never, even when travelling in Albania, Have I made such a supper out of so few materials As I found in your refrigerator. But of course I was lucky to find half-a-dozen eggs. EDWARD What! You used all those eggs! Lavinia’s aunt Has just sent them from the country. ALEX Ah, so the aunt Really exists. A substantial proof. EDWARD No, no . . . I mean, this is another aunt. ALEX I understand. The real aunt. But you’ll be grateful. There are very few peasants in Montenegro Who can have the dish that you’ll be eating, nowadays. EDWARD But what about my breakfast? ALEX Don’t worry about breakfast All you should want is a cup of black coffee And a little dry toast. I’ve left it simmering. Don’t leave it longer than another ten minutes. Now I’ll be going, and I’ll take Peter with me. PETER Edward, I’ve taken too much of your time, And you want to be alone. Give my love to Lavinia When she comes back . . . but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t tell _her_ what I’ve told you. EDWARD I shall not say anything about it to Lavinia. PETER Thank you, Edward. Good night. EDWARD Good night, Peter, And good night, Alex. Oh, and if you don’t mind, Please _shut the door after you_, so that it latches. ALEX Remember, Edward, not more than ten minutes, Twenty minutes, and my work will be ruined. [_Exeunt_ Alex _and_ Peter] [Edward _picks up the telephone, and dials a number_.] EDWARD Is Miss Celia Coplestone in? . . . How long ago? . . . No, it doesn’t matter. CURTAIN Act One. Scene 2 _The same room: a quarter of an hour later._ Edward _is alone, playing Patience. The doorbell rings, and he goes to answer it._ Celia’s Voice Are you alone? [Edward _returns with_ Celia] EDWARD Celia! Why have you come back? I said I would telephone as soon as I could: And I tried to get you a short while ago. CELIA If there had happened to be anyone with you I was going to say I’d come back for my umbrella. . . . I must say you don’t seem very pleased to see me. Edward, I understand what has happened But I could not understand your manner on the telephone. It did not seem like you. So I felt I must see you. Tell me it’s all right, and then I’ll go. EDWARD But how can you say you understand what has happened? _I_ don’t know what has happened, or what is going to happen; And to try to understand it, I want to be alone. CELIA I should have thought it was perfectly simple. Lavinia has left you. EDWARD Yes, that _was_ the situation. I suppose it was pretty obvious to everyone. CELIA It was obvious that the aunt was a pure invention On the spur of the moment, and not a very good one. You should have been prepared with something better, for Julia; But it doesn’t really matter. They will know soon enough. Doesn’t that settle all our difficulties? EDWARD It has only brought to light the real difficulties. CELIA But surely, these are only temporary. You know I accepted the situation Because a divorce would ruin your career; And we thought that Lavinia would never want to leave you. Surely you don’t hold to that silly convention That the husband must always be the one to be divorced? And if she chooses to give _you_ the grounds . . . EDWARD I see. But it is not like that at all. Lavinia is coming back. CELIA Lavinia coming back! Do you mean to say that she’s laid a trap for us? EDWARD No. If there is a trap, we are all in the trap, We have set it for ourselves. But I do not know What kind of trap it is. CELIA Then what has happened? [_The telephone rings_] EDWARD Damn the telephone. I suppose I must answer it. Hello . . . oh, hello! . . . No. I mean yes, Alex; Yes, of course . . . it was marvellous. I’ve never tasted anything like it . . . Yes, that’s very interesting. But I just wondered Whether it mightn’t be rather indigestible? . . . Oh, no, Alex, don’t bring me any cheese; I’ve got some cheese . . . No, not Norwegian; But I don’t really want cheese . . . Slipper what? . . . Oh, from Jugoslavia . . . prunes and alcohol? No, really, Alex, I don’t want anything. I’m very tired. Thanks awfully, Alex. Good night. CELIA What on earth was that about? EDWARD That was Alex. CELIA I know it was Alex. But what was he talking of? EDWARD I had quite forgotten. He made his way in, a little while ago, And insisted on cooking me something for supper; And he said I must eat it within ten minutes. I suppose it’s still cooking. CELIA You suppose it’s still cooking! I thought I noticed a peculiar smell: Of course it’s still cooking—or doing _something_. I must go and investigate. [_Starts to leave the room_] EDWARD For heaven’s sake, don’t bother! [_Exit_ Celia] Suppose someone came and found you in the kitchen? [Edward _goes over to the table and inspects his game of Patience. He moves a card. The doorbell rings repeatedly. Re-enter_ Celia, _in an apron_.] CELIA You’d better answer the door, Edward. It’s the best thing to do. Don’t lose your head. You see, I really did leave my umbrella; And I’ll say I found you here starving and helpless And had to do something. Anyway, I’m _staying_ And I’m not going to hide. [_Returns to kitchen. The bell rings again._ Edward _goes to front door, and is heard to say_:] Julia! What have you come back for? [_Enter_ Julia] JULIA I’ve had an inspiration! [_Enter_ Celia _with saucepan_] CELIA Edward, it’s ruined! EDWARD What a good thing. CELIA But it’s ruined the saucepan too. EDWARD _And_ half a dozen eggs: I wanted one for breakfast. A boiled egg. It’s the only thing I know how to cook. JULIA Celia! I see you’ve had the same inspiration That I had. Edward must be fed. He’s under such a strain. We must keep his strength up. Edward! Don’t you realise how lucky you are To have _two_ Good Samaritans? I never heard of that before. EDWARD The man who fell among thieves was luckier than I: He was left at an inn. JULIA Edward, how ungrateful. What’s in that saucepan? CELIA Nobody knows. EDWARD It’s something that Alex came and prepared for me. He _would_ do it. Three Good Samaritans. I forgot all about it. JULIA But you mustn’t touch it. EDWARD Of course I shan’t touch it. JULIA My dear, I should have warned you Anything that Alex makes is absolutely deadly. I could tell such tales of his poisoning people. Now, my dear, you give me that apron And we’ll see what I can do. You stay and talk to Edward. [_Exit_ Julia] CELIA But what has happened, Edward? What has happened? EDWARD Lavinia is coming back, I think. CELIA You think! Don’t you know? EDWARD No, but I believe it. That man who was here— CELIA Yes, who was that man? I was rather afraid of him; He has some sort of power. EDWARD I don’t know who he is. But I had some talk with him, when the rest of you had left, And he said he would bring Lavinia back, tomorrow. CELIA But why should that man want to bring her back— Unless he is the Devil! I could believe he was. EDWARD Because I asked him to. CELIA Because you asked him to! Then he _must_ be the Devil! He must have bewitched you. How did he persuade you to want her back? [_A popping noise is heard from the kitchen_] EDWARD What the devil’s that? [_Re-enter_ Julia, _in apron, with a tray and three glasses_] JULIA I’ve had an inspiration! There’s nothing in the place fit to eat: I’ve looked high and low. But I found some champagne— Only a half-bottle, to be sure, And of course it isn’t chilled. But it’s so refreshing; And I thought, we are all in need of a stimulant After this disaster. Now I’ll propose a health. Can you guess whose health I’m going to propose? EDWARD No, I can’t. But I won’t drink to Alex’s. JULIA Oh, it isn’t Alex’s. Come, I give you Lavinia’s aunt! You might have guessed it. EDWARD _AND_ CELIA Lavinia’s aunt. JULIA Now, the next question Is, what’s to be done. That’s very simple. It’s too late, or too early, to go to a restaurant. You must both come home with me. EDWARD No, I’m sorry, Julia. I’m too tired to go out, and I’m not at all hungry. I shall have a few biscuits. JULIA But you, Celia? You must come and have a light supper with me— Something very light. CELIA Thank you, Julia. I think I will, if I may follow you In about ten minutes? Before I go, there’s something I want to say to Edward. JULIA About Lavinia? Well, come on quickly. And take a taxi. You know, you’re looking absolutely famished. Good night, Edward. [_Exit_ Julia] CELIA Well, how did he persuade you? EDWARD How did he persuade me? Did he persuade me? I have a very clear impression That he tried to persuade me it was all for the best That Lavinia had gone; that I ought to be thankful. And yet, the effect of all his argument Was to make me see that I wanted her back. CELIA That’s the Devil’s method! So you want Lavinia back! Lavinia! So the one thing you care about Is to avoid a break—anything unpleasant! No, it can’t be that. I won’t think it’s that. I think it is just a moment of surrender To fatigue. And panic. You can’t face the trouble. EDWARD No, it is not that. It is not only that. CELIA It cannot be simply a question of vanity: That you think the world will laugh at you Because your wife has left you for another man? I shall soon put that right, Edward, When you are free. EDWARD No, it is not that. And all these reasons were suggested to me By the man I call Riley—though his name is not Riley; It was just a name in a song he sang . . . CELIA He sang you a song about a man named Riley! Really, Edward, I think you are mad— I mean, you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Edward, if I go away now Will you promise me to see a very great doctor Whom I have heard of—and his name _is_ Reilly! EDWARD It would need someone greater than the greatest doctor To cure _this_ illness. CELIA Edward, if I go now, Will you assure me that everything is right, That you do not mean to have Lavinia back And that you do mean to gain your freedom, And that everything is all right between us? That’s all that matters. Truly, Edward, If that is right, everything else will be, I promise you. EDWARD No, Celia. It has been very wonderful, and I’m very grateful, And I think you are a very rare person. But it was too late. And I should have known That it wasn’t fair to you. CELIA It wasn’t fair to _me_! You can stand there and talk about being fair to _me_! EDWARD But for Lavinia leaving, this would never have arisen. What future had you ever thought there could be? CELIA What had I thought that the future could be? I abandoned the future before we began, And after that I lived in a present Where time was meaningless, a private world of _ours_, Where the word ‘happiness’ had a different meaning Or so it seemed. EDWARD I have heard of that experience. CELIA A dream. I was happy in it till to-day, And then, when Julia asked about Lavinia And it came to me that Lavinia had left you And that you would be free—then I suddenly discovered That the dream was not enough; that I wanted something more And I waited, and wanted to run to tell you. Perhaps the dream was better. It seemed the real reality, And if this is reality, it is very like a dream. Perhaps it was I who betrayed my own dream All the while; and to find I wanted This world as well as that . . . well, it’s humiliating. EDWARD There is no reason why you should feel humiliated . . . CELIA Oh, don’t think that you can humiliate me! Humiliation—it’s something I’ve done to myself. I am not sure even that you seem real enough To humiliate me. I suppose that most women Would feel degraded to find that a man With whom they thought they had shared something wonderful Had taken them only as a passing diversion. Oh, I dare say that you deceived yourself; But that’s what it was, no doubt. EDWARD I _didn’t_ take you as a passing diversion! If you want to speak of passing diversions How did you take Peter? CELIA Peter? Peter who? EDWARD Peter Quilpe, who was here this evening. _He_ was in a dream And now he is simply unhappy and bewildered. CELIA I simply don’t know what you are talking about. Edward, this is really too crude a subterfuge To justify yourself. There was never anything Between me and Peter. EDWARD Wasn’t there? _He_ thought so. He came back this evening to talk to me about it. CELIA But this is ridiculous! I never gave Peter Any reason to suppose I cared for him. I thought he had talent; I saw that he was lonely; I thought that I could help him. I took him to concerts. But then, as he came to make more acquaintances, I found him less interesting, and rather conceited. But why should we talk about Peter? All that matters Is, that you think you want Lavinia. And if that is the sort of person you are— Well, you had better have her. EDWARD It’s not like that. It is not that I am in love with Lavinia. I don’t think I was ever really in love with her. If I have ever been in love—and I think that I have— I have never been in love with anyone but you, And perhaps I still am. But this can’t go on. It never could have been . . . a permanent thing: You should have a man . . . nearer your own age. CELIA I don’t think I care for advice from you, Edward: You are not entitled to take any interest Now, in _my_ future. I only hope you’re competent To manage your own. But if you are not in love And never have been in love with Lavinia, What is it that you want? EDWARD I am not sure. The one thing of which I am relatively certain Is, that only since this morning I have met myself as a middle-aged man Beginning to know what it is to feel old. That is the worst moment, when you feel that you have lost The desire for all that was most desirable, Before you are contented with what you can desire; Before you know what is left to be desired; And you go on wishing that you could desire What desire has left behind. But you cannot understand. How could _you_ understand what it is to feel old? CELIA But I want to understand you. I could understand. And, Edward, please believe that whatever happens I shall not loathe you. I shall only feel sorry for you. It’s only myself I am in danger of loathing. But what will your life be? I cannot bear to think of it. Oh, Edward! Can you be happy with Lavinia? EDWARD No—not happy: or, if there is any happiness, Only the happiness of knowing That the misery does not feed on the ruin of loveliness, That the tedium is not the residue of ecstasy. I see that my life was