The Dwarfs

by Harold Pinter

  He took off his glasses and placed them in his lap.

  - But I can tell you one thing. Mysteries are always new mysteries, I’ve decided that. So, you see, I am alive and not a storehouse of dead advice and formulas of how to live. And I won’t be. But I have to be silent, like the guilty.

  He looked up and put on his glasses.

  - Did you know that the suspicious and the dead have one thing in common? They are silent. Of course, I put my suspicions on the table tonight and I wasn’t silent. So you think I’m contradicting myself, but if you think that I’m prepared to go further. Actually, and you can take it or leave it, I am neither suspicious nor dead. I am not. Weinstein may be. The trouble, the real trouble, is, though, that I cannot convince myself that I’m not spiritually dead. Quite frankly, the evidence is overwhelming, if to be dead in such a way means the ability only to communicate with the past, the inability to communicate with the present. I sometimes communicate with you, occasionally with Pete.

  - Pete? Mark said. The only real communication for you with him would be surrender. He’d consume. He’d be the one, mate, that would eat you out of house and home. I’ve told you, it’s about time you did yourself a favour.

  - You’re wrong and right.

  Mark frowned. He moved to the sideboard, picked up an apple and bit into it.

  - Yes, Len said, I say I communicate sometimes. But whether I do or not doesn’t matter. I do just the same.

  - Yes?

  - It’s a corner, you see, I occupy a corner. I am unable to speak to anyone, most of the time, without there being a complexity which repels me. I am unable to consider myself without finding myself repellent.

  - Are you at a dead end?

  - You mean have I no potential? Yes, I have potential, certainly. Do you know what it’s like? It’s like the useless buried Spanish treasure galleons. It will not come to the surface, ever. All my days, Mark, are lived with a sight of my own buried treasure. It’s in my corner, somewhere. Everything is in my corner. All I said to you earlier is contained there. Everything is from the corner’s point of view. I don’t hold the whip. I’m a labouring man. I do the corner’s will. I slave my guts out, and get nothing out of it. I thought, at one time, that I’d escaped it, but it never dies, it’s never dead. So I can never hope to see things as they are, or might really be. Of course, I can understand that my corner is the whole too. I feed it. It’s well fed. Things that at one time seem to me of value I have no resource but to give it to eat and what was of value turns into pus. I can hide nothing. I can’t lay anything aside.

  He leaned forward in the chair.

  - Look, I’m finished with buried treasure. Mine is here now, instant and ready. Why don’t you take it? You have it. I give it to you. Take it.

  - No thanks. You can keep it.

  - Listen, Len said. I know the corner is a necessary, an evident particle of living, a whole within a whole, if you like, but I know I know I’ve got to die in some way to get out of it. Something has to die. I may be emerging. I’m not dead in it, at all events. You could say I was dead and alive at successive times. In, out. In, out, dead, alive. Some people would call it an interesting period.

  They stared at each other. Mark slapped his head.

  - I’ll have to use a stopwatch in a minute!

  - What can I do? Len asked, bending double in the chair, guffawing. What, I ask you, can I do?

  Mark walked across the room, thumping his ribs.

  - When you say you can’t get out you are out!

  - Where is out? Len asked, jumping up.

  - It’s not in, Mark said, retreating into a corner.

  - You’re not out if you’re in, Len said. You’re quite right!

  - Look at it this way. When you’re out you’re out, and when you’re in you’re in.

  - I’ll write you out a prescription in a minute!

  Mark groaned. He went to the table and opened two bottles of beer.

  - Listen here, Len said. What I’m really doing, if you want to know the truth, is trying to get my weight down to the limit. Otherwise I lose my purse money and you don’t get your 10 per cent.

  - I’d give up shadowboxing and go on the road if I were you, Mark said.

  - What have you got in here? Len asked, opening the cupboard. Have you got any gherkins? Do you know what I did the other day? I showed a bloke at work, an Oxford student, one of your poems. We’d just met the Irish mail and we both got a five bob tip. So I showed him one of your poems.

