Plays 6

by Tom Murphy

  The reality for her of arriving home, again the shame.

  They proceed, arm in arm – their steps are now much slower in the dark.

  Vicar Let us keep a good spirit, Livy.

  Olivia And then one day I told him I was leaving.

  A shrug of her shoulder: Thornhill’s reply.

  Vicar Let us hold to what is right.

  Olivia He gave me a purse.

  Vicar And fortune will at last . . .

  Olivia I flung it in his face.

  Vicar And fortune will at last . . . we hope . . . change in our favour.

  He has not been listening to her last remarks. His eyes searching the distance, straining; his frown. He sees something. A light? He quickens his step.

  Scene Five

  The Fire

  Flamborough (giving the alarm) Fire! Fire! The vicar’s house be on fire! (Runs for buckets.)

  The Primroses in their night clothes escaping from the burning house with a few of their possessions. Just as they are breaking the last sheet of flame, Mrs Primrose, overcome, is collapsing. Moses and Sophy rescue her. But in this action, Dick and Bill are forgotten. We see them, frightened of coming through the flames, retreating and being lost in the greater danger behind them.

  Flamborough (fire-fighting) It’s no good, we’ll never put her out!

  Sophy Oh, Mama, Mama, come to your senses!

  Mrs Primrose (recovering) Where are Dick and Bill?

  Sophy Where are Dick and Bill?

  Dick and Bill’s Voices Mama! Mama!

  The flames driving Moses back.

  Flamborough You can’t get through!

  Mrs Primrose Burned in the flames and I’ll die with them.

  Flamborough You cannot, Ma’ am, you cannot go into that fire.

  They restrain her. They are helpless.

  Vicar comes in and goes into the burning house.

  Flamborough Vicar!

  Moses Father!

  Sophy Papa!

  Mrs Primrose Charles!

  Flamborough He’s gone for sure.

  Vicar emerges from the flames with Dick and Bill. He has received a bad burn on his arm.

  Vicar (shouting) Burn, burn, now let it burn! And let our possessions perish! I have saved our treasures!

  Mrs Primrose, laughing and crying, holding Dick and Bill.

  Vicar (defiantly) Burn on! (And he looks at the sky, perplexed as to why these unending misfortunes. Shouts defiantly.) We shall yet be happy!

  There is an understandable hysteria about them. They huddle together in a common embrace. Then they watch the house burn down. Flamborough has gone off and, now, returns with blankets.

  Moses Father, our neighbours recommend the outhouse. It is tolerably dry and the roof can be mended tomorrow.

  Vicar thanks Flamborough and shakes hands with him. Flamborough leaves.

  Vicar Let us give thanks that we are all safe.

  Mrs Primrose I cannot. (Quietly.)

  Vicar Deborah.

  Mrs Primrose Let us curse Heaven for these misfortunes!

  Vicar Foolish – ! (About to shout at her ‘Foolish woman!’ But his faith, too, is shaken. Glances at Heaven.)

  Moses (frightened) We are in the grip of guilt.

  Mrs Primrose I cannot give thanks. (Quietly.)

  Vicar Be patient. We are being tested . . . for a time, my dear. Our Father, which art in heaven, we thank Thee for these trials. We should like to understand Thee. We thank Thee for our deliverance. And, though we have nothing but wretchedness now to impart, grant us too the revival of our tenderness to welcome the return of our poor deluded wanderer, our dearest Livy. Amen.

  Sophy Livy?

  Vicar (calls) Livy!

  Olivia comes out of the shadows. She does not have the courage to look at them. She continues isolated.

  Vicar Our daughter awaits your greeting, Deborah.

  Mrs Primrose I have only one daughter.

  Vicar The real hardships are now come fast upon us. Let us not increase them by dissension among ourselves.

  Mrs Primrose Ah, Madam, this is a poor place – an outhouse with mouldering walls, a humid floor, a bed of straw – you are come to after so much finery and high living!

  Vicar Heaven forgives!

  Mrs Primrose And I do not!

  Vicar (narrates) And no instruction of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation, for women have a stronger sense of female error than men.

