WAITER Traffico.
He goes, smiling.
ROBERT Cheers.
JERRY Cheers.
ROBERT When were you last there?
JERRY Oh, years.
ROBERT How’s Judith?
JERRY What? Oh, you know, okay. Busy.
ROBERT And the kids?
JERRY All right. Sam fell off—
ROBERT What?
JERRY No, no, nothing. So how was it?
ROBERT You used to go there with Judith, didn’t you?
JERRY Yes, but we haven’t been there for years.
Pause.
How about Charlotte? Did she enjoy it?
ROBERT I think she did.
Pause.
I did.
JERRY Good.
ROBERT I went for a trip to Torcello.
JERRY Oh, really? Lovely place.
ROBERT Incredible day. I got up very early and—whoomp—right across the lagoon—to Torcello. Not a soul stirring.
JERRY What’s the ‘whoomp’?
ROBERT Speedboat.
JERRY Ah. I thought—
ROBERT What?
JERRY It’s so long ago, I’m obviously wrong. I thought one went to Torcello by gondola.
ROBERT It would take hours. No, no,—whoomp—across the lagoon in the dawn.
JERRY Sounds good.
ROBERT I was quite alone.
JERRY Where was Emma?
ROBERT I think asleep.
JERRY Ah.
ROBERT I was alone for hours, as a matter of fact, on the island. Highpoint, actually, of the whole trip.
JERRY Was it? Well, it sounds marvellous.
ROBERT Yes. I sat on the grass and read Yeats.
JERRY Yeats on Torcello?
ROBERT They went well together.
Waiter with food.
WAITER One melone. One prosciutto e melone.
ROBERT Prosciutto for me.
WAITER Buon appetito.
ROBERT Emma read that novel of that chum of yours—what’s his name?
JERRY I don’t know. What?
ROBERT Spinks.
JERRY Oh Spinks. Yes. The one you didn’t like.
ROBERT The one I wouldn’t publish.
JERRY I remember. Did Emma like it?
ROBERT She seemed to be madly in love with it.
JERRY Good.
ROBERT You like it yourself, do you?
JERRY I do.
ROBERT And it’s very successful?
JERRY It is.
ROBERT Tell me, do you think that makes me a publisher of unique critical judgement or a foolish publisher?
JERRY A foolish publisher.
ROBERT I agree with you. I am a very foolish publisher.
JERRY No you’re not. What are you talking about? You’re a good publisher. What are you talking about?
ROBERT I’m a bad publisher because I hate books. Or to be more precise, prose. Or to be even more precise, modern prose, I mean modern novels, first novels and second novels, all that promise and sensibility it falls upon me to judge, to put the firm’s money on, and then to push for the third novel, see it done, see the dust jacket done, see the dinner for the national literary editors done, see the signing in Hatchards done, see the lucky author cook himself to death, all in the name of literature. You know what you and Emma have in common? You love literature. I mean you love modern prose literature, I mean you love the new novel by the new Casey or Spinks. It gives you both a thrill.
JERRY You must be pissed.
ROBERT Really? You mean you don’t think it gives Emma a thrill?
JERRY How do I know? She’s your wife.
Pause.
ROBERT Yes. Yes. You’re quite right. I shouldn’t have to consult you. I shouldn’t have to consult anyone.
JERRY I’d like some more wine.
ROBERT Yes, yes. Waiter! Another bottle of Corvo Bianco. And where’s our lunch? This place is going to pot. Mind you, it’s worse in Venice. They really don’t give a fuck there. I’m not drunk. You can’t get drunk on Corvo Bianco. Mind you . . . last night . . . I was up late . . . I hate brandy . . . it stinks of modern literature. No, look, I’m sorry . . .
Waiter with bottle.
WAITER Corvo Bianco.
ROBERT Same glass. Where’s our lunch?
WAITER It comes.
ROBERT I’ll pour.
Waiter goes, with melon plates.
