by T. S. Eliot
Although it’s as real to me as … this world.
But that’s just the trouble. They seem so unrelated.
I turn the key, and walk through the gate,
And there I am … alone, in my ‘garden’.
Alone, that’s the thing. That’s why it’s not real.
You know, I think that Eggerson’s garden
Is more real than mine.
LUCASTA. Eggerson’s garden?
What makes you think of Eggerson — of all people?
COLBY. Well, he retires to his garden — literally,
And also in the same sense that I retire to mine.
But he doesn’t feel alone there. And when he comes out
He has marrows, or beetroot, or peas … for Mrs. Eggerson.
LUCASTA. Are you laughing at me?
COLBY. I’m being very serious.
What I mean is, my garden’s no less unreal to me
Than the world outside it. If you have two lives
Which have nothing whatever to do with each other —
Well, they’re both unreal. But for Eggerson
His garden is a part of one single world.
LUCASTA. But what do you want?
COLBY. Not to be alone there.
If I were religious, God would walk in my garden
And that would make the world outside it real
And acceptable, I think.
LUCASTA. You sound awfully religious.
Is there no other way of making it real to you?
COLBY. It’s simply the fact of being alone there
That makes it unreal.
LUCASTA. Can no one else enter?
COLBY. It can’t be done by issuing invitations:
They would just have to come. And I should not see them coming.
I should not hear the opening of the gate.
They would simply … be there suddenly,
Unexpectedly. Walking down an alley
I should become aware of someone walking with me.
That’s the only way I can think of putting it.
LUCASTA. How afraid one is of … being hurt!
COLBY. It’s not the hurting that one would mind
But the sense of desolation afterwards.
LUCASTA. I know what you mean. Then the flowers would fade
And the music would stop. And the walls would be broken.
And you would find yourself in a devastated area —
A bomb-site … willow-herb … a dirty public square.
But I can’t imagine that happening to you.
You seem so secure, to me. Not only in your music —
That’s just its expression. You don’t seem to me
To need anybody.
COLBY. That’s quite untrue.
LUCASTA. But you’ve something else, that I haven’t got:
Something of which the music is a … symbol.
I really would like to understand music,
Not in order to be able to talk about it,
But … partly, to enjoy it … and because of what it stands for.
You know, I’m a little jealous of your music!
When I see it as a means of contact with a world
More real than any I’ve ever lived in.
And I’d like to understand you.
COLBY. I believe you do already,
Better than … other people. And I want to understand you.
Does one ever come to understand anyone?
LUCASTA. I think you’re being very discouraging:
Are you doing it deliberately?
COLBY. That’s not what I meant.
I meant, there’s no end to understanding a person.
All one can do is to understand them better,
To keep up with them; so that as the other changes
You can understand the change as soon as it happens,
Though you couldn’t have predicted it.
LUCASTA. I think I’m changing.
I’ve changed quite a lot in the last two hours.
COLBY. And I think I’m changing too. But perhaps what we call change …
LUCASTA. Is understanding better what one really is.
And the reason why that comes about, perhaps …
COLBY. Is, beginning to understand another person.
LUCASTA. Oh Colby, now that we begin to understand,
I’d like you to know a little more about me.
You must have wondered.
COLBY. Must have wondered?
No, I haven’t wondered. It’s all a strange world
To me, you know, in which I find myself.
But if you mean, wondered about your … background:
No. I’ve been curious to know what you are,
But not who you are, in the ordinary sense.
Is that what you mean? I’ve just accepted you.
LUCASTA. Oh, that’s so wonderful, to be accepted!
No one has ever ‘just accepted’ me before.
Of course the facts don’t matter, in a sense.
But now we’ve got to this point — you might as well know them.
COLBY. I’d gladly tell you everything about myself;
But you know most of what there is to say
Already, either from what I’ve told you
Or from what I’ve told B.; or from Sir Claude.
LUCASTA. Claude hasn’t told me anything about you;
He doesn’t tell me much. And as for B. —
I’d much rather hear it from yourself.
