by Tom Stoppard
Annie You think I’m more like you.
Henry Yes.
Annie It’s just that I happen to know him.
Henry You don’t know him. You met him on a train.
Annie Well, he’s the only political prisoner I’ve ever met on a train. He’s lucky.
Henry Political?
Annie It was a political act which got him jumped on by the police in the first place so it’s …
Henry A priori?
Annie No, it’s –
Henry De facto?
Annie It’s common sense that resisting arrest isn’t the same as a criminal doing it.
Henry Arson is a criminal offence.
Annie Arson is burning down buildings. Setting fire to the wreath on the Cenotaph is a symbolic act. Surely you can see the difference?
Henry (carefully) Oh, yes … That’s … easy to see.
Not carefully enough. Annie looks at him narrowly.
Annie And, of course, he did get hammered by an emotional backlash.
Pause.
Henry Do you mean real leopard skin or just printed nylon?
She erupts and assails him, shouting.
Annie You don’t love me the way I love you. I’m just a relief after Charlotte, and a novelty.
Henry You’re a novelty all right. I never met anyone so silly. I love you. I don’t know why you’re behaving like this.
Annie I’m behaving normally. It’s you who’s abnormal. You don’t care enough to care. Jealousy is normal.
Henry I thought you said you weren’t jealous.
Annie Well, why aren’t you ever jealous?
Henry Of whom?
Annie Of anybody. You don’t care if Gerald Jones sticks his tongue in my ear – which, incidentally, he does whenever he gets the chance.
Henry Is that what this is all about?
Annie It’s insulting the way you just laugh.
Henry But you’ve got no interest in him.
Annie I know that, but why should you assume it?
Henry Because you haven’t. This is stupid.
Annie But why don’t you mind?
Henry I do.
Annie No, you don’t.
Henry That’s true, I don’t.
Why is that?
It’s because I feel superior. There he is, poor bugger, picking up the odd crumb of ear wax from the rich man’s table. You’re right. I don’t mind. I like it. I like the way his presumption admits his poverty. I like him, knowing that that’s all there is, because you’re coming home to me and we don’t want anyone else.
I love love. I love having a lover and being one. The insularity of passion. I love it. I love the way it blurs the distinction between everyone who isn’t one’s lover.
Only two kinds of presence in the world. There’s you and there’s them.
I love you so.
Annie I love you so, Hen.
They kiss. The alarm on Henry’s wristwatch goes off. They separate.
Henry Sorry.
Annie Don’t get kicked by the horse.
Henry Don’t get kicked by Brodie.
He goes to the door to leave. At the door he looks at her and nods. She nods at him. He leaves.
Annie goes slowly to Henry’s desk and looks at the pages on it. She turns on the radio and turns it from pop to Bach. She goes back to the desk and, almost absently, opens one of the drawers. Leaving it open, she goes to the door and disappears briefly into the hall, then reappears, closing the door. She goes to one of the cardboard boxes on the floor. She removes the contents from the box. She places the pile of papers on the floor. Squatting down, she starts going through the pile, methodically and unhurriedly. The radio plays on.
Act Two
SCENE FIVE
Henry and Annie.
Living-room/study. Three doors.
Two years later. A different house. The two years ought to show on Henry and on Annie. Perhaps he now uses glasses when he is reading, as he is at the beginning of the scene, or he may even have grown a moustache. Annie may have cut her hair short. Opera (Verdi) is playing on the record player. There is a TV and video and a small radio on Henry’s desk, on which there is also a typewriter. Henry is alone, reading a script which consists of a sheaf of typed pages.
Henry reads for a few moments.
Annie enters from bedroom or kitchen and glances at Henry, not casually, then sits down and watches him read for a moment. Then she looks away and listens to the music for a moment. Henry glances up at her.
Annie looks at him.
Annie Well?
Henry Oh – um – Strauss.
Annie What?
Henry Not Strauss.