No, look, I’m sorry, have another drink. I’ll tell you what it is, it’s just that I can’t bear being back in London. I was happy, such a rare thing, not in Venice, I don’t mean that, I mean on Torcello, when I walked about Torcello in the early morning, alone, I was happy, I wanted to stay there for ever.
JERRY We all . . .
ROBERT Yes, we all . . . feel that sometimes. Oh you do yourself, do you?
Pause.
I mean there’s nothing really wrong, you see. I’ve got the family. Emma and I are very good together. I think the world of her. And I actually consider Casey to be a first-rate writer.
JERRY Do you really?
ROBERT First rate. I’m proud to publish him and you discovered him and that was very clever of you.
JERRY Thanks.
ROBERT You’ve got a good nose and you care and I respect that in you. So does Emma. We often talk about it.
JERRY How is Emma?
ROBERT Very well. You must come and have a drink sometime. She’d love to see you.
1971
SCENE EIGHT
Flat. 1971. Summer.
Flat empty. Kitchen door open. Table set; crockery, glasses, bottle of wine.
Jerry comes in through front door, with key.
JERRY Hullo.
Emma’s voice from kitchen.
EMMA Hullo.
Emma comes out of kitchen. She is wearing an apron.
EMMA I’ve only just got here. I meant to be here ages ago. I’m making this stew. It’ll be hours.
He kisses her.
Are you starving?
JERRY Yes.
He kisses her.
EMMA No really. I’ll never do it. You sit down. I’ll get it on.
JERRY What a lovely apron.
EMMA Good.
She kisses him, goes into kitchen.
She calls. He pours wine.
EMMA What have you been doing?
JERRY Just walked through the park.
EMMA What was it like?
JERRY Beautiful. Empty. A slight mist.
Pause.
I sat down for a bit, under a tree. It was very quiet. I just looked at the Serpentine.
Pause.
EMMA And then?
JERRY Then I got a taxi to Wessex Grove. Number 31. And I climbed the steps and opened the front door and then climbed the stairs and opened this door and found you in a new apron cooking a stew.
Emma comes out of the kitchen.
EMMA It’s on.
JERRY Which is now on.
Emma pours herself a vodka.
JERRY Vodka? At lunchtime?
EMMA Just feel like one.
She drinks.
I ran into Judith yesterday. Did she tell you?
JERRY No, she didn’t.
Pause.
Where?
EMMA Lunch.
JERRY Lunch?
EMMA She didn’t tell you?
JERRY No.
EMMA That’s funny.
JERRY What do you mean, lunch? Where?
EMMA At Gino’s.
JERRY Gino’s? What the hell was she doing at Gino’s?
EMMA Having lunch. With a woman.
JERRY A woman?
EMMA Yes.
Pause.
JERRY Gino’s is a long way from the hospital.
EMMA Of course it isn’t.
JERRY Well . . . I suppose not.
Pause.
And you?
EMMA Me?
JERRY What were you doing at Gino’s?
EMMA Having lunch with my si
ster.
JERRY Ah.
Pause.
EMMA Judith . . . didn’t tell you?
JERRY I haven’t really seen her. I was out late last night, with Casey. And she was out early this morning.
Pause.
EMMA Do you think she knows?
JERRY Knows?
EMMA Does she know? About us?
JERRY No.
EMMA Are you sure?
JERRY She’s too busy. At the hospital. And then the kids. She doesn’t go in for . . . speculation.
EMMA But what about clues? Isn’t she interested . . . to follow clues?
JERRY What clues?
EMMA Well, there must be some . . . available to her . . . to pick up.
JERRY There are none . . . available to her.
EMMA Oh. Well . . . good.
JERRY She has an admirer.
EMMA Really?
JERRY Another doctor. He takes her for drinks. It’s . . . irritating. I mean, she says that’s all there is to it. He likes her, she’s fond of him, et cetera, et cetera . . . perhaps that’s what I find irritating. I don’t know exactly what’s going on.
EMMA Oh, why shouldn’t she have an admirer? I have an admirer.
JERRY Who?
EMMA Uuh . . . you, I think.