determined long ago And that the struggle to escape from it Is only a make-believe, a pretence That what is, is not, or could be changed. The self that can say ‘I want this—or want that’— The self that wills—he is a feeble creature; He has to come to terms in the end With the obstinate, the tougher self; who does not speak, Who never talks, who cannot argue; And who in some men may be the _guardian_— But in men like me, the dull, the implacable, The indomitable spirit of mediocrity. The willing self can contrive the disaster Of this unwilling partnership—but can only flourish In submission to the rule of the stronger partner. CELIA I am not sure, Edward, that I understand you; And yet I understand as I never did before. I think—I believe—you are being yourself As you never were before, with me. Twice you have changed since I have been looking at you. I looked at your face: and I thought that I knew And loved every contour; and as I looked It withered, as if I had unwrapped a mummy. I listened to your voice, that had always thrilled me, And it became another voice—no, not a voice: What I heard was only the noise of an insect, Dry, endless, meaningless, inhuman— You might have made it by scraping your legs together— Or however grasshoppers do it. I looked, And listened for your heart, your blood; And saw only a beetle the size of a man With nothing more inside it than what comes out When you tread on a beetle. EDWARD Perhaps that is what I am. Tread on me, if you like. CELIA No, I won’t tread on you. That is not what you are. It is only what was left Of what I had thought you were. I see another person, I see you as a person whom I never saw before. The man I saw before, he was only a projection— I see that now—of something that I wanted— No, not _wanted_—something I aspired to— Something that I desperately wanted to exist. It must happen somewhere—but what, and where is it? Edward, I see that I was simply making use of you. And I ask you to forgive me. EDWARD You . . . ask me to forgive _you_! CELIA Yes, for two things. First . . . [_The telephone rings_] EDWARD Damn the telephone. I suppose I had better answer it. CELIA Yes, better answer it. EDWARD Hello! . . . Oh, Julia: what is it now? Your spectacles again . . . where did you leave them? Or have we . . . have I got to hunt all over? Have you looked in your bag? . . . Well, don’t snap my head off . . . You’re sure, in the kitchen? Beside the champagne bottle? You’re quite sure? . . . Very well, hold on if you like; We . . . I’ll look for them. CELIA Yes, you look for them. I shall never go into your kitchen again. [_Exit_ Edward. _He returns with the spectacles and a bottle_] EDWARD She was right for once. CELIA She is always right. But why bring an empty champagne bottle? EDWARD It isn’t empty. It may be a little flat— But why did she say that it was a half-bottle? It’s one of my best: and I have no half-bottles. Well, I hoped that you would drink a final glass with me. CELIA What should we drink to? EDWARD Whom shall we drink to? CELIA To the Guardians. EDWARD To the Guardians? CELIA To the Guardians. It was you who spoke of guardians. [_They drink_] It may be that even Julia is a guardian. Perhaps she is _my_ guardian. Give me the spectacles. Good night, Edward. EDWARD Good night . . . Celia. [_Exit_ Celia] Oh! [_He snatches up the receiver_] Hello, Julia! are you there? . . . Well, I’m awfully sorry to have kept you waiting; But we . . . I had to hunt for them . . . No, I found them. . . . Yes, she’s bringing them now . . . Good night. CURTAIN Act One. Scene 3 _The same room: late afternoon of the next day._ Edward _alone. He goes to answer the doorbell._ EDWARD Oh . . . good evening. [_Enter the_ Unidentified Guest] UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Good evening, Mr. Chamberlayne. EDWARD Well. May I offer you some gin and water? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, thank you. This is a different occasion. EDWARD I take it that as you have come alone You have been unsuccessful. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Not at all. I have come to remind you—you have made a decision. EDWARD Are you thinking that I may have changed my mind? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No. You will not be ready to change your mind Until you recover from having made a decision. No. I have come to tell you that you will change your mind, But that it will not matter. It will be too late. EDWARD I have half a mind to change my mind now To show you that I am free to change it. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST You will change your mind, but you are not free. Your moment of freedom was yesterday. You made a decision. You set in motion Forces in your life and in the lives of others Which cannot be reversed. That is one consideration. And another is this: it is a serious matter To bring someone back from the dead. EDWARD From the dead? That figure of speech is somewhat . . . dramatic, As it was only yesterday that my wife left me. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Ah, but we die to each other daily. What we know of other people Is only our memory of the moments During which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same Is a useful and convenient social convention Which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger. EDWARD So you want me to greet my wife as a stranger? That will not be easy. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST It is very difficult. But it is perhaps still more difficult To keep up the pretence that you are not strangers. The affectionate ghosts: the grandmother, The lively bachelor uncle at the Christmas party, The beloved nursemaid—those who enfolded Your childhood years in comfort, mirth, security— If they returned, would it not be embarrassing? What would you say to them, or they to you After the first ten minutes? You would find it difficult To treat them as strangers, but still more difficult To pretend that you were not strange to each other. EDWARD You can hardly expect me to obliterate The last five years. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST I ask you to forget nothing. To try to forget is to try to conceal. EDWARD There are certainly things I should like to forget. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST And persons also. But you must not forget them. You must face them all, but meet them as strangers. EDWARD Then I myself must also be a stranger. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST And to yourself as well. But remember, When you see your wife, you must ask no questions And give no explanations. I have said the same to her. Don’t strangle each other with knotted memories. Now I shall go. EDWARD Stop! Will you come back with her? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST No, I shall not come with her. EDWARD I don’t know why, But I think I should like you to bring her yourself. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Yes, I know you would. And for definite reasons Which I am not prepared to explain to you I must ask you not to speak of me to her; And she will not mention me to you. EDWARD I promise. UNIDENTIFIED GUEST And now you must await your visitors. EDWARD Visitors? What visitors? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST Whoever comes. The strangers. As for myself, I shall take the precaution Of leaving by the service staircase. EDWARD May I ask one question? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST You may ask it. EDWARD Who are you? UNIDENTIFIED GUEST I also am a stranger. [Exit. _A pause._ Edward _moves about restlessly. The bell rings, and he goes to the front door_.] EDWARD Celia! CELIA Has Lavinia arrived? EDWARD Celia! Why have you come? I expect Lavinia at any moment. You must not be here. Why have you come here? CELIA Because Lavinia asked me. EDWARD Because Lavinia asked you! CELIA Well, not directly, Julia had a telegram Asking her to come, and to bring me with her. Julia was delayed, and sent me on ahead. EDWARD It seems very odd. And not like Lavinia. I suppose there is nothing to do but wait. Won’t you sit down? CELIA Thank you. [_Pause_] EDWARD Oh, my God, what shall we talk about? We can’t sit here in silence. CELIA Oh, I could. Just looking at you. Edward, forgive my laughing. You look like a little boy who’s been sent for To the headmaster’s study; and is not quite sure What he’s been found out in. I never saw you so before. This is really a ludicrous situation. EDWARD I’m afraid I can’t see the humorous side of it. CELIA I’m not really laughing at _you_, Edward. I couldn’t have laughed at anything, yesterday; But I’ve learnt a lot in twenty-four hours. It wasn’t a very pleasant experience. Oh, I’m glad I came! I can see you at last as a human being. Can’t you see me that way too, and laugh about it? EDWARD I wish I could. I wish I understood anything. I’m completely in the dark. CELIA But it’s all so simple. Can’t you see that. . . [_The doorbell rings_] EDWARD There’s Lavinia. [_Goes to front door_] Peter! [_Enter_ Peter] PETER Where’s Lavinia? EDWARD Don’t tell me that Lavinia Sent you a telegram . . . PETER No, not to me, But to Alex. She told him to come here And to bring me with him. He’ll be here in a minute. Celia! Have you heard from Lavinia too? Or am I interrupting? CELIA I’ve just explained to Edward— I only got here this moment myself— That she telegraphed to Julia to come and bring me with her. EDWARD I wonder whom else Lavinia has invited. PETER Why, I got the impression that Lavinia intended To have yesterday’s cocktail party to-day So I don’t suppose her aunt can have died. EDWARD What aunt? PETER The aunt you told us about. But Edward—you remember our conversation yesterday? EDWARD Of course. PETER I hope you’ve done nothing about it. EDWARD No, I’ve done nothing. PETER I’m so glad. Because I’ve changed my mind. I mean, I’ve decided That it’s all no use. I’m going to California. CELIA You’re going to California! PETER Yes, I have a new job. EDWARD And how did that happen, overnight? PETER Why, it’s a man Alex put me in touch with And we settled everything this morning. Alex is a wonderful person to know, Because, you see, he knows everybody, everywhere. So what I’ve really come for is to say good-bye. CELIA Well, Peter, I’m awfully glad, for your sake, Though of course we . . . I shall miss you; You know how I depended on you for concerts, And picture exhibitions—more than you realised. It _was_ fun, wasn’t it! But now you’ll have a chance, I hope, to realise your ambitions. I shall miss you. PETER It’s nice of you to say so; But you’ll find someone better, to go about with. CELIA I don’t think that I shall be going to concerts. I am going away too. [Lavinia _lets herself in with a latch-key_] PETER You’re going abroad? CELIA I don’t know. Perhaps. EDWARD You’re both going away! [_Enter_ Lavinia] LAVINIA Who’s going away? Well, Celia. Well, Peter. I didn’t expect to find either of you here. PETER _AND_ CELIA But the telegram! LAVINIA What telegram? CELIA The one you sent to Julia. PETER And the one you sent to Alex. LAVINIA I don’t know what you mean. Edward, have you been sending telegrams? EDWARD Of course I haven’t sent any telegrams. LAVINIA This is some of Julia’s mischief. And is _she_ coming? PETER Yes, and Alex. LAVINIA Then I shall ask _them_ for an explanation. Meanwhile, I suppose we might as well sit down. What shall we talk about? EDWARD Peter’s going to America. PETER Yes, and I would have rung you up tomorrow And come in to say good-bye before I left. LAVINIA And Celia’s going too? Was that what I heard? I congratulate you both. To Hollywood, of course? How exciting for you, Celia! Now you’ll have a chance At last, to realise your ambitions. You’re going together? PETER We’re not going together. Celia told us she was going away, But I don’t know where. LAVINIA You don’t know where? And do you know where you are going, yourself? PETER Yes, of course, I’m going to California. LAVINIA Well, Celia, why don’t you go to California? Everyone says it’s a wonderful climate: The people who go there never want to leave it. CELIA Lavinia, I think I understand about Peter . . . LAVINIA I have no doubt you do. CELIA And why he is going . . . LAVINIA I don’t doubt that either. CELIA And I believe he is right to go. LAVINIA Oh, so you advised him? PETER She knew nothing about it. CELIA But now that I may be going away—somewhere— I should like to say good-bye—as friends. LAVINIA Why, Celia, but haven’t we always been friends? I thought you were one of my dearest friends— At least, in so far as a girl _can_ be a friend Of a woman so much older than herself. CELIA Lavinia, Don’t put me off. I may not see you again. What I want to say is this: I should like you to remember me As someone who wants you and Edward to be happy. LAVINIA You are very kind, but very mysterious. I am sure that we shall manage somehow, thank you, As we have in the past. CELIA Oh, not as in the past! [_The doorbell rings, and_ Edward _goes to answer it_] Oh, I’m afraid that all this sounds rather silly! But . . . [Edward _re-enters with_ Julia] JULIA There you are, Lavinia! I’m sorry to be late. But your telegram was a bit unexpected. I dropped everything to come. And how is the dear aunt? LAVINIA So far as I know, she is very well, thank you. JULIA She must have made a marvellous recovery. I said so to myself, when I got your telegram. LAVINIA But where, may I ask, was this telegram sent from? JULIA Why, from Essex, of course. LAVINIA And why from Essex? JULIA Because you’ve been in Essex. LAVINIA Because I’ve been in Essex! JULIA Lavinia! Don’t say you’ve had a lapse of memory! Then that accounts for the aunt—and the telegram. LAVINIA Well, perhaps I was in Essex. I really don’t know. JULIA You don’t know where you were? Lavinia! Don’t tell me you were abducted! Tell us I’m thrilled . . . [_The doorbell rings._ Edward _goes to answer it. Enter_ Alex.] ALEX Has Lavinia arrived? EDWARD Yes. ALEX Welcome back, Lavinia! When I got your telegram . . . LAVINIA Where from? ALEX Dedham. LAVINIA Dedham is in Essex. So it was from Dedham. Edward, have _you_ any friends in