by T. S. Eliot
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 t
ell 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