COLBY. There’s only one thing I can’t tell you.
At least, not yet. I’m not allowed to tell.
And that’s about my parents.
LUCASTA. Oh, I see.
Well, I can’t believe that matters.
But I can tell you all about my parents:
At least, I’m going to.
COLBY. Does that matter, either?
LUCASTA. In one way, it matters. A little while ago
You said, very cleverly, that when we first met
You saw I was trying to give a false impression.
I want to tell you now, why I tried to do that.
And it’s always succeeded with people before:
I got into the habit of giving that impression.
That’s where B. has been such a help to me —
He fosters the impression. He half believes in it.
But he knows all about me, and he knows
That what some men have thought about me wasn’t true.
COLBY. What wasn’t true?
LUCASTA. That I was Claude’s mistress —
Or had been his mistress, palmed off on B.
COLBY. I never thought of such a thing!
LUCASTA. You never thought of such a thing!
There are not many men who wouldn’t have thought it.
I don’t know about B. He’s very generous.
I don’t think he’d have minded. But he’s very clever too;
And he guessed the truth from the very first moment.
COLBY. But what is there to know?
LUCASTA. You’ll laugh when I tell you:
I’m only Claude’s daughter.
COLBY. His daughter!
LUCASTA. His daughter. Oh, it’s a sordid story.
I hated my mother. I never could see
How Claude had ever liked her. Oh, that childhood —
Always living in seedy lodgings
And being turned out when the neighbours complained.
Oh of course Claude gave her money, a regular allowance;
But it wouldn’t have mattered how much he’d given her:
It was always spent before the end of the quarter
On gin and betting, I should guess.
And I knew how she supplemented her income
When I was sent out. I’ve been locked in a cupboard!
I was only eight years old
When she died of an ‘accidental overdose’.
T
hen Claude took me over. That was lucky.
But I was old enough to remember … too much.
COLBY. You are Claude’s daughter!
LUCASTA. Oh, there’s no doubt of that.
I’m sure he wished there had been. He’s been good to me
In his way. But I’m always a reminder to him
Of something he would prefer to forget.
[A pause]
But why don’t you say something? Are you shocked?
COLBY. Shocked? No. Yes. You don’t understand.
I want to explain. But I can’t, just yet.
Oh, why did I ever come into this house!
Lucasta …
LUCASTA. I can see well enough you are shocked.
You ought to see your face! I’m disappointed.
I suppose that’s all. I believe you’re more shocked
Than if I’d told you I was Claude’s mistress.
Claude has always been ashamed of me:
Now you’re ashamed of me. I thought you’d understand.
Little you know what it’s like to be a bastard
And wanted by nobody. I know why you’re shocked:
Claude has just accepted me like a debit item
Always in his cash account. I don’t like myself.
I don’t like the person I’ve forced myself to be;
And I liked you because you didn’t like that person either,
And I thought you’d come to see me as the real kind of person
That I want to be. That I know I am.
That was new to me. I suppose I was flattered.
And I thought, now, perhaps, if someone else sees me
As I really am, I might become myself.
COLBY. Oh Lucasta, I’m not shocked. Not by you,
Not by anything you think. It’s to do with myself.
LUCASTA. Yourself, indeed! Your precious self!
Why don’t you shut yourself up in that garden
Where you like to be alone with yourself?
Or perhaps you think it would be bad for your prospects
Now that you’re Claude’s white-headed boy.
Perhaps he’ll adopt you, and make you his heir
And you’ll marry another Lady Elizabeth.
But in that event, Colby, you’ll have to accept me
As your sister! Even if I am a guttersnipe …
COLBY. You mustn’t use such words! You don’t know how it’s hurting.
LUCASTA. I could use words much stronger than that,
And I will, if I choose. Oh, I’m sorry:
I suppose it’s my mother coming out in me.
You know, Colby, I’m truly disappointed.
I was sure, when I told you all I did,
That you wouldn’t mind at all. That you might be sorry for me.
