Complete Poems and Plays (60 page)

And then you speak your mind.

L
AVINIA
.
                                          That will be a novelty

To find that you have a mind to speak.

Anyway, I’m prepared to take you as you are.

E
DWARD
.
You mean, you are prepared to take me

As I was, or as you think I am.

But what do you think I am?

L
AVINIA
.
                                     Oh, what you always were.

As for me, I’m rather a different person

Whom you must get to know.

E
DWARD
.
                                      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?

L
AVINIA
.
                               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?

E
DWARD
.
                                          The change that comes

From seeing oneself through the eyes of other people.

L
AVINIA
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
One of the most infuriating things about you

Has always been your perfect assurance

That you understood me better than I understood myself.

L
AVINIA
.
And the most infuriating thing about you

Has always been your placid assumption

That I wasn’t worth the trouble of understanding.

E
DWARD
.
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.

L
AVINIA
.
                                               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.

E
DWARD
.
I’ve often wondered why you married me.

L
AVINIA
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
Everybody told me that I was;

And they told me how well suited we were.

L
AVINIA
.
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 …

E
DWARD
.
                             Don’t say you are sorry for me!

I have had enough of people being sorry for me.

L
AVINIA
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
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.

L
AVINIA
.
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.

E
DWARD.
                               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.

L
AVINIA
.
Edward, what
are
you talking about?

Talking to yourself. Could you bear, for a moment,

To think about
me?

E
DWARD
.
                    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.

L
AVINIA
.
I think you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown!

E
DWARD
.
Don’t say that!

L
AVINIA
.
                            I must say it.

I know … of a doctor who I think could help you.

E
DWARD
.
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.

L
AVINIA
.
One can be practical, even in hell:

And you know I am much more practical than you are.

E
DWARD
.
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 never could teach you

How to put the cap on a tube of tooth-paste.

L
AVINIA
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
You don’t understand me. Have I not made it clear

That in future you will find me a different person?

L
AVINIA
.
Indeed. And has the difference nothing to do

With Celia going to California?

E
DWARD
.
Celia? Going to California?

L
AVINIA.
                                               Yes, with Peter.

Really, Edward, if you were human

You would burst out laughing. But you won’t.

E
DWARD
.
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?

L
AVINIA
.
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

S
IR
H
ENRY
H
ARCOURT-
R
EILLY’S
consulting
room
in
London.
Morning:
several
weeks
later.
S
IR
H
ENRY
alone
at
his
desk.
He
presses
an
electric
button.
The
N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
enters,
with
Appointment
Book.

R
EILLY
.
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?

N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
.
           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.

R
EILLY
.
I shall see him at once. And the second?

N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
.
The second to be shown into the other room

Just as usual. She arrives at a quarter past;

But you may keep her waiting.

R
EILLY
.
                                          Or she may keep me waiting;

But I think she will be punctual.

N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY.
                          I telephone through

The moment she arrives. I leave her there

Until you ring three times.

R
EILLY
.
                                    And the third patient?

N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
.
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….

R
EILLY
.
Quite right, Miss Barraway. That’s all for the moment.

N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
.
Mr. Gibbs is here, Sir Henry.

R
EILLY
.
                                                                    Ask him to come straight in.

[
Exit
N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
]

[A
LEX
enters
almost
immediately
]

A
LEX.
When is Chamberlayne’s appointment?

R
EILLY
.
                                                                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?

A
LEX
.
Difficulty? No! He was only impatient

At having to wait four days for the appointment.

R
EILLY
.
It was necessary to delay his appointment

To lower his resistance. But what I mean is,

Does he trust your judgement?

A
LEX
.
                                             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.

R
EILLY
.
I had already impressed upon her

That she was not to mention my name to him.

A
LEX
.
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.

R
EILLY
.
Illness offers him a double advantage:

To escape from himself — and get the better of his wife.

A
LEX
.
Not to escape from her?

R
EILLY
.
                                       He doesn’t want to escape from her.

A
LEX
.
He is staying at his club.

R
EILLY
.
                                        Yes, that is where he wrote from.

[
The
house-telephone
rings
]

Hello! Yes, show him up.

A
LEX
.
                                    You will have a busy morning!

I will go out by the service staircase

And come back when they’ve gone.

R
EILLY
.
Yes, when they’ve gone.

[
Exit
A
LEX
by
side
door
]

[E
DWARD
is
shown
in
by
N
URSE-
S
ECRETARY
]

E
DWARD
.
Sir Henry Harcourt-Reilly —

[
Stops
and
stares
at
R
EILLY
]

R
EILLY
[
without
looking
up
from
his
papers
]
.
Good morning, Mr. Chamberlayne.

Please sit down. I won’t keep you a moment.

— Now, Mr. Chamberlayne?

E
DWARD
.
                                    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.

R
EILLY
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
                                              When you came to my flat

Had you been invited by my wife as a guest

As I supposed? … Or did she
send
you?

R
EILLY
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
But you had seen my wife?

R
EILLY
.
                                                Oh yes, I had seen her.

E
DWARD
.
So this
is
a trap!

R
EILLY
.
                               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 that you will find that chair comfortable.

E
DWARD
.
                                                                    You knew,

Before I began to tell you, what had happened?

R
EILLY
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
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?

R
EILLY.
If I had not brought your wife back, Mr. Chamberlayne,

Do you suppose that things would be any better — now?

E
DWARD
.
I don’t know, I’m sure. They could hardly be worse.

R
EILLY
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
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.

R
EILLY
.
You have reason to believe that you are very ill?

E
DWARD
.
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.

R
EILLY
.
‘Nervous breakdown’ is a term I never use:

It can mean almost anything.

E
DWARD
.
                                     And since then, I have realised

That mine is a very unusual case.

R
EILLY
.
All cases are unique, and very similar to others.

E
DWARD
.
Is there a sanatorium to which you send such patients

As myself, under your personal observation?

R
EILLY
.
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.

E
DWARD
.
I doubt if you have ever had a case like mine:

I have ceased to believe in my own personality.

R
EILLY
.
Oh, dear yes; this is serious. A very common malady.

Very prevalent indeed.

E
DWARD
.
                           I remember, in my childhood …