JERRY Ah. Yes.
He takes her hand.
I’m more than that.
Pause.
EMMA Tell me . . . Have you ever thought . . . of changing your life?
JERRY Changing?
EMMA Mmnn.
Pause.
JERRY It’s impossible.
Pause.
EMMA Do you think she’s being unfaithful to you?
JERRY No. I don’t know.
EMMA When you were in America, just now, for instance?
JERRY No.
EMMA Have you ever been unfaithful?
JERRY To whom?
EMMA To me, of course.
JERRY No.
Pause.
Have you . . . to me?
EMMA No.
Pause.
If she was, what would you do?
JERRY She isn’t. She’s busy. She’s got lots to do. She’s a very good doctor. She likes her life. She loves the kids.
EMMA Ah.
JERRY She loves me.
Pause.
EMMA Ah.
Silence.
JERRY All that means something.
EMMA It certainly does.
JERRY But I adore you.
Pause.
I adore you.
Emma takes his hand.
EMMA Yes.
Pause.
Listen. There’s something I have to tell you.
JERRY What?
EMMA I’m pregnant. It was when you were in America.
Pause.
It wasn’t anyone else. It was my husband.
Pause.
JERRY Yes. Yes, of course.
Pause.
I’m very happy for you.
1968
SCENE NINE
Robert and Emma’s House. Bedroom. 1968. Winter.
The room is dimly lit. Jerry is sitting in the shadows. Faint music through the door.
The door opens. Light. Music. Emma comes in, closes the door. She goes towards the mirror, sees Jerry.
EMMA Good God.
JERRY I’ve been waiting for you.
EMMA What do you mean?
JERRY I knew you’d come.
He drinks.
EMMA I’ve just come in to comb my hair.
He stands.
JERRY I knew you’d have to. I knew you’d have to comb your hair. I knew you’d have to get away from the party.
She goes to the mirror, combs her hair.
He watches her.
You’re a beautiful hostess.
EMMA Aren’t you enjoying the party?
JERRY You’re beautiful.
He goes to her.
Listen. I’ve been watching you all night. I must tell you, I want to tell you, I have to tell you—
EMMA Please—
JERRY You’re incredible.
EMMA You’re drunk.
JERRY Nevertheless.
He holds her.
EMMA Jerry.
JERRY I was best man at your wedding. I saw you in white. I watched you glide by in white.
EMMA I wasn’t in white.
JERRY You know what should have happened?
EMMA What?
JERRY I should have had you, in your white, before the wedding. I should have blackened you, in your white wedding dress, blackened you in your bridal dress, before ushering you into your wedding, as your best man.
EMMA My husband’s best man. Your best friend’s best man.
JERRY No. Your best man.
EMMA I must get back.
JERRY You’re lovely. I’m crazy about you. All these words I’m using, don’t you see, they’ve never been said before. Can’t you see? I’m crazy about you. It’s a whirlwind. Have you ever been to the Sahara desert? Listen to me. It’s true. Listen. You overwhelm me. You’re so lovely.
EMMA I’m not.
JERRY You’re so beautiful. Look at the way you look at me.
EMMA I’m not . . . looking at you.
JERRY Look at the way you’re looking at me. I can’t wait for you, I’m bowled over, I’m totally knocked out, you dazzle me, you jewel, my jewel, I can’t ever sleep again, no, listen, it’s the truth, I won’t walk, I’ll be a cripple, I’ll descend, I’ll diminish, into total paralysis, my life is in your hands, that’s what you’re banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the state of catatonia? Do you? Do you? The state of . . . where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you.
EMMA My husband is at the other side of that door.
JERRY Everyone knows. The world knows. It knows. But they’ll never know, they’ll never know, they’re in a different world. I adore you. I’m madly in love with you. I can’t believe that what anyone is at this moment saying has ever happened has ever happened. Nothing has ever happened. Nothing. This is the only thing that has ever happened. Your eyes kill me. I’m lost. You’re wonderful.
EMMA No.
JERRY Yes.
He kisses her.
