Complete Works, Volume IV

by Harold Pinter

  Pause.

  However, the garlands are not bestowed on maidens only, but on all who die unmarried, wearing the white flower of a blameless life.

  Pause.

  SPOONER You mean that not only young women of the parish but also young men of the parish are so honoured?

  HIRST I do.

  SPOONER And that old men of the parish who also died maiden are so garlanded?

  HIRST Certainly.

  SPOONER I am enraptured. Tell me more. Tell me more about the quaint little perversions of your life and times. Tell me more, with all the authority and brilliance you can muster, about the socio-politico-economic structure of the environment in which you attained to the age of reason. Tell me more.

  Pause.

  HIRST There is no more.

  SPOONER Tell me then about your wife.

  HIRST What wife?

  SPOONER How beautiful she was, how tender and how true. Tell me with what speed she swung in the air, with what velocity she came off the wicket, whether she was responsive to finger spin, whether you could bowl a shooter with her, or an offbreak with a legbreak action. In other words, did she google?

  Silence.

  You will not say. I will tell you then . . . that my wife . . . had everything. Eyes, a mouth, hair, teeth, buttocks, breasts, absolutely everything. And legs.

  HIRST Which carried her away.

  SPOONER Carried who away? Yours or mine?

  Pause.

  Is she here now, your wife? Cowering in a locked room, perhaps?

  Pause.

  Was she ever here? Was she ever there, in your cottage? It is my duty to tell you you have failed to convince. I am an honest and intelligent man. You pay me less than my due. Are you, equally, being fair to the lady? I begin to wonder whether truly accurate and therefore essentially poetic definition means anything to you at all. I begin to wonder whether you do in fact truly remember her, whether you truly did love her, truly caressed her, truly did cradle her, truly did husband her, falsely dreamed or did truly adore her. I have seriously questioned these propositions and find them threadbare.

  Silence.

  Her eyes, I take it, were hazel?

  Hirst stands, carefully. He moves, with a slight stagger, to the cabinet, pours whisky, drinks.

  HIRST Hazel shit.

  SPOONER Good lord, good lord, do I detect a touch of the maudlin?

  Pause.

  Hazel shit. I ask myself: Have I ever seen hazel shit? Or hazel eyes, for that matter?

  Hirst throws his glass at him, ineffectually. It bounces on the carpet.

  Do I detect a touch of the hostile? Do I detect—with respect—a touch of too many glasses of ale followed by the great malt which wounds? Which wounds?

  Silence.

  HIRST Tonight . . . my friend . . . you find me in the last lap of a race . . . I had long forgotten to run.

  Pause.

  SPOONER A metaphor. Things are looking up.

  Pause.

  I would say, albeit on a brief acquaintance, that you lack the essential quality of manliness, which is to put your money where your mouth is, to pick up a pintpot and know it to be a pintpot, and knowing it to be a pintpot, to declare it as a pintpot, and to stay faithful to that pintpot as though you had given birth to it out of your own arse. You lack that capability, in my view.

  Pause.

  Do forgive me my candour. It is not method but madness.

  He stands.

  Heed me. I am a relevant witness. And could be a friend.

  Hirst grips the cabinet, rigid.

  You need a friend. You have a long hike, my lad, up which, presently, you slog unfriended. Let me perhaps be your boatman. For if and when we talk of a river we talk of a deep and dank architecture. In other words, never disdain a helping hand, especially one of such rare quality. And it is not only the quality of my offer which is rare, it is the act itself, the offer itself—quite without precedent. I offer myself to you as a friend. Think before you speak.

  Hirst attempts to move, stops, grips the cabinet.

  Remember this. You’ve lost your wife of hazel hue, you’ve lost her and what can you do, she will no more come back to you, with a tillifola tillifola tillifoladi-foladi-foloo.

  HIRST No.

  Pause.

  No man’s land . . . does not move . . . or change . . . or grow old . . . remains . . . forever . . . icy . . . silent.

  Hirst loosens his grip on the cabinet, staggers across the room, holds on to a chair.

  He waits, moves, falls.

  He waits, gets to his feet, moves, falls.

  Spooner watches.

  Hirst crawls towards the door, manages to open it, crawls out of the door.

  Spooner remains still.

  SPOONER I have known this before. The exit through the door, by way of belly and floor.