Dedham? EDWARD No, _I_ have no connections in Dedham. JULIA Well, it’s all delightfully mysterious. ALEX But what is the mystery? JULIA Alex, _don’t_ be inquisitive. Lavinia has had a lapse of memory, And so, of course, she sent us telegrams: And now I don’t believe she really wants us. I can see that she is quite worn out After her anxiety about her aunt— Who you’ll be glad to hear, has quite recovered, Alex— And after that long journey on the old Great Eastern, Waiting at junctions. And I suppose she’s famished. ALEX Ah, in that case I know what I’ll do . . . JULIA No, Alex. We must leave them alone, and let Lavinia rest. Now we’ll all go back to _my_ house. Peter, call a taxi. [_Exit_ Peter] We’ll have a cocktail party at _my_ house to-day. CELIA Well, I’ll go now. Good-bye, Lavinia. Good-bye, Edward. EDWARD Good-bye, Celia. CELIA Good-bye, Lavinia. LAVINIA Good-bye, Celia. [_Exit_ Celia] JULIA And now, Alex, you and I should be going. EDWARD Are you sure you haven’t left anything, Julia? JULIA Left anything? Oh, you mean my spectacles. No, they’re here. Besides, they’re no use to me. I’m not coming back again _this_ evening. LAVINIA Stop! I want you to explain the telegram. JULIA Explain the telegram? What do you think, Alex? ALEX No, Julia, _we_ can’t explain the telegram. LAVINIA I am sure that you could explain the telegram. I don’t know why. But it seems to me that yesterday I started some machine, that goes on working, And I cannot stop it; no, it’s not like a machine— Or if it’s a machine, someone else is running it. But who? Somebody is always interfering . . . I don’t feel free . . . and yet I started it . . . JULIA Alex, do you think we could explain _anything_? ALEX I think not, Julia. She must find out for herself: That’s the only way. JULIA How right you are! Well, my dears, I shall see you very soon. EDWARD _When_ shall we see you? JULIA Did I say you’d see me? Good-bye. I believe . . . I haven’t left anything. [_Enter_ Peter] PETER I’ve got a taxi, Julia. JULIA Splendid! Good-bye! [_Exeunt_ Julia, Alex _and_ Peter] LAVINIA I must say, you don’t seem very pleased to see me. EDWARD I can’t say that I’ve had much opportunity To seem anything. But of course I’m glad to see you. LAVINIA Yes, that was a silly thing to say. Like a schoolgirl. Like Celia. I don’t know why I said it. Well, here I am. EDWARD I am to ask no questions. LAVINIA And I know I am to give no explanations. EDWARD And I am to give no explanations. LAVINIA And I am to ask no questions. And yet . . . why not? EDWARD I don’t know why not. So what are we to talk about? LAVINIA There is one thing I ought to know, because of other people And what to do about them. It’s about that party. I suppose you won’t believe I forgot all about it! I let you down badly. What did you do about it? I only remembered after I had left. EDWARD I telephoned to everyone I knew was coming But I couldn’t get everyone. And so a few came. LAVINIA Who came? EDWARD Just those who were here this evening . . . LAVINIA That’s odd. EDWARD . . . and one other. I don’t know who he was, But _you_ ought to know. LAVINIA Yes, I think I know. But I’m puzzled by Julia. That woman is the devil. She knows by instinct when something’s going to happen. Trust her not to miss any awkward situation! And what did you tell them? EDWARD I invented an aunt Who was ill in the country, and had sent for you. LAVINIA Really, Edward! You had better have told the truth: Nothing less that the truth could deceive Julia. But how did the aunt come to live in Essex? EDWARD Julia compelled me to make her live somewhere. LAVINIA I see. So Julia made her live in Essex; And made the telegrams come from Essex. Well, I shall have to tell Julia the truth. I shall always tell the truth now. We have wasted such a lot of time in lying. EDWARD I don’t quite know what you mean. LAVINIA Oh, Edward! The point is, that since I’ve been away I see that I’ve taken you much too seriously. And now I can see how absurd you are. EDWARD That is a very serious conclusion To have arrived at in . . . how many? . . . thirty-two hours. LAVINIA Yes, a very important discovery, Finding that you’ve spent five years of your life With a man who has no sense of humour; And that the effect upon me was That I lost all sense of humour myself. That’s what came of always giving in to you. EDWARD I was unaware that you’d always given in to me. It struck me very differently. As we’re on the subject, I thought that it was I who had given in to _you_. LAVINIA I know what you mean by giving in to _me_: You mean, leaving all the practical decisions That you should have made yourself. I remember— Oh, I ought to have realised what was coming— When we were planning our honeymoon, I couldn’t make you say where you wanted to go . . . EDWARD But I wanted _you_ to make that decision. LAVINIA But how could I tell where I wanted to go Unless you suggested some other place first? And I remember that finally in desperation I said: ‘I suppose you’d as soon go to Peacehaven’— And you said ‘I don’t mind’. EDWARD Of course I didn’t mind. I meant it as a compliment. LAVINIA You meant it as a compliment! And you were so considerate, people said; And you thought you were unselfish. It was only passivity; You only wanted to be bolstered, encouraged. . . . EDWARD Encouraged? To what? LAVINIA To think well of yourself. You know it was I who made you work at the Bar . . . EDWARD You nagged me because I didn’t get enough work And said that I ought to meet more people: But when the briefs began to come in— And they didn’t come through any of _your_ friends— You suddenly found it inconvenient That I should be always too busy or too tired To be of use to you socially . . . LAVINIA I _never_ complained. EDWARD No; and it was perfectly infuriating, The way you _didn’t_ complain . . . LAVINIA It was you who complained Of seeing nobody but solicitors and clients . . . EDWARD And you were never very sympathetic. LAVINIA Well, I tried to do something about it. That was why I took so much trouble To have those Thursdays, to give you the chance Of talking to intellectual people . . . EDWARD You would have given me about as much opportunity If you had hired me as your butler: Some of your guests may have thought I _was_ the butler. LAVINIA And on several occasions, when somebody was coming Whom I particularly wanted you to meet, You didn’t arrive until just as they were leaving. EDWARD Well, at least, they can’t have thought I was the butler. LAVINIA Everything I tried only made matters worse, And the moment you were offered something that you wanted You wanted something else. I shall treat you very differently In future. EDWARD Thank you for the warning. But tell me, Since this is how you see me, why did you come back? LAVINIA Frankly, I don’t know. I was warned of the danger, Yet something, or somebody, compelled me to come. And why did you want me? EDWARD I don’t know either. You say you were trying to ‘encourage’ me: Then why did you always make me feel insignificant? I may not have known what life I wanted, But it wasn’t the life you chose for me. You wanted your husband to be _successful_, You wanted me to supply a public background For your kind of public life. You wished to be a hostess For whom my career would be a support. Well, I tried to be accommodating. But, in future, I shall behave, I assure you, very differently. LAVINIA Bravo! Edward. This is surprising. Now who could have taught you to answer back like that? EDWARD I have had quite enough humiliation Lately, to bring me to the point At which humiliation ceases to humiliate. You get to the point at which you cease to feel And then you speak your mind. LAVINIA That will be a novelty To find that you have a mind to speak. Anyway, I’m prepared to take you as you are. EDWARD You mean you are prepared to take me As I was, or as you think I am. But what do you think I am? LAVINIA Oh, what you always were. As for me, I’m rather a different person Whom you must get to know. EDWARD This is very interesting: But you seem to assume that you’ve done all the changing— Though I haven’t yet found it a change for the better. But doesn’t it occur to you that possibly I may have changed too? LAVINIA Oh, Edward, when you were a little boy, I’m sure you were always getting yourself measured To prove how you had grown since the last holidays. You were always intensely concerned with yourself; And if other people grow, well, you want to grow too. In what way have you changed? EDWARD The change that comes From seeing oneself through the eyes of other people. LAVINIA That must have been very shattering for you. But never mind, you’ll soon get over it And find yourself another little part to play, With another face, to take people in. EDWARD One of the most infuriating things about you Has always been your perfect assurance That you understood me better than I understood myself. LAVINIA And the most infuriating thing about you Has always been your placid assumption That I wasn’t worth the trouble of understanding. EDWARD So here we are again. Back in the trap, With only one difference, perhaps—we can fight each other, Instead of each taking his corner of the cage. Well, it’s a better way of passing the evening Than listening to the gramophone. LAVINIA We have very good records; But I always suspected that you really hated music And that the gramophone was only your escape From talking to me when we had to be alone. EDWARD I’ve often wondered why you married me. LAVINIA Well, you really were rather attractive, you know; And you kept on _saying_ that you were in love with me— I believe you were trying to persuade yourself you were. I seemed always on the verge of some wonderful experience And then it never happened. I wonder now How you could have thought you were in love with me. EDWARD Everybody told me that I was; And they told me how well-suited we were. LAVINIA It’s a pity that you had no opinion of your own. Oh, Edward, I should like to be good to you— Or if that’s impossible, at least be horrid to you— Anything but nothing, which is all you seem to want of me. But I’m sorry for you . . . EDWARD Don’t say you are sorry for me! I have had enough of people being sorry for me. LAVINIA Yes, because they can never be so sorry for you As you are for yourself. And that’s hard to bear. I thought that there might be some way out for you If I went away. I thought that if I died To you, I who had been only a ghost to you, You might be able to find the road back To a time when you were real—for you must have been real At some time or other, before you ever knew me: Perhaps only when you were a child. EDWARD I don’t want you to make yourself responsible for me: It’s only another kind of contempt. And I do not want you to explain me to myself. You’re still trying to invent a personality for me Which will only keep me away from myself. LAVINIA You’re complicating what is in fact very simple. But there is one point which I see clearly: We are not to relapse into the kind of life we led Until yesterday morning. EDWARD There was a door And I could not open it. I could not touch the handle. Why could I not walk out of my prison? What is hell? Hell is oneself, Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to escape to. One is always alone. LAVINIA Edward, what _are_ you talking about? Talking to yourself. Could you bear, for a moment, To think about _me_? EDWARD It was only yesterday That damnation took place. And now I must live with it Day by day, hour by hour, for ever and ever. LAVINIA I think you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown! EDWARD Don’t say that! LAVINIA I must say it. I know . . . of a doctor who I think could help you. EDWARD If I go to a doctor, I shall make my own choice; Not take one whom you choose. How do I know That you wouldn’t see him first, and tell him all about me From _your_ point of view? But I don’t need a doctor. I am simply in hell. Where there are no doctors— At least, not in a professional capacity. LAVINIA One can be practical, even in hell: And you know I am much more practical than you are. EDWARD I ought to know by now what you consider practical. Practical! I remember, on our honeymoon, You were always wrapping things up in tissue paper And then had to unwrap everything again To find what you wanted. And I could never teach you How to put the cap on a tube of tooth-paste. LAVINIA Very well then, I shall not try to press you. You’re much too divided to know what you want. But, being divided, you will tend to compromise, And your sort of compromise will be the old one. EDWARD You don’t understand me. Have I not made it clear That in future you will find me a different person? LAVINIA Indeed. And has the difference nothing to do With Celia going to California? EDWARD Celia? Going to California? LAVINIA Yes, with Peter. Really, Edward, if you were human You would burst out laughing. But you won’t. EDWARD O God, O God, if I could return to yesterday Before I thought that I had made a decision. What devil left the door on the latch For these doubts to enter? And then you came back, you The angel of destruction—just as I felt sure. In a moment, at your touch, there is nothing but ruin. O God, what have I done? The python. The octopus. Must I become after all what you would make me? LAVINIA Well, Edward, as I am unable to make you laugh, And as I can’t persuade you to see a doctor, There’s nothing else at present that I can do about it. I ought to go and have a look in the kitchen. I know there are some eggs. But we must go out for dinner. Meanwhile, my luggage is in the hall downstairs: Will you get the porter to fetch it up for me? CURTAIN Act Two Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly’s _consulting room in London. Morning: several weeks later._ Sir Henry _alone at his desk. He presses an electric button. The_ Nurse-Secretary _enters, with Appointment Book_. REILLY About those three appointments this morning, Miss Barraway: I should like to run over my instructions again. You understand, of course, that it is important To avoid any meeting? NURSE-SECRETARY You made that clear, Sir Henry: The first appointment at eleven o’clock. He is to be shown into