by Tom Stoppard
Henry It’s to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy … we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a deck of cards? A sort of knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what’s shared – she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone everything is pain. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.
Pause.
Debbie Has Annie got someone else then?
Henry Not as far as I know, thank you for asking.
Debbie Apologies.
Henry Don’t worry.
Debbie Don’t you. Exclusive rights isn’t love, it’s colonization.
Henry Christ almighty. Another ersatz masterpiece. Like Michelangelo working in polystyrene.
Debbie Do you know what your problem is, Henry?
Henry What?
Debbie Your Latin mistress never took you into the boiler room.
Henry Well, at least I passed.
Debbie Only in Latin.
Doorbell.
Do me a favour.
Henry What?
Debbie Stay here.
Henry That bad, is he?
Debbie He’s frightened of you.
Henry Jesus.
Charlotte enters in a bath robe, a towel round her hair perhaps. She carries a bunch of postcards.
Charlotte Ten postcards – stamped and addressed. Every week I get a postcard you get ten quid. No postcards, no remittance. (She gives Debbie the postcards.)
Debbie Oh – Charley – (Kisses Charlotte.) See you, Henry.
Henry There; my blessing with thee. And these few precepts in thy memory …
Debbie Too late, Fa. Love you. (Kisses him.)
Debbie leaves with the ruck-sack followed by Charlotte. Henry waits until Charlotte returns.
Charlotte What a good job we sold the pony.
Henry Musician is he? She’s hardly seventeen.
Charlotte Almost over the hill for an Elizabethan heroine. (Pause.) How’s Annie? Are you going to Glasgow for the first night?
Henry They don’t open for a couple of weeks.
Charlotte Who’s playing Giovanni?
Henry I don’t know.
Charlotte Aren’t you interested?
Henry Should I be?
Charlotte There’s something touching about you, Henry. Everybody should be like you. Not interested. It used to bother me that you were never bothered. Even when I got talked into that dreadful nudie film because it was in Italian and Italian films were supposed to be art … God, that dates me, doesn’t it? Debbie’s into Australian films. Australian. Not Chips Rafferty – actual films.
Henry You’ve gone off again.
Charlotte Yes, well, it didn’t bother you so I decided it meant you were having it off right left and centre and it wasn’t supposed to matter. By the time I realized you were the last romantic it was too late. I found it didn’t matter.
Henry Well, now that it doesn’t … How many – um – roughly how many –?
Charlotte Nine.
Pause.
Henry Gosh.
Charlotte And look what your one did compared to my nine.
Henry Nine?
Charlotte Feel betrayed?
Henry Surprised. I thought we’d made a commitment.
Charlotte There are no commitments, only bargains. And they have to be made again every day. You think making a commitment is it. Finish. You think it sets like a concrete platform and it’ll take any strain you want to put on it. You’re committed. You don’t have to prove anything. In fact you can afford a little neglect, indulge in a little bit of sarcasm here and there, isolate yourself when you want to. Underneath it’s concrete for life. I’m a cow in some ways, but you’re an idiot. Were an idiot.
Henry Better luck next time.
Charlotte You too.
Have a drink?
Henry I don’t think so, thank you.
How are things with your friend? An architect, isn’t he?
Charlotte I had to give him the elbow. Well, he sort of left. I called him the architect of my misfortune.
Henry What was the matter with him?
Charlotte Very possessive type. I came home from a job, I’d been away only a couple of days, and he said, why did I take my diaphragm? He’d been through my bathroom cabinet, would you believe? And then, not finding it, he went through everything else. Can’t have that.
Henry What did you say?
Charlotte I said, I didn’t take my diaphragm, it just went with me. So he said, what about the tube of Duragel? I must admit he had me there.
Henry You should have said, ‘Duragel! – no wonder the bristles fell out of my toothbrush.’
Charlotte (laughs) Cheers.
Henry (toasting with an empty hand) Cheers.
Henry stands up.
Charlotte Do you have to go?
Henry Yes, I ought to.
Charlotte You don’t fancy one for the road?
Henry No, really.
Charlotte Or a drink?
Henry (smiles) No offence.
Charlotte Remember what I said.
Henry What was that? (Pause.) Oh … yes. No commitments. Only bargains. The trouble is I don’t really believe it. I’d rather be an idiot. It’s a kind of idiocy I like. ‘I use you because you love me. I love you so use me. Be indulgent, negligent, preoccupied, premenstrual … your credit is infinite, I’m yours, I’m committed …
It’s no trick loving somebody at their best. Love is loving them at their worst. Is that romantic? Well, good. Everything should be romantic. Love, work, music, literature, virginity, loss of virginity …
Charlotte You’ve still got one to lose, Henry.