But now I don’t want you to be sorry, thank you.
Why, I’d actually thought of telling you before,
And I postponed telling you, just for the fun of it:
I thought, when I tell him, it will be so wonderful
All in a moment. And now there’s nothing,
Nothing at all. It’s far worse than ever.
Just when you think you’re on the point of release
From loneliness, then loneliness swoops down upon you;
When you think you’re getting out, you’re getting further in,
And you know at last that there’s no escape.
Well, I’ll be going.
COLBY. You mustn’t go yet!
There’s something else that I want to explain,
And now I’m going to. I’m breaking a promise. But …
LUCASTA. I don’t believe there’s anything to explain
That could explain anything away. I shall never
Never forget that look on your face
When I told you about Claude and my mother.
I may be a bastard, but I have some self-respect.
Well, there’s always B. I think that now
I’m just beginning to appreciate B.
COLBY. Lucasta, wait!
[Enter B. KAGHAN]
KAGHAN. Enter B. Kaghan.
To see the new flat. And here’s Lucasta.
I knew I should find she’d got in first!
Trust Kaghan’s intuitions! I’m your guardian angel,
Colby, to protect you from Lucasta.
LUCASTA. You’re my guardian angel at the moment, B.
You’re to take me out to dinner. And I’m dying for a drink.
KAGHAN. I told Colby, never learn to mix cocktails,
If you don’t want women always dropping in on you.
And between a couple of man-eating tigers
Like you and Lizzie, he’s got to have protection.
LUCASTA. Colby doesn’t need your protection racket
So far as I’m concerned, B. And as for Lizzie,
You’d better not get in her way when she’s hunting.
But all that matters now is, that I’m hungry,
And you’ve got to give me a very good dinner.
KAGHAN. You shall be fed. All in good time.
I’ve come to inspect the new bachelor quarters,
And to wish Colby luck. I’ve always been lucky,
And I always bring luck to other people.
COLBY. Will you have a glass of sherry?
KAGHAN. Yes, I’ll have a glass of sherry,
To drink success to the flat. Lucasta too:
Much better for you than cocktails, Lucasta.
LUCASTA. You know I don’t like sherry.
KAGHAN. You’ve got to drink it,
To Colby, and a happy bachelor life!
Which depends, of course, on preventing Lizzie
From always interfering. Be firm with her, Colby;
Assert your right to a little privacy.
Now’s the moment for firmness. Don’t let her cross the threshold.
LUCASTA. As if you weren’t as afraid of her as anybody!
KAGHAN. Well, at least, I’ve always managed to escape her.
LUCASTA. Only because she’s never wanted to pursue you.
KAGHAN. Yes, I made a bad impression at the start:
I saw that it was necessary. I’m afraid Colby
Has made a good impression; which he’ll have to live down.
— I must say, I like the way you’ve bad the place done up.
COLBY. It was Lady Elizabeth chose the decorations.
KAGHAN. Then I’m not sure I like them. You must change the colours.
It’s all a bit too dim. You need something brighter.
But otherwise, it looks pretty comfortable.
If I was as snug as Colby is, Lucasta,
I’d never have thought of changing my condition.
LUCASTA. You’re always free to think again.
KAGHAN. Marriage is a gamble. But I’m a born gambler
And I’ve put my shirt … no, not quite the right expression —
Lucasta’s the most exciting speculation
I’ve ever thought of investing in.
Colby’s more cautious. You know, Colby,
You and I ought to be in business together.
I’m a good guesser. But I sometimes guess wrong.
I make decisions on the spur of the moment,
But you’d never take a leap in the dark;
You’d keep me on the rails.
COLBY. That’s just nonsense.
You only pretend that you’re a gambler.
You’ve got as level a head as anyone,
And you never get involved in anything risky.
You like to pretend to other people
That you’re a gambler. I don’t believe you ever gamble
On anything that isn’t a certainty.
KAGHAN. Well, there’s something in that. You know, Lucasta,