  - How did he take it? Mark asked.

  - He looked at his watch. He said we’d better get across to number seven. The point about these people is, that when they read a poem, they never open the door and go in. They bend down and take a squint through the keyhole. That’s all they do.

  - They’re the intelligent people, Mark said.

  - Yes. I’ve seen their stuff too. It’s lucid all right. There’s no denying it. But when you feel the quality, there’s nothing there. You pick it up like a piece of cloth and you can see right through it. I can’t talk to them. How could I tell this bloke that one phrase in your poem wasn’t English but Chinese. It’s Chinese. That phrase is Chinese. How could I tell him that?

  - Which phrase?

  - It’s not important. I don’t remember.

  They drank.

  - The trouble is, Len said, that I can’t follow their terms of reference. I’m a stranger. You see, my reaction to poetry is like the old women eating onions and knitting when the guillotine falls. That’s what it is. What do you mean? I don’t like the word style. I don’t know what it means. I don’t like the word style and I don’t like the word function.

  - These people, said Mark, want everything to fit into their crossword puzzle and they object when a piece doesn’t fit, that’s all. To hell with them. They’ve got minds like a backyard bog, mate, even though their shit comes out wrapped in silk and satin.

  He picked a buttend from the ashtray and held it up.

  - That’s what those sort of people are worth.

  - I don’t know about that.

  - What’s the good of being shy of contempt? Mark said. Be prepared to condemn and despise, Len. Then the plate’s clean.

  - I don’t believe it.

  - Well, how is the poetry business? Yours, I mean.

  - Finished.

  - Bankrupt? Haven’t you got any small change in the safe?

  - Yes, but it’s of no value. I showed that bloke one of my poems too. He hasn’t looked at me since. He took it as a personal insult that I should even show it to him. Do you know how I write a poem? I sit in the room and look up at the corners. Suddenly I get up and squeeze a lemon, a drop of juice comes out, and that’s the poem. What’s the good of that?

  - There are no hard and fast rules.

  - No?

  Mark shifted a curtain and looked out into the night.

  - Do you know what these people do? Len said. They climb from word to word, like steppingstones.

  He walked about the room, demonstrating.

  - Like steppingstones. But tell me this. What do they do when they come to a line with no words in it all? Can you answer that? What do they do when they come to a line with no words in it at all? Can you tell me that?

  Mark drained his beer.

  - As for you, Len said, I’ll tell you what you do when you write a poem. You press button B and get your money back.

  Fifteen

  Virginia sat in an armchair, resting a glass on her lap. With her spoon she poked at the tealeafed lemonstrip and watched the sun move among the vases. The others were talking. She straightened her skirt at her knees, leaned forward to place the glass on the mantelpiece, lay back and closed her eyes.

  - Our intellectuals and the masses? Pete was saying. They do one of four things. They either ignore them, pity them, re-create them to mean something else, or complain about them. If you do the first you limit your scope and you’re a fool. If you do the second you’re not an intellectua
l. If you do the third you’re wasting your time. And if you do the fourth you’re just like me.

  - What is a mass? Mark asked.

  - Get out of it. Haven’t you ever heard of the poor, downtrodden, hardpressed, chainganged, pulverized lot of Jesuses who tell us what to do?

  - They only go about in hired cars, Len said. I’ve never seen one of them.

  Mark swallowed the remains in his glass.

  - Very good tea that, Virginia.

  - Good.

  - Look here, Len said, I’ll tell you something for nothing. I went into the washroom at work the other day and the stationmaster, the big boss, the king of the castle, was bending over a basin washing his hands, immaculately dressed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stood there looking at him and I had a terrible temptation to kick him straight up the arse.

  - Did you? Mark said.

  - No. Do you know why? Can’t you see why? If I’d have kicked him there and then and knocked him through the mirror, don’t you know what he would have done? He’d have turned round and said, I’m most awfully sorry, wiped his hands, and gone out. Like God. It’s exactly what God would do. It stands to reason.