  The family has gone into what is meant to be the outhouse and prepare to bed down there.

  But, over the days, I strove in other ways to restore us to countenance. The tears we shed might as well be ones of love. (He joins them in the outhouse.) Sophy, I have wept so much of late: take your guitar, play us a tune to raise us.

  Sophy strums her guitar. She finds the air of ‘When Lovely Lady’.

  Dick and Bill too want to help and Vicar nods to them, to sing.

  Dick and Bill

  When lovely lady stoops to folly

  And finds too late that men betray . . .

  Olivia is weeping. And Mrs Primrose goes to Olivia and holds her in an embrace, and they weep together. And the others, now, too, are congregating around Olivia to welcome her home and comfort her.

  Scene Six

  Inside/Outside Outhouse

  Morning. The sound of a hunting horn.

  Thornhill Hulloo-hulloo! Ned Thornhill’s here!

  Thornhill has arrived – his timid servant, Butler, in attendance – waking up the Vicar and his family.

  Mrs Primrose Shut – bar – the door!

  Vicar No.

  Mrs Primrose Sure he don’t mean to dog us to the death!

  Vicar goes out. The others cower in the outhouse.

  Thornhill Ah, Vicar! Lovely weather for the time of year! How are you, how are you? – Good! Shall I tell you why I’m here? To ask you to my wedding. It is even at the request of Miss Wilmot. Though I still can’t understand how anyone can call that fright a beauty; she don’t move me. What d’you say?

  Vicar Sir, there was a time when I would have chastised you. I am descended from a family that would not have borne this. But you are safe. Age and this disablement – (his burnt arm) – have cooled my passions and my calling restrains them.

  Thornhill Most amazed – I vow it – God’s truth!

  Vicar Sir, you are a wretch!

  Thornhill Ah! (The explanation of Vicar’s anger.) Your house is burned to a cinder.

  Vicar Are you not already married, and to my daughter?

  Thornhill And to six others!

  Vicar No! – No, sir! – You are not! For something inside – some deep monogamous instinct – tells me you are only married to her. But, go, you are a pitiful wretch and every way a liar!

  Thornhill Oh, ‘Go – wretch – viper! You are only married to my Bess, Lil, Lizzie, Kate’ – You’re all the same!

  Vicar Avoid my sight you-you –

  Thornhill Viper –

  Vicar Viper!

  Thornhill ‘Viper’, I told you! (That’s what they all say.)

  Vicar Were my brave son, my George, at home he would not suffer this –

  Thornhill Vicar-Vicar! If you or your daughter are resolved to be miserable, what can I do about it?! But, still, I would try to make you both happy. We can marry your daughter to another in a short time, just in case she is – y’know? And, what is more, she can keep her lover into the bargain for, God’s truth, I continue to have a regard for her. Yes!

  Vicar Avoid my sight, you-you –

  Thornhill ‘Reptile’!

  Vicar But no. I’ll defeat your purpose. I’ll myself today – sick as I am – to the Wilmots and inform them –

  Thornhill Vicar! –

  Vicar – of your conduct to my family!

  Thornhill You won’t. You are bent on obliging me to speak in harsher manner. Hear me.

  Mrs Primrose, frightened, comes out and joins Vicar.

  Thornhill I have shown what can be hoped f
rom my friendship, now hear what may be the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond for three hundred pounds was sent, threatens hard; my steward – and it is certain he knows his business – wants to drive for your rent – Hold, Vicar! All this means the rest of your days in prison for you and the road for your family. But still I would serve you if, in return, you attend my wedding. It is, as I’ve said, at Miss Wilmot’s request, who, for reasons best known to her own silly head, has demanded it. I hope, therefore, you will not refuse.

  Mrs Primrose Give in.

  Vicar Mr Thornhill –

  Mrs Primrose Do what he asks.

  Vicar I will not attend your wedding – (To Mrs Primrose, sharply.) No! And though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. So, go. And though you have my forgiveness, you shall ever have my contempt.

  Thornhill Depend on it, before the day is out, you shall feel the effects of this insolence. We shall see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me. (A lash of his crop to his timid servant, Butler, as he goes out.)

