by Tom Stoppard
Henry (to Annie) I see what you mean.
Annie Do you?
Henry Well, yes. Little Barmouth isn’t going to declare war on Russia, so why should Little Barmouth be wiped out in a war not of Little Barmouth’s making?
Max Quite.
Charlotte Shut up, Henry.
Max Is he being like that?
Charlotte Yes, he’s being like that.
Max I don’t see what he’s got to be like that about.
Henry (capitulating enthusiastically) Absolutely! So you met this Private Brodie on the train, and Brodie said, ‘I see you’re going to the demo down Whitehall.’ Right?
Annie No. He recognized me from my children’s serial. He used to watch Rosie of the Royal Infirmary when he was a kid.
Max How about that? It seems like the day before yesterday Annie was doing Rosie of the Royal Infirmary. He’s still a kid.
Annie Yes. Twenty-one.
Max He’s a child.
Henry He kicked two policemen inside out, didn’t he?
Max Piss off.
(To Charlotte) If you want to know what it’s all about, you should come to the meeting.
Charlotte I know I should, but I like to keep my Sundays free. For entertaining friends, I mean. Fortunately, there are people like Annie to make up for people like me.
Henry Perhaps I’ll go.
Charlotte No, you’re people like me. You tell him, Annie.
Annie You’re picking up Debbie from riding school.
Charlotte When Henry comes across a phrase like ‘the caring society’ he scrunches up the Guardian and draws his knees up into his chest.
Henry That’s merely professional fastidiousness. Yes, come to that, I think I’ll join the Justice for Brodie Committee. I should have thought of that before.
Charlotte They don’t want dilettantes. You have to be properly motivated, like Annie.
Henry I don’t see that my motivation matters a damn. Least of all to Brodie. He just wants to get out of jail. What does he care if we’re motivated by the wrong reasons.
Max Like what?
Henry Like the desire to be taken for properly motivated members of the caring society. One of us is probably kicking his father, a policeman. Another is worried that his image is getting a bit too right-of-centre. Another is in love with a committee member and wishes to gain her approbation …
Charlotte Which one are you?
Henry You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Public postures have the configuration of private derangement.
Max Who said that?
Henry I did, you fool.
Max I mean first.
Henry Oh, first. (to Annie) Take him off to your meeting, I’m sick of him.
Annie He’s not coming.
Henry (savouring it) You are not going to the meeting?
Max No, actually. Not that I wouldn’t, but it would mean letting down my squash partner.
Henry Squash partner? An interesting moral dilemma. I wonder what Saint Augustine would have done?
Max I don’t think Saint Augustine had a squash partner.
Henry I know that. Nobody would play with him. Even so. I put myself in his place. I balance a pineapple chunk on my carrot. I ponder. On the one hand, Max’s squash partner. Decent chap but not a deprivation of the first magnitude. And on the other hand, Brodie, an out-and-out thug, an arsonist, vandalizer of a national shrine, but mouldering in jail for years to come owing, perhaps, to society’s inability to comprehend a man divided against himself, a pacifist hooligan.
Max I don’t condone vandalism, however idealistic. I just –
Henry Yes, well, as acts of vandalism go, starting a fire on the Cenotaph using the wreath to the Unknown Soldier as kindling scores very low on discretion. I assumed he was trying to be provocative.
Max Of course he was, you idiot. But he got hammered by an emotional backlash.
Henry No, no, you can’t –
Max Yes, he bloody was!
Henry I mean ‘hammer’ and ‘backlash’. You can’t do it!
Max Oh, for Christ’s sake. This is your house, and I’m drinking your wine, but if you don’t mind me saying so, Henry –
Henry My saying, Max.
Max Right. (He puts down his glass definitively and stands up.) Come on, Annie.
There’s something wrong with you.
You’ve got something missing. You may have all the answers, but having all the answers is not what life’s about.
Henry I’m sorry, but it actually hurts.