the small waiting-room; And you will see him almost at once. REILLY I shall see him at once. And the second? Nurse-Secretary The second to be shown into the other room Just as usual. She arrives at a quarter past; But you may keep her waiting. REILLY Or she may keep me waiting; But I think she will be punctual. NURSE-SECRETARY I telephone through The moment she arrives. I leave her there Until you ring three times. REILLY And the third patient? Nurse-Secretary The third one to be shown into the small room; And I need not let you know that she has arrived. Then, when you ring, I show the others out; And only after they have left the house. . . . REILLY Quite right, Miss Barraway. That’s all for the moment. Nurse-Secretary Mr. Gibbs is here, Sir Henry. REILLY Ask him to come straight in. [_Exit_ Nurse-Secretary] [Alex _enters almost immediately_] ALEX When is Chamberlayne’s appointment? REILLY At eleven o’clock, The conventional hour. We have not much time. Tell me now, did you have any difficulty In convincing him I was the man for his case? ALEX Difficulty? No! He was only impatient At having to wait four days for the appointment. REILLY It was necessary to delay his appointment To lower his resistance. But what I mean is, Does he trust your judgement? ALEX Yes, implicitly. It’s not that he regards me as very intelligent, But he thinks I’m well informed: the sort of person Who would know the right doctor, as well as the right shops Besides, he was ready to consult any doctor Recommended by anyone except his wife. REILLY I had already impressed upon her That she was not to mention my name to him. ALEX With your usual foresight. Now, he’s quite triumphant Because he thinks he’s stolen a march on her. And when you’ve sent him to a sanatorium Where she can’t get at him—then, he believes, She will be very penitent. He’s enjoying his illness. REILLY Illness offers him a double advantage: To escape from himself—and get the better of his wife. ALEX Not to escape from her? REILLY He doesn’t want to escape from her. ALEX He is staying at his club. REILLY Yes, that is where he wrote from. [_The house-telephone rings_] Hello! Yes, show him up. ALEX You will have a busy morning! I will go out by the service staircase And come back when they’ve gone. REILLY Yes, when they’ve gone. [_Exit_ Alex _by side door_] [Edward _is shown in by_ Nurse-Secretary] EDWARD Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly— [_Stops and stares at_ Reilly] REILLY [_Without looking up from his papers_] Good morning, Mr. Chamberlayne. Please sit down. I won’t keep you a moment. —Now, Mr. Chamberlayne? EDWARD It came into my mind Before I entered the door, that you might be the same person: But I dismissed that as just another symptom. Well, I should have known better than to come here On the recommendation of a man who did not know you. Yet Alex is so plausible. And his recommendations Of shops, have always been satisfactory. I beg your pardon. But he _is_ a blunderer. I should like to know . . . but what is the use! I suppose I might as well go away at once. REILLY No. If you please, sit down, Mr. Chamberlayne. You are not going away, so you might as well sit down. You were going to ask a question. EDWARD When you came to my flat Had you been invited by my wife as a guest As I supposed? . . . Or did she _send_ you? REILLY I cannot say that I had been invited; And Mrs. Chamberlayne did not know that I was coming. But I knew you would be there, and whom I should find with you. EDWARD But you had seen my wife? REILLY Oh yes, I had seen her. EDWARD So this _is_ a trap! REILLY Let’s not call it a trap. But if it is a trap, then you cannot escape from it: And so . . . you might as well sit down. I think you will find that chair comfortable. EDWARD You knew, Before I began to tell you, what had happened? REILLY That is so, that is so. But all in good time. Let us dismiss that question for the moment. Tell me first, about the difficulties On which you want my professional opinion. EDWARD It’s not for me to blame you for bringing my wife back, I suppose. You seemed to be trying to persuade me That I was better off without her. But didn’t you realise That I was in no state to make a decision? REILLY If I had not brought your wife back, Mr. Chamberlayne, Do you suppose that things would be any better—now? EDWARD I don’t know, I’m sure. They could hardly be worse. REILLY They might be much worse. You might have ruined three lives By your indecision. Now there are only two— Which you still have the chance of redeeming from ruin. EDWARD You talk as if I was capable of action: If I were, I should not need to consult you Or anyone else. I came here as a patient. If you take no interest in my case, I can go elsewhere. REILLY You have reason to believe that you are very ill? EDWARD I should have thought a doctor could see that for himself. Or at least that he would enquire about the symptoms. Two people advised me recently, Almost in the same words, that I ought to see a doctor. They said—again, in almost the same words— That I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know it then myself—but if they saw it I should have thought that a doctor could see it. REILLY ‘Nervous breakdown’ is a term I never use: It can mean almost anything. EDWARD And since then, I have realised That mine is a very unusual case. REILLY All cases are unique, and very similar to others. EDWARD Is there a sanatorium to which you send such patients As myself, under your personal observation? REILLY You are very impetuous, Mr. Chamberlayne. There are several kinds of sanatoria For several kinds of patient. And there are also patients For whom a sanatorium is the worst place possible. We must first find out what is wrong with you Before we decide what to do with you. EDWARD I doubt if you have ever had a case like mine: I have ceased to believe in my own personality. REILLY Oh, dear yes; this is serious. A very common malady. Very prevalent indeed. EDWARD I remember, in my childhood . . . REILLY I always begin from the immediate situation And then go back as far as I find necessary. You see, your memories of childhood— I mean, in your present state of mind— Would be largely fictitious; and as for your dreams, You would produce amazing dreams, to oblige me. I could make you dream any kind of dream I suggested, And it would only go to flatter your vanity With the temporary stimulus of feeling interesting. EDWARD But I am obsessed by the thought of my own insignificance. REILLY Precisely. And I could make you feel important, And you would imagine it a marvellous cure; And you would go on, doing such amount of mischief As lay within your power—until you came to grief. Half of the harm that is done in this world Is due to people who want to feel important. They don’t mean to do harm—but the harm does not interest them. Or they do not see it, or they justify it Because they are absorbed in the endless struggle To think well of themselves. EDWARD If I am like that I must have done a great deal of harm. REILLY Oh, not so much as you would like to think: Only, shall we say, within your modest capacity. Try to explain what has happened since I left you. EDWARD I see now why I wanted my wife to come back. It was because of what she had made me into. We had not been alone again for fifteen minutes Before I felt, and still more acutely— Indeed, acutely, perhaps, for the first time, The whole oppression, the unreality Of the role she had always imposed upon me With the obstinate, unconscious, sub-human strength That some women have. Without her, it was vacancy. When I thought she had left me, I began to dissolve, To cease to exist. That was what she had done to me! I cannot live with her—that is now intolerable; I cannot live without her, for she has made me incapable Of having any existence of my own. That is what she has done to me in five years together! She has made the world a place I cannot live in Except on her terms. I must be alone, But not in the same world. So I want you to put me Into your sanatorium. I could be alone there? [_House-telephone rings_] Reilly [_Into telephone_] Yes. [_To_ Edward] Yes, you could be alone there. EDWARD I wonder If you have understood a word of what I have been saying. REILLY You must have patience with me, Mr. Chamberlayne: I learn a good deal by merely observing you, And letting you talk as long as you please, And taking note of what you do not say. EDWARD I once experienced the extreme of physical pain, And now I know there is suffering worse than that. It is surprising, if one had time to be surprised: I am not afraid of the death of the body, But this death is terrifying. The death of the spirit— Can you understand what I suffer? REILLY I understand what you mean. EDWARD I can no longer act for myself. Coming to see you—that’s the last decision I was capable of making. I am in your hands. I cannot take any further responsibility. REILLY Many patients come in that belief. EDWARD And now will you send me to the sanatorium? REILLY You have nothing else to tell me? EDWARD What else can I tell you? You didn’t want to hear about my early history. REILLY No, I did not want to hear about your _early_ history. EDWARD And so will you send me to the sanatorium? I can’t go home again. And at my club They won’t let you keep a room for more than seven days; I haven’t the courage to go to a hotel, And besides, I need more shirts—you can get my wife To have my things sent on: whatever I shall need. But of course you mustn’t tell her where I am. Is it far to go? REILLY You might say, a long journey. But before I treat a patient like yourself I need to know a great deal more about him, Than the patient himself can always tell me. Indeed, it is often the case that my patients Are only pieces of a total situation Which I have to explore. The single patient Who is ill by himself, is rather the exception. I have recently had another patient Whose situation is much the same as your own. [_Presses the bell on his desk three times_] You must accept a rather unusual procedure: I propose to introduce you to the other patient. EDWARD What do you mean? Who is this other patient? I consider this very unprofessional conduct— I will not discuss my case before another patient. REILLY On the contrary. That is the only way In which it can be discussed. You have told me nothing. You have had the opportunity, and you have said enough To convince me that you have been making up your case So to speak, as you went along. A barrister Ought to know his brief before he enters the court. EDWARD I am at least free to leave. And I propose to do so. My mind is made up. I shall go to a hotel. REILLY It is just because you are not free, Mr. Chamberlayne, That you have come to me. It is for me to give you that— Your freedom. That is my affair. [Lavinia _is shown in by the_ Nurse-Secretary] But here is the other patient. EDWARD Lavinia! LAVINIA Well, Sir Henry! I said I would come to talk about my husband: I didn’t say I was prepared to meet him. EDWARD And I did not expect to meet _you_, Lavinia. I call this a very dishonourable trick. REILLY Honesty before honour, Mr. Chamberlayne. Sit down, please, both of you. Mrs. Chamberlayne, Your husband wishes to enter a sanatorium, And that is a question which naturally concerns you. EDWARD I am not going to any sanatorium. I am going to a hotel. And I shall ask you, Lavinia, To be so good as to send me on some clothes. LAVINIA Oh, to what hotel? EDWARD I don’t know—I mean to say, That doesn’t concern you. LAVINIA In that case, Edward, I don’t think your clothes concern me either. [_To_ Reilly] I presume you will send him to the same sanatorium To which you sent me? Well, he needs it more than I did. REILLY I am glad that you have come to see it in that light— At least, for the moment. But, Mrs. Chamberlayne, You have never visited my sanatorium. LAVINIA What do you mean? I asked to be sent And you took me there. If that was not a sanatorium What was it? REILLY A kind of hotel. A retreat For people who imagine that they need a respite From everyday life. They return refreshed; And if they believe it to be a sanatorium That is good reason for not sending them to one. The people who need my sort of sanatorium Are not easily deceived. LAVINIA Are you a devil Or merely a lunatic practical joker? EDWARD I incline to the second explanation Without the qualification ‘lunatic’. Why should _you_ go to a sanatorium? I have never known anyone in my life With fewer mental complications than you; You’re stronger than a . . . battleship. That’s what drove me mad. I am the one who needs a sanatorium— But I’m not going there. REILLY You are right, Mr. Chamberlayne. You are no case for my sanatorium: You are much too ill. EDWARD Much too ill? Then I’ll go and be ill in a suburban boarding-house. LAVINIA That would never suit you, Edward. Now I know of a hotel In the New Forest . . . EDWARD How like you, Lavinia. You always know of something better. LAVINIA It’s only that I have a more practical mind Than you have, Edward. You do know that. EDWARD Only because you’ve told me so often. I’d like to see _you_ filling up an income-tax form. LAVINIA Don’t be silly, Edward. When I say practical, I mean practical in the things that really matter. REILLY May I interrupt this interesting discussion? I say you are both too ill. There several symptoms Which must occur together, and to a marked degree, To qualify a patient for _my_ sanatorium: And one of them is an honest mind. That is one of the causes of their suffering. LAVINIA No one can say my husband has an honest mind. EDWARD And I could not honestly say that of _you_, Lavinia. REILLY I congratulate you both on your perspicacity. Your sympathetic understanding of each other Will prepare you to appreciate what I have to say to you. I do not trouble myself with the common cheat, Or with the insuperably, innocently dull: My patients such as you are the self-deceivers Taking infinite pains, exhausting their energy, Yet never quite successful. You have both of you pretended To be consulting me; both, tried to impose upon me Your own diagnosis, and prescribe your own cure. But when you put yourselves