by David Hare
Bing He’s right.
Audrey And they do that, do they, by emptying their wallets?
Bing What better way?
John They have to dig deep in their pockets, and if they do, by God, it’ll make them sit up. They’ll listen to the music with far keener attention.
Audrey John, you don’t live in the world.
John Oh, don’t I?
Audrey You have no idea what people’s lives are actually like.
John I think I do.
Audrey (reads) ‘An excellent landing ground for aeroplanes one hundred yards from the Opera House.’
John looks at her, unforgiving.
Ebert She’s got a point.
Audrey No one’s ever charged this much for music. It’s unheard of.
John Carl. Audrey. What have we been doing these last months? I’ll tell you. We’ve been working harder than any of us have ever worked in our lives. We’ve been putting in a colossal effort. Now it’s time for the audience to put in some effort as well. They must go to a London terminal at 2.30, they must give up their whole day to getting to an obscure part of Sussex, they must dress properly, they must spend the morning polishing their shoes and starching their dress shirts and searching out their cufflinks, and trying to tie a proper bow tie, a bow tie which will still have dignity at bedtime, they must for once in their lives take time to dress, and if it’s an effort so what? So what? Wasn’t starting Glyndebourne an effort?
Audrey Jack, they just want a night out.
John No! No! And if that’s what they want, they’re not getting it.
Busch appears, drawn by the sound of raised voices.
Busch What’s happening? I’m trying to rehearse.
John We’re having an argument. A fundamental argument.
Busch And what’s it about?
John Art!
Busch is smiling, amused.
Busch Very good.
Bing John is explaining.
John Art can’t be the sideshow. It mustn’t be. I’m not having business people spending all day in their offices, talking on telephones, fiddling with stationery – whatever they do – and then in the evening saying, ‘I’ll pop back, pick up my wife and we’ll take in a show.’ No, I won’t allow it! Not here! Not at Glyndebourne! Why? Because as far as I’m concerned, it’s time someone told them in ringing tones: ‘Gentlemen, your lives are the sideshow. Opera’s the thing.’ And if it takes a whole day and wipes out their savings, then so much the better. Because it matters! It matters, dammit. We’re talking about the sublime.
Everyone is smiling, but no one dares contradict him.
What’s the point of doing this otherwise? Well?
Ebert I agree.
He shrugs.
John And another thing I’ve seen at Covent Garden, when the opera’s finished, the audience leaves. I’m not having that.
Audrey Oh, so you’ll lock them up for the night?
John I’m going to make it so dark that they can’t find the exit until the curtain calls are over. I’m not having any of that crafty sneaking away. I’ve watched you rehearsing, maestro –
Busch I know.
John I’ve seen your singers, I’ve seen what it costs them, I see the dedication, giving up every minute of their lives to sing as well as they possibly can –
Busch It’s true. That’s what they do.
John Our audience is going to thank them. They must, I insist on it. They’re guests in my house. They must tip their hat to the work.
There’s a silence.
Bing Yes.
John It’s a two-way street.
No one moves. A man at a table, three men in braces and shirtsleeves. A radiant lawn. Audrey moves silently behind him and puts her arms round his neck.
Busch Good.
Ebert Well.
Bing There we are.
Busch It sounds like the argument’s over.
John I won.
Busch I must go back upstairs.
John I prevailed.
Busch Willy’s vibrato is wobbly, to say the very least, and unless I fix it quickly I’m afraid he’s going to fall far short of the sublime.
John Go and attend to him, Fritz.
Busch I will.
Busch goes out. Ebert and Bing turn on their heels.
Ebert We’ll see you later.
John See you both later.
They go. Audrey still has her arms round his neck.
I need you, Audrey.
Audrey I know.
NINETEEN: 1950
Now Audrey steps forward to talk to us.