Annie I meant the play.
Henry (indicating the script) Ah. The play.
Annie (scornfully) Strauss. How can it be Strauss? It’s in Italian.
Henry Is it? (He listens.) So it is.
Italian opera.
One of the Italian operas.
Verdi.
Annie Which one?
Henry Giuseppe. (He judges from her expression that this is not the right answer.) Monty?
Annie I mean which opera.
Henry Ah. (confidently) Madame Butterfly.
Annie You’re doing it on purpose. (She goes to the record player and stops it playing.)
Henry I promise you.
Annie You’d think that something would have sunk in after two years and a bit.
Henry I like it – I really do like it – quite, it’s just that I can’t tell them apart. Two years and a bit isn’t very long when they’re all going for the same sound. Actually, I’ve got a better ear than you – you can’t tell the difference between the Everly Brothers and the Andrews Sisters.
Annie There isn’t any difference.
Henry Or we could split up. Can we have something decent on now?
Annie No.
Henry All right. Put on one of your instrumental numbers. The big band sound. (He does the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth.) Da – da – da – da …
Annie Get on.
Henry Right. (He turns his attention to the script.) Stop me if anybody has said this before, but it’s interesting how many of the all time greats begin with B: Beethoven, the Big Bopper …
Annie That’s all they have in common.
Henry I wouldn’t say that. They’re both dead. The Big Bopper died in the same plane crash that killed Buddy Holly and Richie Valens, you know.
Annie No, I didn’t know. Have you given up on the play or what?
Henry Buddy Holly was twenty-two. Think of what he might have gone on to achieve. I mean, if Beethoven had been killed in a plane crash at twenty-two, the history of music would have been very different. As would the history of aviation, of course.
Annie Henry.
Henry The play. (He turns his attention back to the script.)
Annie How far have you got?
Henry Do you have a professional interest in this or is it merely personal?
Annie Merely?
Pause.
Henry Do you have a personal interest in this or is it merely professional?
Annie Which one are you dubious about?
Pause.
Henry Pause.
Annie I could do her, couldn’t I?
Henry Mary? Oh, sure – without make-up.
Annie Well, then. Three Sisters is definitely up the spout.
Henry Nothing’s definite with that lot.
Annie The other two are pregnant.
Henry Half a dozen new lines could take care of that.
Annie If this script could be in a fit state, say, a month from now –
Henry Anyway, I thought you were committing incest in Glasgow.
Annie I haven’t said I’ll do it.
Henry I think you should. It’s classy stuff, Webster. I love all that Jacobean sex and violence.
Annie It’s Ford, not Webster. It’s Elizabethan, not Jacobean. And it’s Glasgow.
Henry Don�
��t you work north of Cambridge Circus, then?
Annie I was thinking you might miss me – pardon my mistake.
Henry I was thinking you might like me to come with you – pardon mine.
Annie You hadn’t the faintest intention of coming to Glasgow for five weeks.
Henry That’s true. I answered out of panic. Of course I’d miss you.
Annie Also, it is somewhat north.
Henry ‘shoots’ her between the eyes with his forefinger.
Henry Got you. Is it rehearsing in Glasgow?
Annie (nods) After the first week. (indicating the script) Where’ve you got to?
Henry They’re on the train.
‘You’re a strange boy, Billy. How old are you?’
‘Twenty. But I’ve lived more than you’ll ever live.’
Should I read out loud?
Annie If you like.
Henry Give you the feel of it.
Annie All right.
Henry I’ll go back a bit where they first meet. All right?
Annie nods. Henry makes train noises. She is defensive, not quite certain whether he is being wicked or not.
(Reading) ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
‘No.’
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘Thank you.’
He sits down opposite her. Mary carries on with reading her book
‘Going far?’
‘To London.’
‘So … you were saying … So you think it’s a free country.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘This is it, we’re all free to do as we’re told. My name’s Bill, by the way. What’s yours?’