  He looks at the room, walks about it, looking at each object closely, stops, hands behind his back, surveying the room.

  A door, somewhere in the house, closes.

  Silence.

  The front door opens, and slams sharply. Spooner stiffens, is still.

  FOSTER enters the room. He is casually dressed.

  He stops still upon seeing Spooner. He stands, looking at Spooner.

  Silence.

  FOSTER What are you drinking? Christ I’m thirsty. How are you? I’m parched.

  He goes to cabinet, opens a bottle of beer, pours.

  What are you drinking? It’s bloody late. I’m worn to a frazzle. This is what I want. (He drinks.) Taxi? No chance. Taxi drivers are against me. Something about me. Some unknown factor. My gait, perhaps. Or perhaps because I travel incognito. Oh, that’s better. Works wonders. How are you? What are you drinking? Who are you? I thought I’d never make it. What a hike. And not only that. I’m defenceless. I don’t carry a gun in London. But I’m not bothered. Once you’ve done the East you’ve done it all. I’ve done the East. But I still like a nice lighthouse like this one. Have you met your host? He’s my father. It was our night off tonight, you see. He was going to stay at home, listen to some lieder. I hope he had a quiet and pleasant evening. Who are you, by the way? What are you drinking?

  SPOONER I’m a friend of his.

  FOSTER You’re not typical.

  BRIGGS comes into the room, stops. He is casually dressed, stocky.

  BRIGGS Who’s this?

  FOSTER His name’s Friend. This is Mr Briggs. Mr Friend—Mr Briggs. I’m Mr Foster. Old English stock. John Foster. Jack. Jack Foster. Old English name. Foster. John Foster. Jack Foster. Foster. This man’s name is Briggs.

  Pause.

  BRIGGS I’ve seen Mr Friend before.

  FOSTER Seen him before?

  BRIGGS I know him.

  FOSTER Do you really?

  BRIGGS I’ve seen you before.

  SPOONER Possibly, possibly.

  BRIGGS Yes. You collect the beermugs from the tables in a pub in Chalk Farm.

  SPOONER The landlord’s a friend of mine. When he’s shorthanded, I give him a helping hand.

  BRIGGS Who says the landlord’s a friend of yours?

  FOSTER He does.

  BRIGGS I’m talking about The Bull’s Head in Chalk Farm.

  SPOONER Yes, yes. So am I.

  BRIGGS So am I.

  FOSTER I know the Bull’s Head. The landlord’s a friend of mine.

  BRIGGS He collects the mugs.

  FOSTER A firstclass pub. I’ve known the landlord for years.

  BRIGGS He says he’s a friend of the landlord.

  FOSTER He says he’s a friend of our friend too.

  BRIGGS What friend?

  FOSTER Our host.

  BRIGGS He’s a bloody friend of everyone then.

  FOSTER He’s everybody’s bloody friend. How many friends have you got altogether, Mr Friend?

  BRIGGS He probably couldn’t count them.

  FOSTER Well, there’s me too, now. I’m another one of your new friends. I’m your newest new friend. Not
him. Not Briggs. He’s nobody’s fucking friend. People tend to be a little wary of Briggs. They balk at giving him their all. But me they like at first sight.

  BRIGGS Sometimes they love you at first sight.

  FOSTER Sometimes they do. That’s why, when I travel, I get all the gold, nobody offers me dross. People take an immediate shine to me, especially women, especially in Siam or Bali. He knows I’m not a liar. Tell him about the Siamese girls.

  BRIGGS They loved him at first sight.

  FOSTER (to Spooner) You’re not Siamese though, are you?

  BRIGGS He’s a very long way from being Siamese.

  FOSTER Ever been out there?

  SPOONER I’ve been to Amsterdam.

  Foster and Briggs stare at him.

  I mean that was the last place . . . I visited. I know Europe well. My name is Spooner, by the way. Yes, one afternoon in Amsterdam . . . I was sitting outside a café by a canal. The weather was superb. At another table, in shadow, was a man whistling under his breath, sitting very still, almost rigid. At the side of the canal was a fisherman. He caught a fish. He lifted it high. The waiter cheered and applauded, the two men, the waiter and the fisherman, laughed. A little girl, passing, laughed. Two lovers, passing, kissed. The fish was lofted, on the rod. The fish and the rod glinted in the sun, as they swayed. The fisherman’s cheeks were flushed, with pleasure. I decided to paint a picture—of the canal, the waiter, the child, the fisherman, the lovers, the fish, and in background, in shadow, the man at the other table, and to call it The Whistler. The Whistler. If you had seen the picture, and the title, would the title have baffled you?