Max Brodie may be no intellectual, like you, but he did march for a cause, and now he’s got six years for a stupid piece of bravado and a punch-up, and he’d have been forgotten in a week if it wasn’t for Annie. That’s what life’s about – messy bits of good and bad luck, and people caring and not necessarily having all the answers. Who the hell are you to patronize Annie? She’s worth ten of you.
Henry I know that.
Max I’m sorry, Charlotte.
Charlotte Well done, Henry.
Max leaves towards the front door. Charlotte, with a glance at Henry, rolling her eyes in rebuke, follows him out of the room. Annie stands up. For the rest of the scene she is moving, hardly looking at Henry, perhaps fetching her handbag.
Henry It was just so I could look at you without it looking funny.
Annie What time are you going for Debbie?
Henry Four o’clock. Why?
Annie Three o’clock. Look for my car.
Henry What about Brodie?
Annie Let him rot.
Annie leaves, closing the door. Pop music: Herman’s Hermits, ‘I’m Into Something Good’.
SCENE THREE
Max and Annie.
A living-room.
Max is alone, listening to a small radio, from which Herman’s Hermits continue to be heard, at an adjusted level. The disposition of furniture and doors makes the scene immediately reminiscent of the beginning of Scene 1. The front door, offstage, is heard being opened with a key. The door closes. Annie, wearing a topcoat, appears briefly round the door to the hall. She is in a hurry.
Annie Have you got it on? (She disappears and reappears without the coat.) How much have I missed?
Max Five or ten minutes.
Annie Damn. If I’d had the car, I’d have caught the beginning.
Max Where have you been?
Annie You know where I’ve been. Rehearsing.
The music ends and is followed by Henry being interviewed on Desert Island Discs, but the radio dialogue, during the few moments before Max turns the sound down, is meaningless under the stage dialogue.
Max How’s Julie?
Annie Who?
Max Julie. Miss Julie. Strindberg’s Miss Julie. Miss Julie by August Strindberg, how is she?
Annie Are you all right?
Max This probably –
Annie Shush up.
Max This probably isn’t anything, but –
Annie Max, can I listen?
Max turns the radio sound right down.
What’s up? Are you cross?
Max This probably isn’t anything, but I found this in the car, between the front seats. (He shows her a soiled and blood-stained white handkerchief.)
Annie What is it?
Max Henry’s handkerchief.
Annie Well, give it back to him. (She reaches for it.) Here, I’ll wash it and you can give it to Charlotte at the theatre.
Max I did give it back to him.
When was he in the car?
Pause
It was a clean handkerchief, apart from my blood.
Have you got a cold?
It looks filthy. It’s dried filthy.
You’re filthy.
You filthy cow.
You rotten filthy –
He starts to cry, barely audible, immobile. Annie waits. He recovers his voice.
It’s not true, is it?
Annie Yes.
Max Oh, God. (He starts up.) Why did you?
Anni
e I’m awfully sorry, Max –
Max (interrupting, suddenly pulled together) All right. It happened. All right. It didn’t mean anything.
Annie I’m awfully sorry, Max, but I love him.
Max Oh, no.
Annie Yes.
Max Oh, no. You don’t.
Annie Yes, I do. And he loves me. That’s that, isn’t it? I’m sorry it’s awful. But it’s better really. All that lying.
Max (breaking up again) Oh, Christ, Annie, stop it. I love you. Please don’t –
Annie Come on, please – it doesn’t have to be like this.
Max How long for? And him – oh, God.
He kicks the radio savagely. The radio has gone into music again – the Righteous Brothers singing ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin” – and Max’s kick has the effect of turning up the volume rather loud. He flings himself upon Annie in something like an assault which turns immediately into an embrace. Annie does no more than suffer the embrace, looking over Max’s shoulder, her face blank.
SCENE FOUR
Henry and Annie.
Living-room. Obviously temporary and makeshift quarters, divided left and right by a clothes rail, making two areas, ‘his’ and ‘hers’. Henry is alone, writing at a desk.