‘Mary.’
‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mary.’
‘I’m glad to make yours, Bill.’
‘Do you know what time this train is due to arrive in London?’
‘At about half-past one, I believe, if it is on time.’
‘You put me in mind of Mussolini, Mary. Yes, you look just like him, you’ve got the same eyes.’
Annie If you’re not going to read it properly, don’t bother.
Henry Sorry.
‘At about half-past one, I believe, if it is on time.’
‘You put me in mind of Mussolini, Mary. People used to say about Mussolini, he may be a Fascist, but at least the trains run on time. Makes you wonder why British Rail isn’t totally on time, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean it’s a funny thing. The Fascists are in charge but the trains are late often as not.’
‘But this isn’t a Fascist country.’
‘Are you quite sure of that, Mary? Take the army –’
You’re not going to do this, are you?
Annie Why not?
Henry It’s no good.
Annie You mean it’s not literary.
Henry It’s not literary, and it’s no good. He can’t write.
Annie You’re a snob.
Henry I’m a snob, and he can’t write.
Annie I know it’s raw, but he’s got something to say.
Henry He’s got something to say. It happens to be something extremely silly and bigoted. But leaving that aside, there is still the problem that he can’t write. He can burn things down, but he can’t write.
Annie Give it back. I shouldn’t have asked you.
Henry For God’s sake, Annie, if it wasn’t Brodie you’d never have got through it.
Annie But it is Brodie. That’s the point. Two and a half years ago he could hardly put six words together.
Henry He still can’t.
Annie You pig.
Henry I’m a pig, and he can’t –
Annie I’ll smash you one. It’s you who’s bigoted. You’re bigoted about what writing is supposed to be like. You judge everything as though everyone starts off from the same place, aiming at the same prize. Eng. Lit. Shakespeare out in front by a mile, and the rest of the field strung out behind trying to close the gap. You all write for people who would like to write like you if only they could write. Well, sod you, and sod Eng. sodding Lit!
Henry Right.
Annie Brodie isn’t writing to compete like you. He’s writing to be heard.
Henry Right.
Annie And he’s done it on his own.
Henry Yes. Yes … I can see he’s done a lot of reading.
Annie You can’t expect it to be Eng. Lit.
Henry No.
Annie He’s a prisoner shouting over the wall.
Henry Quite. Yes, I see what you mean.
Annie Oh shut up! I can’t bear you agreeing with me just to keep me quiet. I’d rather have your sarcasm.
Henry Why a play? Did you suggest it?
Annie Not exactly.
Henry Why did you?
Annie The committee, what’s left of it, thought … I mean, people have got bored with Brodie. People get bored with anything after two or three years. The campaign needs …
Henry A shot in the arm?
Annie No, it needs …
Henry A kick up the arse?
Annie (flares) For Christ’s sake, will you stop finishing my sentences for me!
Henry Sorry.
Annie I’ve lost it now.
Henry The campaign needs …
Annie A writer is harder to ignore. I thought, TV plays get talked about, make some impact. Get his case reopened. Do you think? I mean, Henry, what do you think?
Henry I think it makes a lot of sense.
Annie No, what do you really think?
Henry Oh, really think. Well, I really think writing rotten plays is not in itself proof of rehabilitation. Still less of wrongful conviction. But even if it were, I think that anyone who thinks that they’re bored with Brodie won’t know what boredom is till they’ve sat through his apologia. Not that anyone will get the chance, because it’s half as long as Das Kapital and only twice as funny. I also think you should know better.
Annie You arrogant sod.
Henry You swear too much.
Annie Roger is willing to do it, in principle.
Henry What Roger? Oh Roger. Why the hell would Roger do it?
Annie He’s on the committee.
Henry looks at the ceiling.
It just needs a bit of work.
Henry You’re all bent.
Annie You’re jealous.
Henry Of Brodie?