  Vicar walks off, hands out as if for chains. His family carry their few belongings and follow. Olivia sways on her feet. She continues, requiring assistance.

  Act Four

  Scene One

  Prison

  In London’s fair city there once was a maid,

  Fair for a shilling, a fair tune she played,

  Played it for Tom, Dick and Harry,

  And though she were my sweetheart,

  Not once played for me – fol-dah-dee.

  A prisoner with quill and paper – the paper resting on a Bible – singing the above. We come to recognise him as the Reverend Jenks.

  The prison is below ground; steps lead up from it to a gate of iron bars. (The gate may be off.)

  Clanking of keys: Gaoler arrives outside iron door to unlock it.

  Gaoler Devil and his henchmen button thee, Frank Jenks!

  Jenks Damme, Mr Gaoler, that were a piece of my own composing.

  Gaoler Then damn thee again if I’ll not take your custom from the hangman (and strangle you myself with your own poxicated entrails) if we’re to hear any more. Go wake up Vicar Primrose: his family is a-come to visit. (He goes off for family.)

  Jenks (singing quietly, to a corner where Vicar is sleeping) So I takes out my penknife, cuts her in three, and buries her body beneath the blue . . . Dr Primrose! Vicar! (He helps Vicar to his feet; returns Bible to Vicar.)

  Vicar Have you been meditating the passage I marked for you? And you’ll remember your promise?

  Jenks I’m a man of my word, Vicar, I promise anything.

  Vicar Repent your sins and leave this life for an honester.

  Jenks Your family, Vicar.

  Gaoler lets in Mrs Primrose, Sophy and Moses.

  Vicar Tears, my dear? No-no. I assure you I have never slept with greater tranquility. And the gaoler is humane.

  Mrs Primrose But – ! (She indicates the grim surroundings.) And the gaoler’s just informed us that you now preach daily, here – to common criminals, Charles.

  Vicar They are still men, Deborah. And you are reacquainted with Mr Jenks, once a boon companion of depravity: his heart remained open to the shafts of reproof.

  Moses And even should Father’s preaching fail, Mother, good counsel, the ancients say, returns to enrich the giver’s bosom.

  Vicar (smiles on Moses) Where is Livy?

  Sophy The uneasiness of our situation, Papa, a feeling of guilt and a general fatigue have all conspired to produce a fever.

  Vicar Then we are in need of a plan.

  Mrs Primrose And that is why we have come, my dear.

  Sophy Some practical action is required, Papa, productive and materially advantageous to us.

  Vicar What thanks therefore that we have prayer.

  Sophy Yes, we have prayer, Father, but –

  Mrs Primrose Have you not considered, that we also have George?

  Vicar George? No. George must not be told. In all our miseries, it’s our single blessing that one of the family is exempted from what we suffer.

  Mrs Primrose (aside) Oh, what have I done!

  Vicar Deborah? Sure nothing ill has befallen my boy?

  Moses Nothing indeed, sir. He is perfectly gay, cheerful and happy. In a letter he informs us that his regiment is countermanded and has not left the country, that he is a great favourite of his colonel and expects the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant.

  Vicar What happiness that brings me!

  During the above, Jenks has a private word in Sophy’s ear.

  Sophy There is but one remedy for us, Papa.

  Vicar Child?

  Sophy Make proper submission to Mr Thornhill and achieve your freedom.

  Vicar shakes his head.

  Mrs Primrose What is to become of us?!

  Sophy It will induce him to pity –

  Vicar No –

  Mrs Primrose We implore –

  Sophy As does Livy –

  Vicar Would you have me sit down with him and flatter?! No, I have other means. I can – I can – I can write to his uncle, Sir William Thornhill. A submission to the nephew is not possible as to approve his forthcoming match is to approve adultery.

  Mrs Primrose But is the rest of your family to be sacrificed to the peace of one child – and she the only one who has offended you?

  Vicar I will never be brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute! The world may look upon her offence with scorn, but let it be mine to regard it as a mark of her credulity. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of Mr Thornhill’s shall be legal in my eyes!