She breaks away.
He kisses her.
Laughter off.
She breaks away.
Door opens. Robert.
EMMA Your best friend is drunk.
JERRY As you are my best and oldest friend and, in the present instance, my host, I decided to take this opportunity to tell your wife how beautiful she was.
ROBERT Quite right.
JERRY It is quite right, to . . . to face up to the facts . . . and to offer a token, without blush, a token of one’s unalloyed appreciation, no holds barred.
ROBERT Absolutely.
JERRY And how wonderful for you that this is so, that this is the case, that her beauty is the case.
ROBERT Quite right.
Jerry moves to Robert and take hold of his elbow.
JERRY I speak as your oldest friend. Your best man.
ROBERT You are, actually.
He clasps Jerry’s shoulder, briefly, turns, leaves the room.
Emma moves towards the door. Jerry grasps her arm. She stops still.
They stand still, looking at each other.
Monologue
Monologue was first shown on BBC Television on 13 April 1973.
MANHenry Woolf
Directed by Christopher Morahan
Man alone in a chair.
He refers to another chair, which is empty.
MAN I think I’ll nip down to the games room. Stretch my legs. Have a game of ping pong. What about you? Fancy a game? How would you like a categorical thrashing? I’m willing to accept any challenge, any stakes, any gauntlet you’d care to fling down. What have you done with your gauntlets, by the way? In fact, while we’re at it, what happened to your mo
torbike?
Pause.
You looked bold in black. The only thing I didn’t like was your face, too white, the face, stuck between your black helmet and your black hair and your black motoring jacket, kind of aghast, blatantly vulnerable, veering towards pitiful. Of course, you weren’t cut out to be a motorbikist, it went against your nature, I never understood what you were getting at. What is certain is that it didn’t work, it never convinced me, it never got you onto any top shelf with me. You should have been black, you should have had a black face, then you’d be getting somewhere, really making a go of it.
Pause.
I often had the impression . . . often . . . that you two were actually brother and sister, some kind of link-up, some kind of identical shimmer, deep down in your characters, an inkling, no more, that at one time you had shared the same pot. But of course she was black. Black as the Ace of Spades. And a life-lover, to boot.
Pause.
All the same, you and I, even then, never mind the weather, weren’t we, we were always available for net practice, at the drop of a hat, or a game of fives, or a walk and talk through the park, or a couple of rounds of putting before lunch, given fair to moderate conditions, and no burdensome commitments.
Pause.
The thing I like, I mean quite immeasurably, is this kind of conversation, this kind of exchange, this class of mutual reminiscence.
Pause.
Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten the black girl, the ebony one. Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten me.
Pause.
You haven’t forgotten me. Who was your best mate, who was your truest mate? You introduced me to Webster and Tourneur, admitted, but who got you going on Tristan Tzara, Breton, Giacometti and all that lot? Not to mention Louis-Ferdinand Céline, now out of favour. And John Dos. Who bought you both all those custard tins cut price? I say both. I was the best friend either of you ever had and I’m still prepared to prove it, I’m still prepared to wrap my braces round anyone’s neck, in your defence.
Pause.
Now you’re going to say you loved her soul and I loved her body. You’re going to trot that old one out. I know you were much more beautiful than me, much more aquiline, I know that, that I’ll give you, more ethereal, more thoughtful, slyer, while I had both feet firmly planted on the deck. But I’ll tell you one thing you don’t know. She loved my soul. It was my soul she loved.
Pause.
You never say what you’re ready for now. You’re not even ready for a game of ping pong. You’re incapable of saying of what it is you’re capable, where your relish lies, where you’re sharp, excited, why you never are capable . . . never are . . . capable of exercising a crisp and full-bodied appraisal of the buzzing possibilities of your buzzing brain cells. You often, I’ll be frank, act as if you’re dead, as if the Balls Pond Road and the lovely ebony lady never existed, as if the rain in the light on the pavements in the twilight never existed, as if our sporting and intellectual life never was.
Complete Works, Volume IV Page 12
