by T. S. Eliot
But why should we talk about Peter? All that matters
Is, that you think you want Lavinia.
And if that is the sort of person you are —
Well, you had better have her.
EDWARD. It’s not like that.
It is not that I am in love with Lavinia.
I don’t think I was ever really in love with her.
If I have ever been in love — and I think that I have —
I have never been in love with anyone but you,
And perhaps I still am. But this can’t go on.
It never could have been … a permanent thing:
You should have a man … nearer your own age.
CELIA. I don’t think I care for advice from you, Edward:
You are not entitled to take any interest
Now, in my future. I only hope you’re competent
To manage your own. But if you are not in love
And never have been in love with Lavinia,
What is it that you want?
EDWARD. I am not sure.
The one thing of which I am relatively certain
Is, that only since this morning
I have met myself as a middle-aged man
Beginning to know what it is to feel old.
That is the worst moment, when you feel that you have lost
The desire for all that was most desirable,
Before you are contented with what you can desire;
Before you know what is left to be desired;
And you go on wishing that you could desire
What desire has left behind. But you cannot understand.
How could you understand what it is to feel old?
CELIA. But I want to understand you. I could understand.
And, Edward, please believe that whatever happens
I shall not loathe you. I shall only feel sorry for you.
It’s only myself I am in danger of loathing.
But what will your life be? I cannot bear to think of it.
Oh, Edward! Can you be happy with Lavinia?
EDWARD. No — not happy: or, if there is any happiness,
Only the happiness of knowing
That the misery does not feed on the ruin of loveliness,
That the tedium is not the residue of ecstasy.
I see that my life was determined long ago
And that the struggle to escape from it
Is only a make-believe, a pretence
That what is, is not, or could be changed.
The self that can say ‘I want this — or want that’ —
The self that wills — he is a feeble creature;
He has to come to terms in the end
With the obstinate, the tougher self; who does not speak,
Who never talks, who cannot argue;
And who in some men may be the guardian —
But in men like me, the dull, the implacable,
The indomitable spirit of mediocrity.
The willing self can contrive the disaster
Of this unwilling partnership — but can only flourish
In submission to the rule of the stronger partner.
CELIA. I am not sure, Edward, that I understand you;
And yet I understand as I never did before.
I think — I believe — you are being yourself
As you never were before, with me.
Twice you have changed since I have been looking at you.
I looked at your face: and I thought that I knew
And loved every contour; and as I looked
It withered, as if I had unwrapped a mummy.
I listened to your voice, that had always thrilled me,
And it became another voice — no, not a voice:
What I heard was only the noise of an insect,
Dry, endless, meaningless, inhuman —
You might have made it by scraping your legs together —
Or however grasshoppers do it. I looked,
And listened for your heart, your blood;
And saw only a beetle the size of a man
With nothing more inside it than what comes out
When you tread on a beetle.
EDWARD. Perhaps that is what I am.
Tread on me, if you like.
CELIA. No, I won’t tread on you.
That is not what you are. It is only what was left
Of what I had thought you were. I see another person,
I see you as a person whom I never saw before.
The man I saw before, he was only a projection —
I see that now — of something that I wanted —
No, not wanted — something I aspired to —
Something that I desperately wanted to exist.
It must happen somewhere — but what, and where is it?
Edward, I see that I was simply making use of you.
And I ask you to forgive me.
EDWARD. You … ask me to forgive you!
CELIA. Yes, for two things. First …
[The telephone rings]
EDWARD. Damn the telephone.
I suppose I had better answer it.
CELIA. Yes, better answer it.
EDWARD. Hello! … Oh, Julia: what is it now?
Your spectacles again … where did you leave them?
Or have we … have I got to hunt all over?
Have you looked in your bag? … Well, don’t snap my head off …
You’re sure, in the kitchen? Beside the champagne bottle?
You’re quite sure? … Very well, hold on if you like;
We … I’ll look for them.
CELIA. Yes, you look for them.
I shall never go into your kitchen again.
[Exit EDWARD. He returns with the spectacles and a bottle]
EDWARD. She was right for once.
CELIA. She is always right.
But why bring an empty champagne bottle?
EDWARD. It isn’t empty. It may be a little flat —
But why did she say that it was a half-bottle?
It’s one of my best: and I have no half-bottles.
Well, I hoped that you would drink a final glass with me.
CELIA. What should we drink to?
EDWARD. Whom shall we drink to?
CELIA. To the Guardians.
EDWARD. To the Guardians?
CELIA. To the Guardians. It was you who spoke of guardians.
[They drink]
It may be that even Julia is a guardian.
Perhaps she is my guardian. Give me the spectacles.
Good night, Edward.
EDWARD. Good night … Celia.
[Exit CELIA]
Oh!
[He snatches up the receiver]
Hello, Julia! are you there? …
Well, I’m awfully sorry to have kept you waiting;
But we … I had to hunt for them … No, I found them.
… Yes, she’s bringing them now … Good night.
CURTAIN
Act One. Scene 3
The same room: late afternoon of the next day. EDWARD alone. He goes to answer the doorbell.
EDWARD. Oh … good evening.
[Enter the UNIDENTIFIED GUEST]
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. Good evening, Mr. Chamberlayne.
EDWARD. Well. May I offer you some gin and water?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. No, thank you. This is a different occasion.
EDWARD. I take it that as you have come alone
You have been unsuccessful.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. Not at all.
I have come to remind you — you have made a decision.
EDWARD. Are you thinking that I may have changed my mind?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. No. You will not be ready to change your mind
Until you recover from having made a decision.
No. I have come to tell you that you will change your mind,
But that it will not matter. It will be too late.