  Jenks Then, if your daughter died?

  Vicar Then, indeed, I should be the basest if, from any personal resentment, I attempted putting asunder those of the laity that wish for a second union.

  Jenks Write to Sir William. (Then, conferring aside with Mrs Primrose and Sophy.) I do not have the skill to avoid a jail myself, but maybe I can extricate a friend . . .

  Gaoler lets the Primrose family out.

  Vicar I wrote to Sir William. At last, news came. Not from Sir William. The complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew were no way likely to succeed. An alarming account of a decline in my daughter’s health. A further message: my daughter was speechless. And another: Livy was expiring. My soul was bursting forth from its prison to be near her, to comfort, to strengthen and receive her last wishes. I greatly longed to see her. Then my fellow-prisoner, who had befriended me throughout, gave me the last account.

  Jenks (with quill and paper) Can anyone explain the unequal dealings of Providence to the rich and the poor here below? Then be patient, Dr Primrose, your daughter’s dead.

  Vicar (broken-hearted sigh) Livy!

  Jenks And now, Sir, since you once said you should be the basest of men not to agree to Mr Thornhill’s second union were your daughter removed, it is time to sacrifice your pride to the welfare of others.

  Vicar My arm. (His arm aches; he cannot write.) Write it down that I am now willing to approve his marriage to another. And, if this further submission can do him pleasure, say that if I have done him any injury, I am sorry for it.

  We are now returned to the moment that opened the play: hollow clanging of an iron door; Gaoler is standing on the top step above Vicar and Jenks; the lights are changing, returning us to present time.

  Gaoler Vicar! Your fellow-prisoners be assembled for their daily sermon. But, considering the woeful news you had today, I can disassemble them again. Yea, let them do without.

  Vicar Thank you, Mr Gaoler, but I’ll continue to do my duty. (We are in present time.) But there is nothing more that can befall me now.

  He signs the letter for Jenks and moves off to preach to the prisoners.

  Scene Two

  Prison

  Vicar addresses the prisoners (the audience). In the manner of clerics, he looks at his fob-watch at the beginning and conclusion
of his sermon.

  Vicar My fellow-prisoners, when we reflect upon the distribution of good and evil here below, we find that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for, but we daily see thousands, who by suicide alone, show us they have nothing left to hope. In this life then, it appears that we cannot be entirely blest, but yet we may be completely miserable.

  In this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance of philosophy: and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console, has given us religion. And it is here that we, the unhappy, the sick, the naked, the homeless, the heavy-laden and the prisoner, come to the real motives of consolation. For, though Heaven is kind to all men, it has promised peculiar rewards to the wretched.

  To the happy, eternity is but a single blessing since, it but increases what they already possess. But to the unhappy it is a double advantage, for its promise diminishes their pain here and rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. And he that has known what it is to be miserable now feels what it is to be glad. And should this be decried as a small advantage, the answer is remembering that it is an eternal one.

  And Providence, in another respect, is kinder to the poor man. For, as the wretched have a long familiarity with every face of terror, the man of sorrow lays himself quietly down, with no possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure. Thus, we, the poor, are given these two advantages over the rich. Greater felicity in dying and, in Heaven, all that superiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment.

  And when I think of these things, my brethren, my friends, Death becomes the messenger of glad tidings – oh yes! When I think of these things His sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support – when I think of these things, what is there in life worth having! – What?! What is there that should not be spurned away? Kings in their palaces should – groan! . . . groan, for such advantages.

  And when I look around these walls, made to terrify as well as to confine us, oh what glorious exchange would Heaven be for these! To fly through regions unconfined as air. To bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss. To carol over endless hymns of praise. To have no master to threaten or insult us but the form of Goodness Himself forever in our eyes.

  Then let us take comfort. For each one of us here – and shortly too – will arrive at journey’s end. Soon, each one of us will lay down the heavy burden placed by Heaven upon us and cease from our toil. We shall remember our sufferings below. We shall think of them with pleasure. We shall be surrounded by our friends. Our dear, dear departed ones. Our bliss shall be unutterable and, still, to crown it all, unending.