Audrey The opening season at Glyndebourne was everything John had wished for. The Marriage of Figaro was packed and a triumph. For the premiere of Così fan Tutte only seven people got on the train to Lewes. But soon after the notices appeared, the theatre was full. It was agreed: Glyndebourne set standards integrating acting and music which had never been seen in this country before. Nobody remarked on the paradox: this most British of institutions was created by Germans.
I had no complaints. How many of us get to start something new? I played two roles. Only at night could I be Audrey Mildmay. I was Audrey Christie by day. It was my fate to be both.
TWENTY: 1962
The lawn, again. Rudolf Bing is sixty, more prosperous than ever, immaculately turned out in a silk scarf, suit and overcoat. John Christie propels himself out in his wheelchair. He has bandages wrapped round his eyes, in the identical manner to Audrey. He is seventy-nine, neat but ill-shaved.
John Are you there?
Bing Yes, I’m here.
John It’s you, Rudi, is it?
Bing John.
John Take no notice of this. I don’t.
Bing I heard you were losing your sight.
John Losing? I’ve lost it. Have you taken off your coat?
Bing I don’t think I will. It’s that time of year.
He wraps it a little tighter.
I came to pay my respects.
John Before I die, you mean?
Bing I didn’t mean that, no.
John You’re not often in this country?
Bing Rarely.
John Now you’re running the Met.
Bing You make it sound like I was angling for it.
John Weren’t you?
Bing No. No, I was perfectly happy running the Edinburgh Festival. But then the offer came along.
John You were always the smoothest shark in the water. The most silent. I hear nowadays you’re too grand to talk to the singers.
Bing I don’t socialise, no. It’s a mistake to drink with a singer because one day you may have to sack them.
John shakes his head.
John Not that I envy you that factory in New York. Wrong size. Opera’s no good when you can’t see their eyes. You have to know what they’re thinking.
Bing Oh, eyes aren’t the only things.
John Besides, everyone knows Americans can’t sing.
Bing I found a few.
John Yes. And stole a few of mine.
Bing doesn’t respond.
Have you visited her garden?
Bing Yes. I saw it.
John It’s her memorial.
Bing It’s very moving.
John I couldn’t get round to it for years. I put it off.
Then I realised I’d never see it unless I got on with it.
Bing It was finished before you lost your sight?
John She’d have loved it. Audrey used to call it ‘that sweet little dell beyond the ilexes’.
Bing Why did it take you so long?
John Because it would mean she was dead.
Bing frowns.
Bing How did she die?
John I really don’t know.
Bing I don’t mean, in what manner? I mean, what did she die of? I never knew.
John I’m afraid I can’t help you.
Bing You don’t know what Audrey died of?
John Haven’t a clue.
; Bing I find that hard to believe.
John Oh, I know bits and pieces. She was never the same after she came back from Vancouver. Canada seemed safer than Sussex. So I ordered her there with the children. She couldn’t get money. Then she asked Fritz for a job in New York …
Bing Are you blaming Fritz for her illness?
John I would never do that.
There is a silence.
But when she came back, things had got to her. She lost strength. She was too weak to sing. She became impossible. Not that I minded. It made no difference to me. But what was wrong with her, no, I didn’t like to ask.
Bing Why not?
John Too painful.
Bing is staring at him, trying to work him out.
I’m afraid I still have a problem.
Bing What sort of problem?
John With her not existing.
Bing Well, that’s difficult.
John It is.
Bing For you.
John Yes.
Bing Tell me what you mean exactly.
John It’s this: I’ve looked at it from every possible angle, and however I stack it, it still makes no sense. I can’t make sense of it. It seems to me blazingly clear. There can’t be any such thing as a world in which Audrey is nothing. Anyone who knew her will tell you the idea seems absurd.
Bing Are you speaking religiously?
John I was never that interested in religion. I read the lesson because that was my job. Remember, I’d lived fifty years before she appeared. I’m not now willing to concede that she’s disappeared. I waited so long for her.
He shakes his head.
It’s not efficient, is it? People existing and then not.
Bing She went blind too?
John Oh yes. Yes, she did. You’re right.