into hands like mine You surrender a great deal more than you meant to. This is the consequence of trying to lie to me. LAVINIA I did not come here to be insulted. REILLY You have come where the word ‘insult’ has no meaning; And you must put up with that. All that you have told me— Both of you—was true enough: you described your feelings— Or some of them—omitting the important facts. Let me take your husband first. [_To_ Edward] You were lying to me By concealing your relations with Miss Coplestone. EDWARD This is monstrous! My wife knew nothing about it. LAVINIA Really, Edward! Even if I’d been blind There were plenty of people to let me know about it. I wonder if there was anyone who didn’t know. REILLY There was one, in fact. But you, Mrs. Chamberlayne, Tried to make me believe that it was this discovery Precipitated what you called your nervous breakdown. LAVINIA But it’s true! I was completely prostrated; Even if I have made a partial recovery. REILLY Certainly, you were completely prostrated, And certainly, you have somewhat recovered. But you failed to mention that the cause of your distress Was the defection of your lover—who suddenly For the first time in his life, fell in love with someone, And with someone of whom you had reason to be jealous. EDWARD Really, Lavinia! This is very interesting. You seem to have been much more successful at concealment Than I was. Now I wonder who it could have been. LAVINIA Well, tell him if you like. REILLY A young man named Peter. EDWARD Peter? Peter who? REILLY Mr. Peter Quilpe Was a frequent guest. EDWARD Peter Quilpe. Peter Quilpe! Really Lavinia! I congratulate you. You could not have chosen Anyone I was less likely to suspect. And then he came to _me_ to confide about Celia! I have never heard anything so utterly ludicrous: This is the best joke that ever happened. LAVINIA I never knew you had such a sense of humour. REILLY It is the first more hopeful symptom. LAVINIA How did you know all this? REILLY That I cannot disclose. I have my own method of collecting information About my patients. You must not ask me to reveal it— That is a matter of professional etiquette. LAVINIA I have not noticed much professional etiquette About your behaviour to-day. REILLY A point well taken. But permit me to remark that my revelations About each of you, to one another, Have not been of anything that you confided to me. The information I have exchanged between you Was all obtained from outside sources. Mrs. Chamberlayne, when you came to me two months ago I was dissatisfied with your explanation Of your obvious symptoms of emotional strain And so I made enquiries. EDWARD It was two months ago That your breakdown began! And I never noticed it. LAVINIA You wouldn’t notice anything. You never noticed _me_. REILLY Now, I want to point out to both of you How much you have in common. Indeed, I consider That you are exceptionally well-suited to each other. Mr. Chamberlayne, when you thought your wife had left you, You discovered, to your surprise and consternation, That you were not really in love with Miss Coplestone . . . LAVINIA My husband has never been in love with anybody. REILLY And were not prepared to make the least sacrifice On her account. This injured your vanity. You liked to think of yourself as a passionate lover. Then you realised, what your wife has justly remarked, That you had never been in love with anybody; Which made you suspect that you were incapable Of loving. To men of a certain type The suspicion that they are incapable of loving Is as disturbing to their self-esteem As, in cruder men, the fear of impotence. LAVINIA You _are_ cold-hearted, Edward. REILLY So you say, Mrs. Chamberlayne. And now, let us turn to your side of the problem. When you discovered that your young friend (Though you knew, in your heart, that he was not in love with you, And were always humiliated by the awareness That you had forced him into this position)— When, I say, you discovered that your young friend Had actually fallen in love with Miss Coplestone, It took you some time, I have no doubt, Before you would admit it. Though perhaps you knew it Before he did. You pretended to yourself, I suspect, and for as long as you could, That he was aiming at a higher social distinction Than the honour conferred by being _your_ lover. When you had to face the fact that his feelings towards her Were different from any you had aroused in him— It was a shock. You had wanted to be loved; You had come to see that no one had ever loved you. Then you began to fear that no one _could_ love you. EDWARD I’m beginning to feel very sorry for you, Lavinia. You know, you really are exceptionally unlovable, And I never quite knew why. I thought it was _my_ fault. REILLY And now you begin to see, I hope, How much you have in common. The same isolation. A man who finds himself incapable of loving And a woman who finds that no man can love her. LAVINIA It seems to me that what we have in common Might be just enough to make us loathe one another. REILLY See it rather as the bond which holds you together. While still in a state of unenlightenment, _You_ could always say: ‘he could not love any woman;’ _You_ could always say: ‘no man could love her.’ You could accuse each other of your own faults, And so could avoid understanding each other. Now, you have only to reverse the propositions And put them together. LAVINIA Is that possible? REILLY If I had sent either of you to the sanatorium In the state in which you came to me—I tell you this: It would have been a horror beyond your imagining, For you would have been left with what you brought with you: The shadow of desires of desires. A prey To the devils who arrive at their plenitude of power When they have you to themselves. LAVINIA Then what can we do When we can go neither back nor forward? Edward! What can we do? REILLY You have answered your own question, Though you do not know the meaning of what you have said. EDWARD Lavinia, we must make the best of a bad job. That is what he means. REILLY When you find, Mr. Chamberlayne, The best of a bad job is all any of us make of it— Except of course, the saints—such as those who go To the sanatorium—you will forget this phrase, And in forgetting it will alter the condition. LAVINIA Edward, there _is_ that hotel in the New Forest If you want to go there. The proprietor Who has just taken over, is a friend of Alex’s. I could go down with you, and then leave you there If you want to be alone . . . EDWARD But I can’t go away! I have a case coming on next Monday. LAVINIA Then will you stop at your club? EDWARD No, they won’t let me. I must leave tomorrow—but how did you know I was staying at the club? LAVINIA Really, Edward! I have _some_ sense of responsibility. I was going to leave some shirts there for you. EDWARD It seems to me that I might as well go home. LAVINIA Then we can share a taxi, and be economical. Edward, have you anything else to ask him Before we go? EDWARD Yes, I have. But it’s difficult to say. LAVINIA But I wish you would say it. At least, there is something I would like you to ask. EDWARD It’s about the future of . . . the others. I don’t want to build on other people’s ruins. LAVINIA Exactly. And I have a question too. Sir Henry, was it you who sent those telegrams? REILLY I think I will dispose of your husband’s problem. [_To_ Edward] Your business is not to clear your conscience But to learn how to bear the burdens on your conscience. With the future of the others you are not concerned. LAVINIA I think you have answered my question too. They had to tell us, themselves, that they had made their decision. EDWARD Have you anything else to say to us, Sir Henry? REILLY No. Not in this capacity. [Edward _takes out his cheque-book_. Reilly _raises his hand_.] My secretary will send you my account. Go in peace. And work out your salvation with diligence. [_Exeunt_ Edward _and_ Lavinia] [Reilly _goes to the couch and lies down. The house-telephone rings. He gets up and answers it._] REILLY Yes? . . . Yes. Come in. [_Enter_ Julia _by side door_] She’s waiting downstairs. JULIA I know that, Henry. I brought her here myself. REILLY Oh? You didn’t let her know you were seeing me first? JULIA Of course not. I dropped her at the door And went on in the taxi, round the corner; Waited a moment, and slipped in by the back way. I only came to tell you, I am sure she is ready To make a decision. REILLY Was she reluctant? Was that why you brought her? JULIA Oh no, not reluctant: Only diffident. She cannot believe That you will take her seriously. REILLY That is not uncommon. JULIA Or that she deserves to be taken seriously. REILLY That is most uncommon. JULIA Henry, get up. You can’t be as tired as that. I shall wait in the next room, And come back when she’s gone. REILLY Yes, when she’s gone. JULIA Will Alex be here? REILLY Yes, he’ll be here. [_Exit_ Julia _by side door_] [Reilly _presses button_. Nurse-Secretary _shows in_ Celia.] REILLY Miss Celia Coplestone? . . . Won’t you sit down? I believe you are a friend of Mrs. Shuttlethwaite. CELIA Yes, it was Julia . . . Mrs. Shuttlethwaite Who advised me to come to you.—But I’ve met you before, Haven’t I, somewhere? . . . Oh, of course. But I didn’t know . . . REILLY There is nothing you need to know. I was there at the instance of Mrs. Shuttlethwaite. CELIA That makes it even more perplexing. However, I don’t want to waste your time. And I’m awfully afraid That you’ll think that I am wasting it anyway. I suppose most people, when they come to see you, Are obviously ill, or can give good reasons For wanting to see you. Well, I can’t. I just came in desperation. And I shan’t be offended If you simply tell me to go away again. REILLY Most of my patients begin, Miss Coplestone, By telling me exactly what is the matter with them, And what I am to do about it. They are quite sure They have had a nervous breakdown—that is what they call it— And usually they think that someone else is to blame. CELIA I at least have no one to blame but myself. REILLY And after that, the prologue to my treatment Is to try to show them that they are mistaken About the nature of their illness, and lead them to see That it’s not so interesting as they had imagined. When I get as far as that, there is something to be done. CELIA Well, I can’t pretend that my trouble is interesting; But I shan’t begin that way. I feel perfectly well. I could lead an active life—if there’s anything to work for; I don’t imagine that I am being persecuted; I don’t hear any voices, I have no delusions— Except that the world I live in seems all a delusion! But oughtn’t I first to tell you the circumstances? I’d forgotten that you know nothing about me; And with what I’ve been going through, these last weeks, I somehow took it for granted that I needn’t explain myself. REILLY I know quite enough about you for the moment: Try first to describe your present state of mind. CELIA Well, there are two things I can’t understand, Which you might consider symptoms. But first I must tell you That I should really _like_ to think there’s something wrong with me— Because, if there isn’t, then there’s something wrong, Or at least, very different from what it seemed to be, With the world itself—and that’s much more frightening! That would be terrible. So I’d rather believe There is something wrong with me, that could be put right. I’d do anything you told me, to get back to normality. REILLY We must find out about you, before we decide What _is_ normality. You say there are two things: What is the first? CELIA An awareness of solitude. But that sounds so flat. I don’t mean simply That there’s been a crash: though indeed there has been. It isn’t simply the end of an illusion In the ordinary way, or being ditched. Of course that’s something that’s always happening To all sorts of people, and they get over it More or less, or at least they carry on. No. I mean that what has happened has made me aware That I’ve always been alone. That one always is alone. Not simply the ending of one relationship, Not even simply finding that it never existed— But a revelation about my relationship With _everybody_. Do you know— It no longer seems worth while to _speak_ to anyone! REILLY And what about your parents? CELIA Oh, they live in the country, Now they can’t afford to have a place in town. It’s all they can do to keep the country house going; But it’s been in the family so long, they won’t leave it. REILLY And you live in London? CELIA I share a flat With a cousin: but she’s abroad at the moment, And my family want me to come down and stay with them. But I just can’t face it. REILLY So you want to see no one? CELIA No . . . it isn’t that I _want_ to be alone, But that everyone’s alone—or so it seems to me. They make noises, and think they are talking to each other; They make faces, and think they understand each other. And I’m sure that they don’t. Is that a delusion? REILLY A delusion is something we must return from. There are other states of mind, which we take to be delusion, But which we have to accept and go on from. And the second symptom? CELIA That’s stranger still. It sounds ridiculous—but the only word for it That I can find, is a sense of sin. REILLY You suffer from a sense of sin, Miss Coplestone? This is most unusual. CELIA It seemed to _me_ abnormal. REILLY We have yet to find what would be normal For _you_, before we use the term ‘abnormal’. Tell me what you mean by a sense of sin. CELIA It’s much easier to tell you what I don’t mean: I don’t mean sin in the ordinary sense. REILLY And what, in your opinion, is the ordinary sense? CELIA Well . . . I suppose it’s being immoral— And I don’t feel as if I was immoral: In fact, aren’t the people one thinks of as immoral Just the people who we say have no moral sense? I’ve never noticed that immorality Was accompanied by a sense of sin: At least, I have never come across it. I suppose it is wicked to hurt other people. If you know that you’re hurting them. I haven’t hurt _her_. I wasn’t taking anything away from her— Anything she wanted. I may have been a fool: But I don’t mind at all having been a fool. REILLY And what is the point of view of your family? CELIA