SCENE EIGHT
In order to accommodate a scene change, Scene Eight was spoken twice, once as a ‘word rehearsal’ and then again as an ‘acting rehearsal’.
Annie and Billy.
An empty space.
They are kissing, embracing: wearing rehearsal clothes.
Billy Come, Annabella, – no, more sister now,
But love, a name more gracious, – do not blush,
Beauty’s sweet wonder, but be proud to know
That yielding thou hast conquered, and inflamed
A heart whose tribute is thy brother’s life.
Annie And mine is his. O, how these stol’n contents
Would print a modest crimson on my cheeks,
Had any but my heart’s delight prevailed!
Billy I marvel why the chaster of your sex
Should think this pretty toy called maidenhead
So strange a loss, when, being lost, ’tis nothing,
And you are still the same.
Annie ’Tis well for you;
Now you can talk.
Billy Music as well consists
In the ear as in the playing.
Annie O, you’re wanton!<
br />
Tell on’t you’re best; do.
Billy Thou wilt chide me, then.
Kiss me: –
He kisses her lightly.
Annie (quietly) Billy … (She returns the kiss in earnest.)
SCENE NINE
Henry and Annie.
The living-room. Henry is alone, sitting in a chair, doing nothing. It’s like the beginning of Scene One and Scene Three.
Annie is heard letting herself in through the front door. Then she comes in from the hall.
Annie enters wearing a topcoat and carrying a suitcase and a small travelling bag.
Annie Hello, I’m back. (She puts down the suitcase and the bag and goes to kiss Henry.)
Henry Hello.
She starts taking off her coat.
How was it?
Annie We had a good finish – a woman in the audience was sick. Billy came on with my heart skewered on his dagger and – ugh – whoops! (She takes her coat out into the hall, reappears and goes to the travelling bag.)
Henry I thought you were coming back overnight.
From the travelling bag Annie takes a small, smart-looking carrier bag with handles, a purchase from a boutique.
Annie What have you been doing? How’s the film? (She gives the present to Henry, kissing him lightly.)
Henry I thought you were on the sleeper.
Annie What’s the matter?
Henry I was wondering what happened to you.
Annie Nothing happened to me. Have you had lunch?
Henry No. Did you catch the early train this morning, then?
Annie Yes. Scratch lunch, all right? (She goes into the kitchen and returns after a moment.) My God, it’s all gone downhill since Sunday. Hasn’t Mrs Chamberlain been?
Henry I phoned the hotel.
Annie When?
Henry Last night. They said you’d checked out.
Annie Did they?
She picks up her suitcase and goes out into the bedroom. Henry doesn’t move. A few moments later Annie reappears, without the suitcase and almost walking backwards.
Oh, God, Hen. Have we had burglars? What were you doing?
Henry Where were you?
Annie On the sleeper. I don’t know why I said I came down this morning. It just seemed easier. I wasn’t there last night because I caught the train straight from the theatre.
Henry Was the train late arriving?
Annie Do you want to see my ticket?
Henry Well, have you been to the zoo?
She meets his look expressionlessly.
Who were you with?
Annie Don’t be like this, Hen. You’re not like this.
Henry Yes, I am.
Annie I don’t want you to. It’s humiliating.
Henry I really am not trying to humiliate you.
Annie For you, I mean. It’s humiliating for you. (Pause.) I travelled down with one of the company. We had breakfast at Euston. He was waiting for a train. I stayed talking. Then I came home, not thinking that suddenly after two and a half years I’d be asked to account for my movements.
Henry You got off the sleeper and spent the morning sitting at Euston?
Annie Yes.
Henry You and this actor.
Annie Yes. Can I go now? (She turns away.)
Henry How did you sleep?
She turns to look at him blankly.
Well, did you?
Annie Did I what? What’s the point? You’d only wonder if I was lying.
Henry Would you lie?
Annie I might.
Henry Did you?
Annie No. You see? I’m going to tidy up and put everything back.
Henry Do you want to know what I was looking for?
Annie No. (She turns towards the bedroom.)
Henry Was it Billy?
She turns back.
Annie Why Billy?
Henry I know it’s him. Billy, Billy, Billy, the name keeps dropping, each time without significance, but it can’t help itself. Hapless as a secret in a computer. Blip, blip. Billy, Billy. Talk to me. I’m sorry about the bedroom.
Annie You should have put everything back. Everything would be the way it was.
Henry You can’t put things back. They won’t go back. Talk to me.