  - Yes, Pete said, after a while, it’s all very well, but you’ve got to keep a firm grip on your inclinations in these places. You’ve got to be armourplated. There’s a lot I could do and say if I behaved like a man and lost my temper. But what’s the point? I’d rather cut my throat than bandy words with the kind of guttersnipe I run into. Of course, what these people don’t understand is that it’s not necessary to spy through my cracks. I’m open and above board. Even the devil can peep without temerity.

  - Eh? Mark said.

  Virginia collected the glasses and took them into the kitchen.

  - All right, Pete said, but with my hand on my thumper I’ll say this. The art of dealing with others is one, to be able to see through them, and two, to keep your trap shut. If you’ve got kop enough for the first and control enough for the second you’re a made man.

  She washed, wiped and set the glasses in the dresser.

  - Croquet weather, Len said, it’s croquet weather.

  - The duke’s a long time coming said the duchess, stirring the tea with her other hand, Mark yawned.

  - Yes, Pete said, but there’s no real weather in London. London doesn’t admit to seasons. London’s an overall condition. Know what I mean?

  Virginia looked out on to the lawn.

  - The point is, of course, Pete said, that we weren’t born into a world of space at all, but into a nut. The best of us only scrape the sides. Come on, Weinblatt. Do your best and put a frown on. I’m getting on to metaphysics.

  Virginia came back into the room and sat down.

  - I’ve discovered an art, Mark said, to find the mind’s construction in the arse.

  - I wouldn’t put it past you, said Len.

  - No, Pete said, this lavatory culture has its limitations. Being a literary shithouse attendant isn’t the sole aim in life. Jesus Christ, for instance, was worth his salt in other directions.

  - That’s a lovely dress, Virginia, Len said, standing up.

  - Haven’t you seen it before?

  - Have I?

  - Pete made it.

  - Yes, it’s a good fit, that dress, Pete said.

  Len bent down and fingered the dress at her shoulder.

  - That’s a very fair piece of material.

  - Wholesale or retail? Mark asked.

  - Wholesale. I know a bloke.

  - How much are you retail then? Len said.

  - I’m not in season, Virginia said.

  - Couldn’t I get hold of a fair copy in Marks and Spencer’s?

  - I was lucky with that material, Pete said. I’m working on another garment now.

  - What’s that? Mark asked.

  - A petticoat.

  Pete and Mark lit cigarettes, bending to the match from their seats.

  - When are you going to do a job of work, Mark?

  - Not for sometime yet.

  - Where do you get your pocketmoney? Come on. You must be short on your savings by now.

  - I’ve got a duchess in Hanover Square.

  - Old or young? asked Virginia.

  - She’s bedridden.

  - I don’t doubt it, Pete said.

  - As a matter of fact, Mark said, that is my earnest ambition. It’s the only way.

  - Don’t kid yourself. You wouldn’t be any good as a gigolo, Pete said. A gigolo has to be faithful and satisfied with his lot. You’d be running after the kitchenmaid too and that would be your mistake. To be a gigolo requires a sense of discipline, of dedication. All trades have their ethics. A gigolo, Mark, feels no desires other than the desire to rot away in silk pants for the rest of his life. You wouldn’t be able to have your cake and eat it.

  - You’ve got something there.

  - But be frank. Have you ever done an honest day’s work in your life?

  - You’re under a delusion, mate, Mark said. When I’m working I’m nothing but a slave. A slave. Go on the stage yourself. Get a bucketful. Len’s got a hidden hoard. We’ll put you on the road.

  - No thanks.

  - Why not? They’d lap you up.

  - I’d die in a week. Quite frankly, when I think of the English dramatic heritage and then look around me at the crowd of poofs and ponces that support it I feel like throwing in the sponge.

  - But you’re not even in the ring. I’m the one who has to put up with it.

  - Yes, I suppose you do.

  - You’re damn right.