  Pause.

  FOSTER (to Briggs) Do you want to answer that question?

  BRIGGS No. Go on. You answer it.

  FOSTER Well, speaking for myself, I think I would have been baffled by that title. But I might have appreciated the picture. I might even have been grateful for it.

  Pause.

  Did you hear what I said? I might have been grateful for the picture. A good work of art tends to move me. You follow me? I’m not a cunt, you know.

  Pause.

  I’m very interested to hear you’re a painter. You do it in your spare time, I suppose?

  SPOONER Quite.

  FOSTER Did you ever paint that picture, The Whistler?

  SPOONER Not yet, I’m afraid.

  FOSTER Don’t leave it too long. You might lose the inspiration.

  BRIGGS Ever painted a beermug?

  SPOONER You must come and see my collection, any time you wish.

  BRIGGS What of, beermugs?

  SPOONER No, no. Paintings.

  FOSTER Where do you keep it?

  SPOONER At my house in the country. You would receive the warmest of welcomes.

  FOSTER Who from?

  SPOONER My wife. My two daughters.

  FOSTER Really? Would they like me? What do you think? Would they love me at first sight?

  SPOONER (laughing) Quite possibly.

  FOSTER What about him?

  Spooner looks at Briggs.

  SPOONER They are remarkably gracious women.

  FOSTER You’re a lucky man. What are you drinking?

  SPOONER Scotch.

  Foster goes to cabinet, pours scotch, stands holding glass.

  FOSTER What do you make of this? When I was out east . . . once . . . a kind of old stinking tramp, bollock naked, asked me for a few bob. I didn’t know him. He was a complete stranger. But I could see immediately he wasn’t a man to trust. He had a dog with him. They only had about one eye between them. So I threw him some sort of coin. He caught this bloody coin, looked at it with a bit of distaste, and then he threw the coin back. Well, automatically I went to catch it, I clutched at it, but the bloody coin disappeared into thin air. It didn’t drop anywhere. It just disappeared . . . into thin air . . . on its way towards me. He then let out a few curses and pissed off, with his dog. Oh, here’s your whisky, by the way. (Hands it to him.) What do you make of that incident?

  SPOONER He was a con artist.

  FOSTER Do you think so?

  SPOONER You would be wise to grant the event no integrity whatsoever.

  FOSTER You don’t subscribe to the mystery of the orient?

  SPOONER A typical eastern con trick.

  FOSTER Double Dutch, you mean?

  SPOONER Certainly. Your good health. (Drinks.)

  Hirst enters, wearing a dressing-gown.

  Briggs goes to cabinet, pours whisky.

  HIRST I can’t sleep. I slept briefly. I think. Perhaps it was sufficient. Yes. I woke up, out of a dream. I feel cheerful. Who’ll give me a glass of whisky?

  Hirst sits. Briggs brings him whisky.

  My goodness, is this for me? How did you know? You knew. You’re very sensitive. Cheers. The first today. What day is it? What’s the time? Is it still night?

  BRIGGS Yes.

  HIRST The same night? I was dreaming of a waterfall. No, no, of a lake. I think it was . . . just recently. Can you remember when I went to bed? Was it daylight? It’s good to go to sleep in the late afternoon. After tea and toast. You hear the faint beginnings of the evening sounds, and then nothing. Everywhere else people are changing for dinner. You’re tucked up, the shutters closed, gaining a march on the world.

  He passes his glass to Briggs, who fills and returns it.

  Something is depressing me. What is it? It was the dream, yes. Waterfalls. No, no, a lake. Water. Drowning. Not me. Someone else. How nice to have company. Can you imagine waking up, finding no one here, just furniture, staring at you? Most unpleasant. I’ve known that condition, I’ve been through that period—cheers—I came round to human beings in the end. Like yourselves. A wise move. I tried laughing alone. Pathetic. Have you all got drinks?

  He looks at Spooner.

  Who’s that? A friend of yours? Won’t someone introduce me?

  FOSTER He’s a friend of yours.