Well, my bringing up was pretty conventional— I had always been taught to disbelieve in sin. Oh, I don’t mean that it was ever mentioned! But anything wrong, from our point of view, Was either bad form, or was psychological. And bad form always led to disaster Because the people one knew disapproved of it. I don’t worry much about form, myself— But when everything’s bad form, or mental kinks, You either become bad form, and cease to care, Or else, if you care, you must be kinky. REILLY And so you suppose you have what you call a ‘kink’? CELIA But everything seemed so right, at the time! I’ve been thinking about it, over and over; I can see now, it was all a mistake. But I don’t see why mistakes should make one feel sinful! And yet I can’t find any other word for it. It must be some kind of hallucination; Yet, at the same time, I’m frightened by the fear That it is more real than anything I believed in. REILLY What is more real than anything you believed in? CELIA It’s not the feeling of anything I’ve ever _done_, Which I might get away from, or of anything in me I could get rid of—but of emptiness, of failure Towards someone, or something, outside of myself; And I feel I must . . . _atone_—is that the word? Can you treat a patient for such a state of mind? REILLY What had you believed were your relations with this man? CELIA Oh, you’d guessed that, had you? That’s clever of you. No, perhaps I made it obvious. You don’t need to know About him, do you? REILLY No. CELIA Perhaps I’m only typical. REILLY There are different types. Some are rarer than others. CELIA Oh, I thought that I was giving him so much! And he to me—and the giving and the taking Seemed so right: not in terms of calculation Of what was good for the persons we had been But for the new person, _us_. If I could feel As I did then, even now it would seem right. And then I found we were only strangers And that there had been neither giving nor taking But that we had merely made use of each other Each for his purpose. That’s horrible. Can we only love Something created by our own imagination? Are we all in fact unloving and unlovable? Then one _is_ alone, and if one is alone Then lover and belovèd are equally unreal And the dreamer is no more real than his dreams. REILLY And this man. What does he now seem like, to you? CELIA Like a child who has wandered into a forest Playing with an imaginary playmate And suddenly discovers he is only a child Lost in a forest, wanting to go home. REILLY Compassion may be already a clue Towards finding your own way out of the forest. CELIA But even if I find my way out of the forest I shall be left with the inconsolable memory Of the treasure I went into the forest to find And never found, and which was not there And perhaps is not anywhere? But if not anywhere, Why do I feel guilty at not having found it? REILLY Disillusion can become itself an illusion If we rest in it. CELIA I cannot argue. It’s not that I’m afraid of being hurt again: Nothing again can either hurt or heal. I have thought at moments that the ecstasy is real Although those who experience it may have no reality. For what happened is remembered like a dream In which one is exalted by intensity of loving In the spirit, a vibration of delight Without desire, for desire is fulfilled In the delight of loving. A state one does not know When awake. But what, or whom I loved, Or what in me was loving, I do not know. And if that is all meaningless, I want to be cured Of a craving for something I cannot find And of the shame of never finding it. Can you cure me? REILLY The condition is curable. But the form of treatment must be your own choice: I cannot choose for you. If that is what you wish, I can reconcile you to the human condition, The condition to which some who have gone as far as you Have succeeded in returning. They may remember The vision they have had, but they cease to regret it, Maintain themselves by the common routine, Learn to avoid excessive expectation, Become tolerant of themselves and others, Giving and taking, in the usual actions What there is to give and take. They do not repine; Are contented with the morning that separates And with the evening that brings together For casual talk before the fire Two people who know they do not understand each other, Breeding children whom they do not understand And who will never understand them. CELIA Is that the best life? REILLY It is a good life. Though you will not know how good Till you come to the end. But you will want nothing else, And the other life will be only like a book You have read once, and lost. In a world of lunacy, Violence, stupidity, greed . . . it is a good life. CELIA I know I ought to be able to accept that If I might still have it. Yet it leaves me cold. Perhaps that’s just a part of my illness, But I feel it would be a kind of surrender— No, not a surrender—more like a betrayal. You see, I think I really had a vision of something Though I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to forget it. I want to live with it. I could do without everything, Put up with anything, if I might cherish it. In fact, I think it would really be dishonest For me, now, to try to make a life with _any_body! I couldn’t give anyone the kind of love— I wish I could—which belongs to that life. Oh, I’m afraid this sounds like raving! Or just cantankerousness . . . still, If there’s no other way . . . then I feel just hopeless. REILLY There _is_ another way, if you have the courage. The first I could describe in familiar terms Because you have seen it, as we all have seen it, Illustrated, more or less, in lives of those about us. The second is unknown, and so requires faith— The kind of faith that issues from despair. The destination cannot be described; You will know very little until you get there; You will journey blind. But the way leads towards possession Of what you have sought for in the wrong place. CELIA That sounds like what I want. But what is my duty? REILLY Whichever way you choose will prescribe its own duty. CELIA Which way is better? REILLY Neither way is better. Both ways are necessary. It is also necessary To make a choice between them. CELIA Then I choose the second. REILLY It is a terrifying journey. CELIA I am not frightened But glad. I suppose it is a lonely way? REILLY No lonelier than the other. But those who take the other Can forget their loneliness. You will not forget yours. Each way means loneliness—and communion. Both ways avoid the final desolation Of solitude in the phantasmal world Of imagination, shuffling memories and desires. CELIA That is the hell I have been in. REILLY It isn’t hell Till you become incapable of anything else. Now—do you feel quite sure? CELIA I want your second way. So what am I to do? REILLY You will go to the sanatorium. CELIA Oh, what an anti-climax! I have known people Who have been to your sanatorium, and come back again— I don’t mean to say they weren’t much better for it— That’s why I came to you. But they returned . . . Well . . . I mean . . . to everyday life. REILLY True. But the friends you have in mind Cannot have been to this sanatorium. I am very careful whom I send there: Those who go do not come back as these did. CELIA It sounds like a prison. But they can’t _all_ stay there! I mean, it would make the place so over-crowded. REILLY Not very many go. But I said they did not come back In the sense in which your friends came back. I did not say they stayed there. CELIA What becomes of them? REILLY They choose, Miss Coplestone. Nothing is forced on them. Some of them return, in a physical sense; No one disappears. They lead very active lives Very often, in the world. CELIA How soon will you send me there? REILLY How soon will you be ready? CELIA Tonight, by nine o’clock. REILLY Go home then, and make your preparations. Here is the address for you to give your friends; [_Writes on a slip of paper_] You had better let your family know at once. I will send a car for you at nine o’clock. CELIA What do I need to take with me? REILLY Nothing. Everything you need will be provided for you, And you will have no expenses at the sanatorium. CELIA I don’t in the least know what I am doing Or why I am doing it. There is nothing else to do: That is the only reason. REILLY It is the best reason. CELIA But I know it is I who have made the decision: I must tell you that. Oh, I almost forgot— May I ask what your fee is? REILLY I have told my secretary That there is no fee. CELIA But . . . REILLY For a case like yours There is no fee. [_Presses button_] CELIA You have been very kind. REILLY Go in peace, my daughter. Work out your salvation with diligence. [Nurse-Secretary _appears at door. Exit_ Celia. Reilly _dials on house-telephone_.] REILLY [_Into telephone_] It is finished. You can come in now. [_Enter_ Julia _by side door_] She will go far, that one. JULIA Very far, I think. You do not need to tell me. I knew from the beginning. REILLY It’s the other ones I am worried about. JULIA Nonsense, Henry. _I_ shall keep an eye on them. REILLY To send them back: what have they to go back to? To the stale food mouldering in the larder, The stale thoughts mouldering in their minds. Each unable to disguise his own meanness From himself, because it is known to the other. It’s not the knowledge of the mutual treachery But the knowledge that the other understands the motive— Mirror to mirror, reflecting vanity. I have taken a great risk. JULIA We must always take risks. That is our destiny. Since you question the decision What possible alternative can you imagine? REILLY None. JULIA Very well then. We must take the risk. All we could do was to give them the chance. And now, when they are stripped naked to their souls And can choose, whether to put on proper costumes Or huddle quickly into new disguises, They have, for the first time, somewhere to start from. Oh, of course, they might just murder each other! But I don’t think they will do that. We shall see. It’s the thought of Celia that weighs upon my mind. REILLY Of Celia? JULIA Of Celia. REILLY But when I said just now That she would go far, you agreed with me. JULIA Oh yes, she will go far. And we know where she is going. But what do we know of the terrors of the journey? You and I don’t know the process by which the human is Transhumanised: what do we know Of the kind of suffering they must undergo On the way of illumination? REILLY Will she be frightened By the first appearance of projected spirits? JULIA Henry, you simply do not understand innocence. She will be afraid of nothing; she will not even know That there is anything there to be afraid of. She is too humble. She will pass between the scolding hills, Through the valley of derision, like a child sent on an errand In eagerness and patience. Yet she must suffer. REILLY When I express confidence in anything You always raise doubts; when I am apprehensive Then you see no reason for anything but confidence. JULIA That’s one way in which I am so useful to you. You ought to be grateful. REILLY And when I say to one like her ‘Work out your salvation with diligence’, I do not understand What I myself am saying. JULIA You must accept your limitations. —But how much longer will Alex keep us waiting? REILLY He should be here by now. I’ll speak to Miss Barraway. [_Takes up house-telephone_] Miss Barraway, when Mr. Gibbs arrives . . . Oh, very good. [_To_ Julia] He’s on his way up. [_Into telephone_] You may bring the tray in now, Miss Barraway. [_Enter_ Alex] ALEX Well! Well! and how have we got on? JULIA Everything is in order. ALEX The Chamberlaynes have chosen? REILLY They accept their destiny. ALEX And _she_ has made the choice? REILLY She will be fetched this evening. [Nurse-Secretary _enters with a tray, a decanter and three glasses, and exits_. Reilly _pours drinks_.] And now we are ready to proceed to the libation. ALEX The words for the building of the hearth. [_They raise their glasses_] REILLY Let them build the hearth Under the protection of the stars. ALEX Let them place a chair each side of it. JULIA May the holy ones watch over the roof, May the Moon herself influence the bed. [_They drink_] ALEX The words for those who go upon a journey. REILLY Protector of travellers Bless the road. ALEX Watch over her in the desert. Watch over her in the mountain. Watch over her in the labyrinth. Watch over her by the quicksand. JULIA Protect her from the Voices Protect her from the Visions Protect her in the tumult Protect her in the silence. [_They drink_] REILLY There is one for whom the words cannot be spoken. ALEX They can not be spoken yet. JULIA You mean Peter Quilpe. REILLY He has not yet come to where the words are valid. JULIA Shall we ever speak them? ALEX Others, perhaps, will speak them. You know, I have connections—even in California. CURTAIN Act Three _The drawing-room of the Chamberlaynes’ London flat. Two years later. A late afternoon in July._ A Caterer’s Man _is arranging a buffet table_. Lavinia _enters from side door_. CATERER’S MAN Have you any further orders for us, Madam? LAVINIA You could bring in the trolley with the glasses And leave them ready. CATERER’S MAN Very good, Madam. [_Exit_. Lavinia _looks about the room critically and moves bowl of flowers_.] [_Re-enter_ Caterer’s Man _with trolley_] LAVINIA There, in that corner. That’s the most convenient; You can get in and out. Is there anything you need That you can’t find in the kitchen? CATERER’S MAN Nothing, Madam. Will there be anything more you require? LAVINIA Nothing more, I think, till half past six. [_Exit_ Caterer’s Man] [Edward _lets himself in at the front door_] EDWARD I’m in good time, I think. I hope you’ve not been worrying. LAVINIA Oh no. I did in fact ring up your chambers, And your clerk told me you had already left. But all I rang up for was to reassure you . . . EDWARD [_Smiling_] That you hadn’t run away? LAVINIA Now Edward, that’s unfair! You know that we’ve given _several_ parties In the last two years. And I’ve attended _all_ of them. I hope you’re not too tired? EDWARD Oh no, a quiet day. Two consultations with solicitors On quite straightforward cases. It’s you who should be tired. LAVINIA I’m not tired yet. But I know that I’ll be glad When it’s all over. EDWARD I like the dress you’re wearing: I’m glad you put on that one. LAVINIA Well, Edward! Do you know it’s the first time you’ve paid me a compliment _Before_ a party? And that’s when one needs them. EDWARD Well, you deserve it.