The disposition of door and furniture makes the scene immediately reminiscent of Scene Two. On the floor are a number of cardboard boxes containing files, papers, letters, scripts, bills … The pillage of a filing system. There is also a couch. The Sunday newspapers and a bound script are on or near the couch.
A radio plays pop music quietly while Henry writes.
Annie enters from the bedroom door, barefoot and wearing Henry’s robe, which is too big for her. Henry, in mid-sentence, looks up briefly and looks down again.
Annie I’m not here. Promise.
She goes to the couch and carefully opens a newspaper. Henry continues to write. Annie glances towards him once or twice. He takes no notice. She stands up and goes behind his chair, looking over his shoulder as he works. He takes no notice. She goes round the desk and stands in front of him. He takes no notice. She flashes open the robe for his benefit. He takes no notice. She moves round behind him again and looks over his shoulder. He turns and grabs her with great suddenness, causing her to scream and laugh. The assault turns into a standing embrace.
Henry You’re a bloody nuisance.
Annie Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’ll be good. I’ll sit and learn my script.
Henry No, you won’t.
Annie I’ll go in the other room.
Henry This room will do.
Annie No, you’ve got to do my play.
Henry I can’t write it. Let me off.
Annie No, you promised. It’s my gift.
Henry All right. Stay and talk a minute. (He turns off the radio.) Raw material, then I’ll do this page, then I’ll rape you, then I’ll do the page again, then I’ll – Oh (happily), are you all right?
Annie nods.
Annie Yeah. Are you all right?
He nods.
(Gleefully, self-reproachful) Isn’t it awful? Max is so unhappy while I feel so … thrilled. His misery just seems … not in very good taste. Am I awful? He leaves letters for me at rehearsal, you know, and gets me to come to the phone by pretending to be my agent and people. He loves me, and he wants to punish me with his pain, but I can’t come up with the proper guilt. I’m sort of irritated by it. It’s so tiring and so uninteresting. You never write about that, you lot.
Henry What?
Annie Gallons of ink and miles of typewriter ribbon expended on the misery of the unrequited lover; not a word about the utter tedium of the unrequiting. It’s a very interesting …
Henry Lacuna?
Annie What? No, I mean it’s a very interesting sort of …
Henry Prejudice?
Annie It’s a very interesting … thing.
Henry Yes, thing.
Annie No, I mean it shows – never mind – I’ve lost it now.
Henry How are you this morning?
Annie One behind. Where were you?
Henry You were flat out.
Annie Your own fault. When I take a Mog, I’m on the downhill slope. You should have come to bed when you said.
Henry (indicating his desk) It wasn’t where I could leave it. I would have gone to sleep depressed.
Annie Well, I thought, the honeymoon is over. Fifteen days and fuckless to bye-byes.
Henry No, actually, I managed.
Annie You did not.
Henry Yes, I did. You were totally zonked. Only your reflexes were working.
Annie Liar.
Henry Honestly.
Annie Why didn’t you wake me?
Henry I thought I’d try it without you talking.
Look, I’m not doing any good, why don’t we –?
Annie You rotter. Just for that I’m going to learn my script.
Henry I’ll read in for you.
She glowers at him but finds a page in the script and hands the script to him.
Annie You didn’t really, did you?
Henry Yes.
She ‘reads’ without inflection.
Annie ‘Très gentil, Monsieur Jean, très gentil!’
Henry (reading) ‘Vous voulez plaisanter, madame!’
Annie ‘Et vous voulez parler français? Where did you pick that up?’
Henry ‘In Switzerland. I worked as a waiter in one of the best hotels in Lucerne.’
Annie ‘You’re quite the gentleman in that coat … charmant.’ You rotter.
Henry ‘You flatter me, Miss Julie.’
Annie ‘Flatter? I flatter?’
Henry ‘I’d like to accept the compliment, but modesty forbids. And, of course, my modesty entails your insincerity. Hence, you flatter me.’