EDW
ARD. I have half a mind to change my mind now
To show you that I am free to change it.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. You will change your mind, but you are not free.
Your moment of freedom was yesterday.
You made a decision. You set in motion
Forces in your life and in the lives of others
Which cannot be reversed. That is one consideration.
And another is this: it is a serious matter
To bring someone back from the dead.
EDWARD. From the dead?
That figure of speech is somewhat … dramatic,
As it was only yesterday that my wife left me.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. Ah, but we die to each other daily.
What we know of other people
Is only our memory of the moments
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
To pretend that they and we are the same
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.
EDWARD. So you want me to greet my wife as a stranger?
That will not be easy.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. It is very difficult.
But it is perhaps still more difficult
To keep up the pretence that you are not strangers.
The affectionate ghosts: the grandmother,
The lively bachelor uncle at the Christmas party,
The beloved nursemaid — those who enfolded
Your childhood years in comfort, mirth, security —
If they returned, would it not be embarrassing?
What would you say to them, or they to you
After the first ten minutes? You would find it difficult
To treat them as strangers, but still more difficult
To pretend that you were not strange to each other.
EDWARD. You can hardly expect me to obliterate
The last five years.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. I ask you to forget nothing.
To try to forget is to try to conceal.
EDWARD. There are certainly things I should like to forget.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. And persons also. But you must not forget them.
You must face them all, but meet them as strangers.
EDWARD. Then I myself must also be a stranger.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. And to yourself as well. But remember,
When you see your wife, you must ask no questions
And give no explanations. I have said the same to her.
Don’t strangle each other with knotted memories.
Now I shall go.
EDWARD. Stop! Will you come back with her?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. No, I shall not come with her.
EDWARD. I don’t know why,
But I think I should like you to bring her yourself.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. Yes, I know you would. And for definite reasons
Which I am not prepared to explain to you
I must ask you not to speak of me to her;
And she will not mention me to you.
EDWARD. I promise.
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. And now you must await your visitors.
EDWARD. Visitors? What visitors?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. Whoever comes. The strangers.
As for myself, I shall take the precaution
Of leaving by the service staircase.
EDWARD. May I ask one question?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. You may ask it.
EDWARD. Who are you?
UNIDENTIFIED GUEST. I also am a stranger.
[Exit. A pause. EDWARD moves about restlessly. The bell rings, and he goes to the front door.]
EDWARD. Celia!
CELIA. Has Lavinia arrived?
EDWARD. Celia! Why have you come?
I expect Lavinia at any moment.
You must not be here. Why have you come here?
CELIA. Because Lavinia asked me.
EDWARD. Because Lavinia asked you!
CELIA. Well, not directly. Julia had a telegram
Asking her to come, and to bring me with her.
Julia was delayed, and sent me on ahead.
EDWARD. It seems very odd. And not like Lavinia.
I suppose there is nothing to do but wait.
Won’t you sit down?
CELIA. Thank you.
[Pause]
EDWARD. Oh, my God, what shall we talk about?
We can’t sit here in silence.
CELIA. Oh, I could.
Just looking at you. Edward, forgive my laughing.
You look like a little boy who’s been sent for
To the headmaster’s study; and is not quite sure
What he’s been found out in. I never saw you so before.
This is really a ludicrous situation.
EDWARD. I’m afraid I can’t see the humorous side of it.
CELIA. I’m not really laughing at you, Edward.
I couldn’t have laughed at anything, yesterday;
But I’ve learnt a lot in twenty-four hours.
It wasn’t a very pleasant experience.
Oh, I’m glad I came!
I can see you at last as a human being.
Can’t you see me that way too, and laugh about it?
EDWARD. I wish I could. I wish I understood anything.
I’m completely in the dark.
CELIA. But it’s all so simple.
Can’t you see that …
[The doorbell rings]
EDWARD. There’s Lavinia.
[Goes to front door]
Peter!
[Enter PETER]
PETER. Where’s Lavinia?
EDWARD. Don’t tell me that Lavinia
Sent you a telegram …
PETER. No, not to me,
But to Alex. She told him to come here
And to bring me with him. He’ll be here in a minute.
Celia! Have you heard from Lavinia too?
Or am I interrupting?
CELIA. I’ve just explained to Edward —
I only got here this moment myself —
That she telegraphed to Julia to come and bring me with her.
EDWARD. I wonder whom else Lavinia has invited.
PETER. Why, I got the impression that Lavinia intended
To have yesterday’s cocktail party to-day.
So I don’t suppose her aunt can have died.
EDWARD. What aunt?
PETER. The aunt you told us about.
But Edward — you remember our conversation yesterday?
EDWARD. Of course.
PETER. I hope you’ve done nothing about it.
EDWARD. No, I’ve done nothing.
PETER. I’m so glad.
Because I’ve changed my mind. I mean, I’ve decided
That it’s all no use. I’m going to California.
CELIA. You’re going to California!
PETER. Yes, I have a new job.
EDWARD. And how did that happen, overnight?
PETER. Why, it’s a man Alex put me in touch with
And we settled everything this morning.
Alex is a wonderful person to know,
Because, you see, he knows everybody, everywhere.
So what I’ve really come for is to say good-bye.
CELIA. Well, Peter, I’m awfully glad, for your sake,
Though of course we … I shall miss you;
You know how I depended on you for concerts,
And picture exhibitions — more than you realised.
It was fun, wasn’t it! But now you’ll have a chance,
I hope, to realise your ambitions.
I shall miss you.
PETER. It’s nice of you to say so;
But you’ll find someone better, to go about with.
CELIA. I don’t think that I shall be going to concerts.
I am going away too.