—We asked too many people. LAVINIA It’s true, a great many more accepted Than we thought would want to come. But what can you do? There’s usually a lot who don’t want to come But all the same would be bitterly offended To hear we’d given a party without asking them. EDWARD Perhaps we ought to have arranged to have two parties Instead of one. LAVINIA That’s never satisfactory. Everyone who’s asked to either party Suspects that the other one was more important. EDWARD That’s true. You have a very practical mind. LAVINIA But you know, I don’t think that you need worry: They won’t all come, out of those who accepted. You know we said, ‘we can ask twenty more Because they will be going to the Gunnings instead’. EDWARD I know, that’s what we said at the time; But I’d forgotten what the Gunnings’ parties were like. Their guests will get just enough to make them thirsty; They’ll come on to us later, roaring for drink. Well, let’s hope that those who come to us early Will be going on to the Gunnings afterwards, To make room for those who come from the Gunnings. LAVINIA And if it’s very crowded, they can’t get at the cocktails, And the man won’t be able to take the tray about, So they’ll go away again. Anyway, at that stage There’s nothing whatever you can do about it: And everyone likes to be seen at a party Where everybody else is, to show they’ve been invited. That’s what makes it a success. Is that picture straight? EDWARD Yes, it is. LAVINIA No, it isn’t. Do please straighten it. EDWARD Is it straight now? LAVINIA Too much to the left. EDWARD How’s that now? LAVINIA No, I meant the right. That will do. I’m too tired to bother. EDWARD After they’re all gone, we will have some champagne. Just ourselves. You lie down now, Lavinia. No one will be coming for at least half an hour; So just stretch out. LAVINIA You must sit beside me, Then I can relax. EDWARD This is the best moment Of the whole party. LAVINIA Oh no, Edward. The best moment is the moment it’s over; And then to remember, it’s the end of the season And no more parties. EDWARD And no more committees. LAVINIA Can we get away soon? EDWARD By the end of next week I shall be quite free. LAVINIA And we can be alone. I love that house being so remote. EDWARD That’s why we took it. And I’m really thankful To have that excuse for not seeing people; And you do need to rest now. [_The doorbell rings_] LAVINIA Oh, bother! Now who would come so early? I simply _can’t_ get up. CATERER’S MAN Mrs. Shuttlethwaite! LAVINIA Oh, it’s Julia! [_Enter_ Julia] JULIA Well, my dears, and here I am! I seem _literally_ to have caught you napping! I know I’m much too early; but the fact is, my dears, That I have to go on to the Gunnings’ party— And you know what _they_ offer in the way of food and drink! And I’ve had to miss my tea, and I’m simply ravenous And dying of thirst. What can Parkinson’s do for me? Oh yes, I know this is a Parkinson party; I recognised one of their men at the door— An old friend of mine, in fact. But I’m forgetting! I’ve got a surprise: I’ve brought Alex with me! He only got back this morning from somewhere— One of his mysterious expeditions, And we’re going to get him to tell us all about it. But what’s become of him? [_Enter_ Alex] EDWARD Well, Alex! Where on earth do you turn up from? ALEX Where on earth? From the east. From Kinkanja— An island that you won’t have heard of Yet. Got back this morning. I heard about your party And, as I thought you might be leaving for the country, I said, I must not miss the opportunity To see Edward and Lavinia. LAVINIA How are you, Alex? ALEX I did try to get you on the telephone After lunch, but my secretary couldn’t get through to you. Never mind, I said—to myself, not to her— Never mind: the unexpected guest Is the one to whom they give the warmest welcome. I know them well enough for that. JULIA But tell us, Alex. What were you doing in this strange place— What’s it called? ALEX Kinkanja. JULIA What were you doing In Kinkanja? Visiting some Sultan? You were shooting tigers? ALEX There are no tigers, Julia, In Kinkanja. And there are no sultans. I have been staying with the Governor. Three of us have been out on a tour of inspection Of local conditions. JULIA What about? Monkey nuts? ALEX That was a nearer guess than you think. No, not monkey nuts. But it had to do with monkeys— Though whether the monkeys are the core of the problem Or merely a symptom, I am not so sure. At least, the monkeys have become the pretext For general unrest amongst the natives. EDWARD But how do the monkeys create unrest? ALEX To begin with, the monkeys are very destructive . . . JULIA You don’t need to tell me that monkeys are destructive. I shall never forget Mary Mallington’s monkey, The horrid little beast—stole my ticket to Mentone And I had to travel in a very slow train And in a _couchette_. She was very angry When I told her the creature ought to be destroyed. LAVINIA But can’t they exterminate these monkeys If they are a pest? ALEX Unfortunately, The majority of the natives are heathen: They hold these monkeys in peculiar veneration And do not want them killed. So they blame the Government For the damage that the monkeys do. EDWARD That seems unreasonable. ALEX It is unreasonable, But characteristic. And that’s not the worst of it. Some of the tribes are Christian converts, And, naturally, take a different view. They trap the monkeys. And they eat them. The young monkeys are extremely palatable: I’ve cooked them myself . . . EDWARD And did anybody eat them When you cooked them? ALEX Oh yes, indeed. I invented for the natives several new recipes. But you see, what with eating the monkeys And what with protecting their crops from the monkeys The Christian natives prosper exceedingly: And that creates friction between them and the others. And that’s the real problem. I hope I’m not boring you? EDWARD No indeed: we are anxious to learn the solution. ALEX I’m not sure that there _is_ any solution. But even this does not bring us to the heart of the matter. There are also foreign agitators, Stirring up trouble . . . LAVINIA Why don’t you expel them? ALEX They are citizens of a friendly neighbouring state Which we have just recognised. You see, Lavinia, There are very deep waters. EDWARD And the agitators; How do they agitate? ALEX By convincing the heathen That the slaughter of monkeys has put a curse on them Which can only be removed by slaughtering the Christians. They have even been persuading some of the converts— Who, after all, prefer not to be slaughtered— To relapse into heathendom. So, instead of eating monkeys They are eating Christians. JULIA Who have eaten monkeys. ALEX The native is not, I fear, very logical. JULIA I wondered where you were taking us, with your monkeys. I thought I was going to dine out on those monkeys: But one can’t dine out on eating Christians— Even among pagans! ALEX Not on the _whole_ story. EDWARD And have any of the English residents been murdered? ALEX Yes, but they are not usually eaten. When these people have done with a European He is, as a rule, no longer fit to eat. EDWARD And what has your commission accomplished? ALEX We have just drawn up an interim report. EDWARD Will it be made public? ALEX It cannot be, at present: There are too many international complications. Eventually, there may be an official publication. EDWARD But when? ALEX In a year or two. EDWARD And meanwhile? ALEX Meanwhile the monkeys multiply. LAVINIA And the Christians? ALEX Ah, the Christians! Now, I think I ought to tell you About someone you know—or knew . . . JULIA Edward! Somebody must have walked over my grave: I’m feeling so chilly. Give me some gin. Not a cocktail. I’m freezing—in July! CATERER’S MAN Mr. Quilpe! EDWARD Now who . . . [_Enter_ Peter] Why, it’s Peter! LAVINIA Peter! PETER Hullo, everybody! LAVINIA When did you arrive? PETER I flew over from New York last night— I left Los Angeles three days ago. I saw Sheila Paisley at lunch to-day And she told me you were giving a party— She’s coming on later, after the Gunnings— So I said, I really must crash in: It’s my only chance to see Edward and Lavinia. I’m only over for a week, you see, And I’m driving down to the country this evening, So I knew you wouldn’t mind my looking in so early. It does seem ages since I last saw any of you! And how are you, Alex? And dear old Julia! LAVINIA So you’ve just come from New York. PETER Yes, from New York. The Bologolomskys saw me off. You remember Princess Bologolomsky In the old days? We dined the other night At the Saffron Monkey. That’s the place to go now. ALEX How very odd. _My_ monkeys are saffron. PETER Your monkeys, Alex? I always said That Alex knew everybody. But I didn’t know That he knew any monkeys. JULIA But give us your news; Give us your news of the world, Peter. We lead such a quiet life, here in London. PETER You always did enjoy a leg-pull, Julia: But you all know I’m working for Pan-Am-Eagle? EDWARD No. Tell us, what is Pan-Am-Eagle? PETER You must have been living a quiet life! Don’t you go to the movies? LAVINIA Occasionally. PETER Alex knows. Did you see my last picture, Alex? ALEX I knew about it, but I didn’t see it. There is no cinema in Kinkanja. PETER Kinkanja? Where’s that? They don’t have pictures? Pan-Am-Eagle must look into this. Perhaps it would be a good place to make one. —Alex knows all about Pan-Am-Eagle: It was he who introduced me to the great Bela. JULIA And who is the great Bela? PETER Why, Bela Szogody— He’s my boss. I thought everyone knew _his_ name. JULIA Is he your connection in California, Alex? ALEX Yes, we have sometimes obliged each other. PETER Well, it was Bela sent me over Just for a week. And I have my hands full I’m going down tonight, to Boltwell. JULIA To stay with the Duke? PETER And do him a good turn. We’re making a film of English life And we want to use Boltwell. JULIA But I understood that Boltwell Is in a very decayed condition. PETER Exactly. It is. And that’s why we’re interested. The most decayed noble mansion in England! At least, of any that are still inhabited. We’ve got a team of experts over To study the decay, so as to reproduce it. Then we build another Boltwell in California. JULIA But what is your position, Peter? Have you become an expert on decaying houses? PETER Oh dear no! I’ve written the script of this film, And Bela is very pleased with it. He thought I should see the original Boltwell; And besides, he thought that as I’m English I ought to know the best way to handle a duke. Besides that, we’ve got the casting director: He’s looking for some typical English faces— Of course, only for minor parts— And I’ll help him decide what faces are typical. JULIA Peter, I’ve thought of a wonderful idea! I’ve always wanted to go to California: Couldn’t you persuade your casting director To take us all over? We’re all very typical. PETER No, I’m afraid . . . CATERER’S MAN Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly! JULIA Oh, I forgot! I’d another surprise for you. [_Enter_ Reilly] I want you to meet Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly— EDWARD We’re delighted to see him. But we _have_ met before. JULIA Then if you know him already, you won’t be afraid of him. You know, I was afraid of him at first: He looks so forbidding . . . REILLY My dear Julia, You are giving me a very bad introduction— Supposing that an introduction was necessary. JULIA My dear Henry, you are interrupting me. LAVINIA If you can interrupt Julia, Sir Henry, You are the perfect guest we’ve been looking for. REILLY I should not dream of trying to interrupt Julia . . . JULIA But you’re both interrupting! REILLY Who is interrupting now? JULIA Well, you shouldn’t interrupt my interruptions: That’s really worse than interrupting. Now my head’s fairly spinning. I must have a cocktail. EDWARD [_To_ Reilly] And will you have a cocktail? REILLY Might I have a glass of water? EDWARD Anything with it? REILLY Nothing, thank you. LAVINIA May I introduce Mr. Peter Quilpe? Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly. Peter’s an old friend Of my husband and myself. Oh, I forgot— [_Turning to_ Alex] I rather assumed that you knew each other— I don’t know why I should. Mr. MacColgie Gibbs. ALEX Indeed, yes, we have met. REILLY On several commissions. JULIA We’ve been having such an interesting conversation. Peter’s just over from California Where he’s something very important in films. He’s making a film of English life And he’s going to find parts for all of us. Think of it! PETER But, Julia, I was just about to explain— I’m afraid I can’t find parts for anybody In _this_ film—it’s not my business; And that’s not the way we do it. JULIA But, Peter; If you’re taking Boltwell to California Why can’t you take me? PETER We’re not taking Boltwell. We reconstruct a Boltwell. JULIA Very well, then: Why not reconstruct _me_? It’s very much cheaper. Oh, dear, I can see you’re determined not to have me: So good-bye to my hopes of seeing California. PETER You know you’d never come if we invited you. But there’s someone I wanted to ask about, Who did really want to get into films, And I always thought she could make a success of it If she only got the chance. It’s Celia Coplestone. She always wanted to. And now I could help her. I’ve already spoken to Bela about her, And I want to introduce her to our casting director. I’ve got an idea for another film. Can you tell me where she is? I couldn’t find her In the telephone directory. JULIA Not in the directory, Or in any directory. You can tell them now, Alex. LAVINIA What does Julia mean? ALEX I was about to speak of her When you came in, Peter. I’m afraid you can’t have Celia. PETER Oh . . . Is she married? ALEX Not married, but dead. LAVINIA Celia? ALEX Dead. PETER Dead. That knocks the bottom out of it. EDWARD Celia dead. JULIA You had better tell them, Alex, The news that you bring back from Kinkanja. LAVINIA Kinkanja? What was Celia doing in Kinkanja? We heard that she had joined some nursing order . . . ALEX She had joined an order. A very austere one. And as she already had experience of nursing . . . LAVINIA Yes, she had been a V.A.D. I remember. ALEX She was directed to Kinkanja, Where there are various endemic diseases Besides, of course, those brought by Europeans, And where the conditions are favourable to plague. EDWARD Go on. ALEX It seems that there were three of them— Three sisters at this station, in a Christian village; And half the natives were dying of pestilence. They must have been overworked for weeks. EDWARD And then? ALEX And then, the insurrection broke out Among the heathen, of which I was telling you. They knew of it, but would not leave the dying natives. Eventually, two of them escaped: One died in the jungle, and the other Will never be fit for normal life again. But Celia Coplestone, she was taken. When our people got there, they questioned the villagers— Those who survived. And then they found her body, Or at least, they found the traces of it. EDWARD But before that . . . ALEX It was difficult to tell. But from what we know of local practices It would seem that she must have been crucified Very near an ant-hill. LAVINIA But Celia! . . . Of all people . . . EDWARD And just for a handful of plague-stricken natives Who would have died anyway. ALEX Yes, the patients died anyway; Being tainted with the plague, they were not eaten. LAVINIA Oh, Edward, I’m so sorry—what a feeble thing to say! But you know what I mean. EDWARD And you know what I’m thinking. PETER I don’t understand at all. But then I’ve been away For two years, and don’t know what happened To Celia, during those two years. Two years! Thinking about Celia. EDWARD It’s the waste that I resent. PETER You know more than I do: For _me_, it’s everything else that’s a waste. Two years! And it was all a mistake. Julia! Why don’t _you_ say anything? JULIA You gave her those two years, as best you could. PETER When did she . . . take up this career? JULIA Two years ago. PETER Two years ago! I tried to forget about her, Until I began to think myself a success And got a little more self-confidence; And then I thought about her again. More and more. At first I did not want to know about Celia And so I never asked. Then I wanted to know And did not dare to ask. It took all my courage To ask you about her just now; but I never thought Of anything like this. I suppose I didn’t know her, I didn’t understand her. I understand nothing. REILLY You understand your _métier_, Mr. Quilpe— Which is the most that any of us can ask for. PETER And what a _métier_! I’ve tried to believe in it So that I might believe in myself. I thought I had ideas to make a revolution In the cinema, that no one could ignore— And here I am, making a second-rate film! But I thought it was going to lead to something better, And that seemed possible, while Celia was alive. I wanted it, believed in it, for Celia. And, of course, I wanted to do something for Celia— But what mattered was, that Celia was alive. And now it’s all worthless. Celia’s not alive. LAVINIA No, it’s not all worthless, Peter. You’ve only just begun. I mean, this only brings you to the point At which you _must_ begin. You were saying just now That you never knew Celia. We none of us did. What you’ve been living on is an image of Celia Which you made for yourself, to meet your own needs. Peter, please don’t think I’m being unkind . . . PETER No, I don’t think you’re being unkind, Lavinia; And I know that you’re right. LAVINIA And perhaps what I’ve been saying Will seem less unkind if I can make you understand That in fact I’ve been talking about myself. EDWARD Lavinia is right. This is where you start from. If you find out now, Peter, things about yourself That you don’t like to face: well, just remember That some men have to learn much worse things About themselves, and learn them later When it’s harder to recover, and make a new beginning. It’s not so hard for you. You’re naturally good. PETER I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’ve taken in All that you’ve been saying. But I’m grateful all the same. You know, all the time that you’ve been talking, One thought has been going round and round in my head— That I’ve only been interested in myself: And that isn’t good enough for Celia. JULIA You must have learned how to look at people, Peter, When you look at them with an eye for the films: That is, when you’re not concerned with yourself But just being an eye. You will come to think of Celia Like that, one day. And then you’ll understand her And be reconciled, and be happy in the thought of her. LAVINIA Sir Henry, there is something I want to say to you. While Alex was telling us what had happened to Celia I was looking at your face. And it seemed from your expression That the way in which she died did not disturb you Or the fact that she died because she would not leave A few dying natives. REILLY Who knows, Mrs. Chamberlayne, The difference that made to the natives who were dying Or the state of mind in which they died? LAVINIA I’m willing to grant that. What struck me, though, Was that your face showed no surprise or horror At the way in which she died. I don’t know if you knew her. I suspect that you did. In any case you knew _about_ her. Yet I thought your expression was one of . . . satisfaction! REILLY Mrs. Chamberlayne, I must be very transparent Or else you are very perceptive. JULIA Oh, Henry! Lavinia is much more observant than you think. I believe that she has forced you to a show-down. REILLY You state the position correctly, Julia. Do you mind if I quote poetry, Mrs. Chamberlayne? LAVINIA Oh no, I should love to hear you speaking poetry . . . JULIA She has made a point, Henry. LAVINIA . . . if it answers my question. REILLY _Ere Babylon was dust_ _The magus Zoroaster, my dead child,_ _Met his own image walking in the garden._ _That apparition, sole of men, he saw._ _For know there are two worlds of life and death:_ _One that which thou beholdest; but the other_ _Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit_ _The shadows of all forms that think and live_ _Till death unite them and they part no more!_ When I first met Miss Coplestone, in this room, I saw the image, standing behind her chair, Of a Celia Coplestone whose face showed the astonishment Of the first five minutes after a violent death. If this strains your credulity, Mrs. Chamberlayne, I ask you only to entertain the suggestion That a sudden intuition, in certain minds, May tend to express itself at once in a picture. That happens to me, sometimes. So it was obvious That here was a woman under sentence of death. That was her destiny. The only question Then was, what sort of death? _I_ could not know; Because it was for her to choose the way of life To lead to death, and, without knowing the end Yet choose the form of death. We know the death she chose. I did not know that she would die in this way; _She_ did not know. So all that I could do Was to direct her in the way of preparation. That way, which she accepted, led to this death. And if that is not a happy death, what death is happy? EDWARD Do you mean that having chosen this form of death She did not suffer as ordinary people suffer? REILLY Not at all what I mean. Rather the contrary. I’d say that she suffered all that we should suffer In fear and pain and loathing—all these together— And reluctance of the body to become a _thing_. I’d say she suffered more, because more conscious Than the rest of us. She paid the highest price In suffering. That is part of the design. LAVINIA Perhaps she had been through greater agony beforehand. I mean—I know nothing of her last two years. REILLY That shows some insight on your part, Mrs. Chamberlayne; But such experience can only be hinted at In myths and images. To speak about it We talk of darkness, labyrinths, Minotaur terrors. But that world does not take the place of this one. Do you imagine that the Saint in the desert With spiritual evil always at his shoulder Suffered any less from hunger, damp, exposure, Bowel trouble, and the fear of lions, Cold of the night and heat of the day, than we should? EDWARD But if this was right—if this was right for Celia— There must be something else that is terribly wrong, And the rest of us are somehow involved in the wrong. I should only speak for myself. I’m sure that _I_ am. REILLY Let me free your mind from one impediment: You must try to detach yourself from what you still feel As your responsibility. EDWARD I cannot help the feeling That, in some way, my responsibility Is greater than that of a band of half-crazed savages. LAVINIA Oh, Edward, I knew! I knew what you were thinking! Doesn’t it help you, that I feel guilty too? REILLY If we were all judged according to the consequences Of all our words and deeds, beyond the intention And beyond our limited understanding Of ourselves and others, we should all be condemned. Mrs. Chamberlayne, I often have to make a decision Which may mean restoration or ruin to a patient— And sometimes I have made the wrong decision. As for Miss Coplestone, because you think her death was waste You blame yourselves, and because you blame yourselves You think her life was wasted. It was triumphant. But I am no more responsible for the triumph— And just as responsible for her death as you are. LAVINIA Yet I know I shall go on blaming myself For being so unkind to her . . . so spiteful. I shall go on seeing her at the moment When she said good-bye to us, two years ago. EDWARD Your responsibility is nothing to mine, Lavinia. LAVINIA I’m not sure about that. If I had understood you Then I might not have misunderstood Celia. REILLY You will have to live with these memories and make them Into something new. Only by acceptance Of the past will you alter its meaning. JULIA Henry, I think it is time that _I_ said something: Everyone makes a choice, of one kind or another, And then must take the consequences. Celia chose A way of which the consequence was Kinkanja. Peter chose a way that leads him to Boltwell: And he’s got to go there . . . PETER I see what you mean. I wish I didn’t have to. But the car will be waiting, And the experts—I’d almost forgotten them. I realise that I can’t get out of it— And what else can I do? ALEX It is your film. And I know that Bela expects great things of it. PETER So now I’ll be going. EDWARD Shall we see you again, Peter, Before you leave England? LAVINIA Do try to come to see us. You know, I think it would do us all good— You and me and Edward . . . to talk about Celia PETER Thanks very much. But not this time— I simply shan’t be able to. EDWARD But on your next visit? PETER The next time I come to England, I promise you. I really do want to see you both, very much. Good-bye, Julia. Good-bye, Alex. Good-bye, Sir Henry. [_Exit_] JULIA . . . And now the consequences of the Chamberlaynes’ choice Is a cocktail party. They must be ready for it. Their guests may be arriving at any moment. REILLY Julia, you are right. It is also right That the Chamberlaynes should now be giving a party. LAVINIA And I have been thinking, for these last five minutes, How I could face my guests. I wish it was over. I mean . . . I am glad you came . . . I am glad Alex told us . . . And Peter had to know . . . EDWARD Now I think I understand . . . LAVINIA Then I hope you will explain it to me! EDWARD Oh, it isn’t much That I understand yet! But Sir Henry has been saying, I think, that every moment is a fresh beginning; And Julia, that life is only keeping on; And somehow, the two ideas seem to fit together. LAVINIA But all the same . . . I don’t want to see these people. REILLY It is your appointed burden. And as for the party, I am sure it will be a success. JULIA And I think, Henry, That we should leave before the party begins. They will get on better without us. You too, Alex. LAVINIA We don’t _want_ you to go! ALEX We have another engagement. REILLY And on this occasion I shall not be unexpected. JULIA Now, Henry. Now, Alex. We’re going to the Gunnings. [_Exeunt_ Julia, Reilly _and_ Alex] LAVINIA Edward, how am I looking? EDWARD Very well. I might almost say, your best. But you always look your best. LAVINIA Oh, Edward, that spoils it. No woman can believe That she always looks her best. You’re rather transparent, You know, when you’re trying to cheer me up. To say I always look my best can only mean the worst. EDWARD I never shall learn how to pay a compliment. LAVINIA What you should have done was to admire my dress. EDWARD But I’ve already told you how much I like it. LAVINIA But so much has happened since then. And besides, One sometimes likes to hear the same compliment twice. EDWARD And now for the party. LAVINIA Now for the party. EDWARD It will soon be over. LAVINIA I wish it would begin. EDWARD There’s the doorbell. LAVINIA Oh, I’m glad. It’s begun. CURTAIN Appendix The tune of _One-Eyed Riley_ (page 38), as scored from the author’s dictation by Miss Mary Trevelyan. [Illustration] _As I was walk-ing round and round and round in ev’-ry quar-ter_ _I walk’d in to a pub-lic house and or-der’d up my gin and wa-ter_ =REFRAIN= _Too-ri-oo-ley, Too-ri-i-ley,_ _What’s the mat-ter with One-Eyed Ri-ley_ _As I was drink-in’ gin an wa-ter_ _(And me be-in’ the One-Eyed Ri-ley)_ _Who came in but the land-lord’s daugh-ter_ _And she took my heart en-tire-ly_ =REFRAIN= _Too-ri-oo-ley, Too-ri-i-ley,_ _What’s the mat-ter with One-Eyed Ri-ley_ The Cast of the First Production at the Edinburgh Festival, August 22-27, 1949 Edward Chamberlayne Robert Flemyng Julia (Mrs. Shuttlethwaite) Cathleen Nesbitt Celia Coplestone Irene Worth Alexander McColgie Gibbs Ernest Clark Peter Quilpe Donald Houston An Unidentified Guest, _later identified as_ Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly Alec Guinness Lavinia Chamberlayne Ursula Jeans A Nurse-Secretary Christina Horniman Two Caterer’s Men { Donald Bain { Martin Beckwith Directed by E. Martin Browne Settings designed by Anthony Holland Produced by Sherek Players Ltd. in association with The Arts Council TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _The Cocktail Party_ by T. S. (Thomas Stearns) Eliot]