Annie ‘Where did you learn to talk like that? Do you spend a lot of time at the theatre?’
Henry ‘Oh yes. I get about, you know.’
Annie Oh, Hen. Are you all right?
Henry Not really. I can’t do mine. I don’t know how to write love. I try to write it properly, and it just comes out embarrassing. It’s either childish or it’s rude. And the rude bits are absolutely juvenile. I can’t use any of it. My credibility is already hanging by a thread after Desert Island Discs. Anyway, I’m too prudish. Perhaps I should write it completely artificial. Blank verse. Poetic imagery. Not so much of the ‘Will you still love me when my tits are droopy?’ ‘Of course I will, darling, it’s your bum I’m mad for’, and more of the ‘By my troth, thy beauty makest the moon hide her radiance’, do you think?
Annie Not really, no.
Henry No. Not really. I don’t know. Loving and being loved is unliterary. It’s happiness expressed in banality and lust. It makes me nervous to see three-quarters of a page and no writing on it. I mean, I talk better than this.
Annie You’ll have to learn to do sub-text. My Strindberg is steaming with lust, but there is nothing rude on the page. We just talk round it. Then he sort of bites my finger and I do the heavy breathing and he gives me a quick feel, kisses me on the neck …
Henry Who does?
Annie Gerald. It’s all very exciting.
Henry laughs, immoderately, and Annie continues coldly.
Or amusing, of course.
Henry We’ll do that bit … you breathe, I’ll feel …
She pushes him away.
Annie Go away. You’ll just get moody afterwards.
Henry When was I ever moody?
Annie Whenever you get seduced from your work.
Henry You mean the other afternoon?
Annie What other afternoon? No, I don’t mean seduced, for God’s sake. Can’t you think about anything else?
Henry Certainly. Like what?
Annie I mean ‘seduced’, like when you’re seduced by someone on the television.
Henry I’ve never been seduced on the television.
Annie You were seduced by Miranda Jessop on the television.
Annie If she hadn’t been in it, you wouldn’t have watched that play if they’d come round and done it for you on your carpet.
Henry Exactly. I had a postcard from her agent, would I be sure to watch her this week in Trotsky Playhouse or whatever they call it.
Annie You only looked up when she stripped off. Think I can’t see through you? That’s why I took my Mog. Sod you, I thought, feel free.
Henry You’re daft. I’ve got to watch her if she’s going to do my telly. It’s just good manners.
Annie Her tits are droopy already.
Henry I’m supposed to have an opinion, you see.
Annie I think she’s bloody overrated, as a matter of fact.
Henry I have to agree. I wouldn’t give them more than six out of ten.
She clouts him with her script.
Four.
She clouts him again.
Three.
Annie You think you’re so bloody funny.
Henry What’s up with you? I hardly know the woman.
Annie You’ll like her. She wears leopard-skin pants.
Henry How do you know?
Annie I shared a dressing-room with her.
Henry I don’t suppose she wears them all the time.
Annie I’m bloody sure she doesn’t.
Henry ‘By my troth thy beauty makest the moon –’
Annie Oh, shut up.
Henry What are you jealous about?
Annie I’m not jealous.
Henry All right, what are you cross about?
Annie I’m not cross. Do your work.
She makes a show of concentrating on her script. Henry makes a show of resuming work. Pause.
Henry I’m sorry.
Annie What for?
Henry I don’t know. I’ll have to be going out to pick up Debbie. I don’t want to go if we’re not friends. Will you come, then?
Annie No. It was a mistake last time. It spoils it for her, being nervous.
Henry She wasn’t nervous.
Annie Not her. You.
Pause.
Henry Well, I’ll be back around two.
Annie I won’t be here.
Pause.
Henry (remembering) Oh, yes. Is it today you’re going prison visiting? You’re being very – um – faithful to Brodie.
Annie That surprises you, does it?
Henry I only mean that you haven’t got much time for good causes. You haven’t got a weekend cottage either.