Annie You’re jealous of the idea of the writer. You want to keep it sacred, special, not something anybody can do. Some of us have it, some of us don’t. We write, you get written about. What gets you about Brodie is he doesn’t know his place. You say he can’t write like a head waiter saying you can’t come in here without a tie. Because he can’t put words together. What’s so good about putting words together?
Henry It’s traditionally considered advantageous for a writer.
Annie He’s not a writer. He’s a convict. You’re a writer. You write because you’re a writer. Even when you write about something, you have to think up something to write about just so you can keep writing. More well chosen words nicely put together. So what? Why should that be it? Who says?
Henry Nobody says. It just works best.
Annie Of course it works. You teach a lot of people what to expect from good writing, and you end up with a lot of people saying you write well. Then somebody who isn’t in on the game comes along, like Brodie, who really has something to write about, something real, and you can’t get through it. Well, he couldn’t get through yours, so where are you? To you, he can’t write. To him, write is all you can do.
Henry Jesus, Annie, you’re beginning to appal me. There’s something scary about stupidity made coherent. I can deal with idiots, and I can deal with sensible argument, but I don’t know how to deal with you. Where’s my cricket bat?
Annie Your cricket bat?
Henry Yes. It’s a new approach. (He heads out into the hall.)
Annie Are yo
u trying to be funny?
Henry No, I’m serious.
He goes out while she watches in wary disbelief. He returns with an old cricket bat.
Annie You better not be.
Henry Right, you silly cow –
Annie Don’t you bloody dare –
Henry Shut up and listen. This thing here, which looks like a wooden club, is actually several pieces of particular wood cunningly put together in a certain way so that the whole thing is sprung, like a dance floor. It’s for hitting cricket balls with. If you get it right, the cricket ball will travel two hundred yards in four seconds, and all you’ve done is give it a knock like knocking the top off a bottle of stout, and it makes a noise like a trout taking a fly … (He clucks his tongue to make the noise.) What we’re trying to do is to write cricket bats, so that when we throw up an idea and give it a little knock, it might … travel … (He clucks his tongue again and picks up the script.) Now, what we’ve got here is a lump of wood of roughly the same shape trying to be a cricket bat, and if you hit a ball with it, the ball will travel about ten feet and you will drop the bat and dance about shouting ‘Ouch!’ with your hands stuck into your armpits. (indicating the cricket bat) This isn’t better because someone says it’s better, or because there’s a conspiracy by the MCC to keep cudgels out of Lords. It’s better because it’s better. You don’t believe me, so I suggest you go out to bat with this and see how you get on. ‘You’re a strange boy, Billy, how old are you?’ ‘Twenty, but I’ve lived more than you’ll ever live.’ Ooh, ouch!
He drops the script and hops about with his hands in his armpits, going ‘Ouch!’ Annie watches him expressionlessly until he desists.
Annie I hate you.
Henry I love you. I’m your pal. I’m your best mate. I look after you. You’re the only chap.
Annie Oh, Hen … Can’t you help?
Henry What did you expect me to do?
Annie Well … cut it and shape it …
Henry Cut it and shape it. Henry of Mayfair. Look – he can’t write. I would have to write it for him.
Annie Well, write it for him.
Henry I can’t.
Annie Why?
Henry Because it’s balls. Mary’s part is the least of it – it’s merely ham-fisted. But when he gets into his stride, or rather his lurch, announcing every stale revelation of the newly enlightened, like stout Cortez coming upon the Pacific – war is profits, politicians are puppets, Parlia ment is a farce, justice is a fraud, property is theft … It’s all here: the Stock Exchange, the arms dealers, the press barons … You can’t fool Brodie – patriotism is propaganda, religion is a con trick, royalty is an anachronism … Pages and pages of it. It’s like being run over very slowly by a travelling freak show of favourite simpletons, the india rubber pedagogue, the midget intellectual, the human panacea …