  Smoke from the cigarettes mingled above the table, sliding to the windowpane. Mark crossed his legs, the table jolted, the water in the flowerbowl swayed. He blew a path through the smoke.

  - A funny thing happened to me last night, Len said.

  - What?

  - I squashed a tiny insect while I was doing some mathematics. And I brushed the remains off my finger with my thumb, without thinking about it. Then I realized that the fragments were growing like fluff. As they were falling, they were becoming larger, like fluff. I had put my hand into the body of a dead bird.

  - What mathematics were you doing? Mark asked.

  - Geometry.

  - There’s your answer.

  - Anyway, Len said, I made a decision on the strength of it. I’ve decided to go over to Paris next week.

  - Paris? Pete said. What for?

  - How can I tell you what for?

  - Alone? Mark asked.

  - No. With a bloke at Euston. An Austrian. He pops backwards and forwards. It’s an open invitation. He’s got a room there.

  - But what do you want to go to Paris for? Pete asked.

  - Why shouldn’t he? said Virginia.

  - You don’t understand, Ginny. We’ve got Len’s interests at heart. Haven’t we, Len?

  - What?

  - No, Pete said, you’re quite entitled to go to Paris if you want to. It’s just that I wouldn’t do it myself, that’s all. I take it you don’t look upon it as a holiday?

  - No, I suppose not. On the other hand. . .

  - I thought you were going to get another job here.

  - I’ll take a return ticket, Len said. I might return within the hour. Who knows?

  - Well, drop us a card, Mark said.

  Virginia stood up, smoothing her dress.

  - I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden, she said.

  - I admit, of course, that Paris has never meant much to me.

  - I know what you mean. But you can never tell.

  - I’ll come with you, Mark said. Show you the lilac.

  Len looked up.

  - Come with me?

  - Not you.

  - It doesn’t altogether ring true, Paris, Pete said.

  Mark and Virginia walked over the lawn and stood under the arch of the lilactree.

  - I like this tree.

  - Mind, Mark said, catching her arm. Spider’s web.

  - I didn’t see it.

 
- That is a beautiful dress.

  - Yes.

  - A man of many talents.

  She plucked a leaf and pressed it to her mouth.

  - Yes.

  - How’s school?

  - Fine.

  - Do you still like the kids?

  - Yes, of course.

  - And they like you?

  - I think so.

  - Your arms are very brown.

  - We went into the country the other day. The kids and me. We went to Kent.

  He leaned against a bough.

  - Yes?

  - Mmn.

  - Well, how’s Marie Saxon?

  - She said to tell you she’s managed to forget you.

  - Sweet.

  - She said it was a hard job but her heart has healed.

  - What a shame.

  - Is it?

  - I believe in hopeless love.

  - You do?

  - No, it’s not a shame. It’s nothing.

  She tore the leaf across, along the spine.

  - What do you do with yourself? she asked.

  - This and that.

  - This and what?

  - Depends which way the wind’s blowing.

  - Which way has it been blowing?

  - I can’t really remember. What about you?

  - Me?

  - Yes.

  - In the pink. Let’s go in.

  They walked back across the lawn.

  - What I mean is, Shakespeare didn’t need to go further than his own front door.

  - But if someone had given him a ticket, would he have said no?

  - No, I suppose not.

  - They may drive me out, Len said. They may not even let me in.

  - Well, I wouldn’t worry, Pete said. You must have a liberal stock of false noses by now.

  - What about a stroll? Mark said.

  - Yes. Good idea.

  They walked out of the house and across the road towards Hackney Downs. Mark bought a paper and turned to the back page.

  - See one of these books I’ve got here? Pete said, pointing to the small pile in the crook of his arm. Very interesting. About surgery in Elizabethan times. Do you know a woman once gave birth to six puppies?

  - No! Len said.

  - Hutton’s made a century against Essex, Mark said.

  - He can’t do anything right these days, can he? Len said.

  - How did she manage it? Mark said.

  - Well, the point about these puppies, Pete said, is that she kept them in a pig’s bladder under her chastity blanket.