  HIRST In the past I knew remarkable people. I’ve a photograph album somewhere. I’ll find it. You’ll be impressed by the faces. Very handsome. Sitting on grass with hampers. I had a moustache. Quite a few of my friends had moustaches. Remarkable faces. Remarkable moustaches. What was it informed the scene? A tenderness towards our fellows, perhaps. The sun shone. The girls had lovely hair, dark, sometimes red. Under their dresses their bodies were white. It’s all in my album. I’ll find it. You’ll be struck by the charm of the girls, their grace, the ease with which they sit, pour tea, loll. It’s all in my album.

  He empties glass, holds it up.

  Who is the kindest among you?

  Briggs takes glass to cabinet.

  Thank you. What would I do without the two of you? I’d sit here forever, waiting for a stranger to fill up my glass. What would I do while I waited? Look through my album? Make plans for the future?

  BRIGGS (bringing glass) You’d crawl to the bottle and stuff it between your teeth.

  HIRST No. I drink with dignity.

  He drinks, looks at Spooner.

  Who is this man? Do I know him?

  FOSTER He says he’s a friend of yours.

  HIRST My true friends look out at me from my album. I had my world. I have it. Don’t think now that it’s gone I’ll choose to sneer at it, to cast doubt on it, to wonder if it properly existed. No. We’re talking of my youth, which can never leave me. No. It existed. It was solid, the people in it were solid, while . . . transformed by light, while being sensitive . . . to all the changing light.

  When I stood my shadow fell upon her. She looked up. Give me the bottle. Give me the bottle.

  Briggs gives him the bottle. He drinks from it.

  It’s gone. Did it exist? It’s gone. It never existed. It remains.

  I am sitting here forever.

  How kind of you. I wish you’d tell me what the weather’s like. I wish you’d damnwell tell me what night it is, this night or the next night or the other one, the night before last. Be frank. Is it the night before last?

 
Help yourselves. I hate drinking alone. There’s too much solitary shittery.

  What was it? Shadows. Brightness, through leaves. Gambolling. In the bushes. Young lovers. A fall of water. It was my dream. The lake. Who was drowning in my dream?

  It was blinding. I remember it. I’ve forgotten. By all that’s sacred and holy. The sounds stopped. It was freezing. There’s a gap in me. I can’t fill it. There’s a flood running through me. I can’t plug it. They’re blotting me out. Who is doing it? I’m suffocating. It’s a muff. A muff, perfumed. Someone is doing me to death.

  She looked up. I was staggered. I had never seen anything so beautiful. That’s all poison. We can’t be expected to live like that.

  I remember nothing. I’m sitting in this room. I see you all, every one of you. A sociable gathering. The dispositions are kindly.

  Am I asleep? There’s no water. No one is drowning.

  Yes, yes, come on, come on, come on, pipe up, speak up, speak up, speak up, you’re fucking me about, you bastards, ghosts, long ghosts, you’re making noises, I can hear you humming, I wear a crisp blue shirt at the Ritz, I wear a crisp blue shirt at the Ritz, I know him well, the wine waiter, Boris, Boris, he’s been there for years, blinding shadows, then a fall of water—

  SPOONER It was I drowning in your dream.

  Hirst falls to the floor. They all go to him. Foster turns to Spooner.

  FOSTER Bugger off.

  Briggs pulls Hirst up. Hirst wards him off.

  HIRST Unhand me.

  He stands erect. Spooner moves to him.

  SPOONER He has grandchildren. As have I. As I have. We both have fathered. We are of an age. I know his wants. Let me take his arm. Respect our age. Come, I’ll seat you.

  He takes Hirst’s arm and leads him to a chair.

  There’s no pity in these people.

  FOSTER Christ.

  SPOONER I am your true friend. That is why your dream . . . was so distressing. You saw me drowning in your dream. But have no fear. I am not drowned.

  FOSTER Christ.

  SPOONER (to Hirst) Would you like me to make you some coffee?

  BRIGGS He thinks he’s a waiter in Amsterdam.

  FOSTER Service non compris.

  BRIGGS Whereas he’s a pintpot attendant in the Bull’s Head. And a pisspot attendant as well.

  FOSTER Our host must have been in The Bull’s Head tonight, where he had an unfortunate encounter. (To Spooner.) Hey scout, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. You’re not in some shithouse down by the docks. You’re in the home of a man of means, of a man of achievement. Do you understand me?