I’m your chap. I know about this. We start off like one of those caterpillars designed for a particular leaf. The exclusive voracity of love. And then not. How strange that the way of things is not suspended to meet our special case. But it never is. I don’t want anyone else but sometimes, surprisingly, there’s someone, not the prettiest or the most available, but you know that in another life it would be her. Or him, don’t you find? A small quickening. The room responds slightly to being entered. Like a raised blind. Nothing intended, and a long way from doing anything, but you catch the glint of being someone else’s possibility, and it’s a sort of politeness to show you haven’t missed it, so you push it a little, well within safety, but there’s that sense of a promise almost being made in the touching and kissing without which no one can seem to say good morning in this poncy business and one more push would do it. Billy. Right?
Annie Yes.
Henry I love you.
Annie And I you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
Henry Tell me, then.
Annie I love you.
Henry Not that.
Annie Yes, that. That’s all I’d need to know.
Henry You’d need more.
Annie No.
Henry I need it. I can manage knowing if you did but I can’t manage not knowing if you did or not. I won’t be able to work.
Annie Don’t blackmail.
Henry You’d ask me.
Annie I never have.
Henry There’s never been anything.
Annie Dozens. For the first year at least, every halfway decent looking woman under fifty you were ever going to meet.
Henry But you learned better.
Annie No, I just learned not to care. There was nothing to keep you here so I assumed you wanted to stay. I stopped caring about the rest of it.
Henry I care. Tell me.
Annie (hardening) I did tell you. I spent the morning talking to Billy in a station cafeteria instead of coming straight home to you and I fibbed about the train because that seemed like infidelity – but all you want to know is did I sleep with him first?
Henry Yes. Did you?
Annie No.
Henry Did you want to?
Annie Oh, for God’s sake!
Henry You can ask me.
Annie I prefer to respect your privacy.
Henry I have none. I disclaim it. Did you?
Annie What about your dignity, then?
Henry Yes, you’d behave better than me. I don’t believe in behaving well. I don’t believe in debonair relationships. ‘How’s your lover today, Amanda?’ ‘In the pink, Charles. How’s yours?’ I believe in mess, tears, pain, self-abasement, loss of self-respect, nakedness. Not caring doesn’t seem much different from not loving. Did you? You did, didn’t you?
Annie This isn’t caring. If I had an affair, it would be out of need. Care about that. You won’t play on my guilt or my remorse. I’d have none.
Henry Need? What did you talk about?
Annie Brodie mostly.
Henry Yes. I had it coming.
Annie Billy wants to do Brodie’s play.
Henry When are you going to see Billy again?
Annie He’s going straight into another show. I promised to see him. I want to see him.
Henry Fine, when should we go? It’s all right to come with you, is it?
Annie Why not? Don’t let me out of your sight, eh, Hen?
Henry When were you thinking of going?
Annie I thought the weekend.
Henry And where is it?
Annie Well, Glasgow.
Henry Billy travelled down with you from Glasgow and then took a train back?
Annie Yes.
Henry And I’m supp
osed to score points for dignity. I don’t think I can. It’ll become my only thought. It’ll replace thinking.
Annie You mustn’t do that. You have to find a part of yourself where I’m not important or you won’t be worth loving. It’s awful what you did to my clothes and everything. I mean what you did to yourself. It’s not you. And it’s you I love.
Henry Actually I don’t think I can manage the weekend. I hope it goes well.
Annie Thank you. (She moves towards the bedroom.)
Henry What does Billy think of Brodie’s play?
Annie He says he can’t write.
She leaves. Henry takes his present out of its bag. It is a tartan scarf.
SCENE TEN
Billy and Annie.
Annie sits reading on the train.
Billy approaches the seat next to Annie. He speaks with a Scottish accent. He carries a grip.
The dialogue is amplified through a mike.
Billy Excuse me, is this seat taken?
Annie No.
Billy Mind if I sit down?
Annie It’s a free country.
Billy sits down.
Billy D’you reckon?
Annie Sorry?
Billy You reckon it’s a free country?
Annie ignores him.
Going far?
Annie To London.
Billy All the way.
Annie starts to move to an empty seat.
I’ll let you read.
Annie Thank you. (She sits in the empty seat.)
Billy My name’s Bill.
She ignores him.
Can I just ask you one question?
Annie Mary.
Billy Can I just ask you one question, Mary?
Annie One.
Billy Do you know what time this train is due to arrive in London?
Annie At about half-past one, I believe, if it’s on time.
Billy You put me in mind of Mussolini, Mary. People used to say about Mussolini, he may be a Fascist, but –
Annie No – that’s wrong – that’s the old script –
Billy (swears under his breath) Sorry, Roger …
Roger (voice off) OK, cut the tape.
Annie From the top, Roger?
Roger (voice off) Give us a minute.
A light change reveals that the setting is a fake, in a TV studio. Annie gets up and moves away. Billy joins her. They exchange a few words, and she moves back to her seat, leaving him estranged, an unhappy feeling between them.