Bing That must have occurred to you.
John Never.
Bing I would have expected that to be the first thing you thought of.
John Well, it wasn’t. Till you pointed it out.
Bing is puzzled by him. He is quite still.
Bing Do you miss it?
John What?
Bing Being able to see?
John Not much. Car’s on blocks in the garage. Otherwise it makes very little difference.
Bing You don’t miss reading?
John I never did read books. I barely read a book in my life. Except motor manuals. A little poetry. I just read The Times. Every day. I found it covered most things.
He shrugs slightly.
To be honest, I’m just waiting. Waiting to see Audrey again.
For the first time he turns as if to look at Bing.
What about you? Are you still married?
Bing Yes. Loosely.
John Still playing away?
Bing I’m afraid so.
John You’ll never change.
Bing You disapprove?
John shakes his head.
John You’ll never be in a position to understand, but I can only tell you all great love stories end badly. Simple fact. The more you have, the more you have to lose. No greater misfortune than a happy marriage, because it will certainly end in separation.
There is a silence.
John Still it was fun, eh?
Bing Oh yes, it was fun.
John It certainly was fun, wasn’t it? I remember saying to Audrey –
Bing When was this?
John I don’t know. Years ago. Some time. Later, anyway. I remember saying, ‘The best fun is when you’re starting out. That’s the best bit.’ Of course, you don’t know it at the time.
Bing No.
John That’s the sad thing.
Bing Yes.
John You’re not really aware.
Bing No.
John Not really.
They both stare ahead, not moving.
If only someone could tell you, eh? Wouldn’t that be grand?
Bing Yes.
John If there were someone to tell you.
Bing Yes.
John ‘This is the best bit.’
TWENTY-ONE: 28 MAY 1934
For the first time, there is the sound of the audience gathering in the theatre, talking, coughing a little. Bing moves across to the table and sits down to work at his papers. John remains in his wheelchair, his eyes bandaged, staring out. Ebert appears at the side, lolling against a wall in the auditorium waiting for the performance to begin. And to one side Audrey, in costume to play Susanna, paces nervously, rubbing her hands together, preparing. Then, seeing him before we do, there is polite applause in the audience and a settling as Fritz Busch, wearing tails, walks out in front of the curtain. He makes a gesture with his arms for the unseen orchestra to stand, and the applause is a little firmer. Then it dies, and the noise of the audience falls away to silence. There is an expectant moment. Busch raises his arms, and on the beat, the orchestra is heard to begin Mozart’s overture for The Marriage of Figaro.
Bing looks up from his desk, as if hearing it. Ebert beats time nervously. Audrey paces ever more quickly, as if the tension were unbearable. Only John is serene, staring out, unseeing.
The music grows louder and louder till it fills the theatre, sublime.
About David Hare
David Hare is the author of thirty-two full-length plays for the stage, seventeen of which have been presented at the National Theatre. They include Slag, The Great Exhibition, Brassneck (with Howard Brenton), Knuckle, Fanshen, Teeth ’n’ Smiles, Plenty, A Map of the World, Pravda (with Howard Brenton), The Bay at Nice, The Secret Rapture, Racing Demon, Murmuring Judges, The Absence of War, Skylight, Amy’s View, The Blue Room (from Schnitzler), The Judas Kiss, Via Dolorosa, My Zinc Bed, The Breath of Life, The Permanent Way, Stuff Happens, The Vertical Hour, Gethsemane, Berlin/ Wall, The Power of Yes, South Downs and Behind the Beautiful Forevers. His many screenplays for film and television include Licking Hitler, Wetherby, Damage, The Hours, The Reader, Page Eight, Turks & Caicos and Salting the Battlefield. He has also written English adaptations of plays by Brecht, Gorky, Chekhov, Pirandello, Ibsen and Lorca.
For Nicole
always
By the Same Author
PLAYS ONE
(Slag, Teeth ’n’ Smiles, Knuckle, Licking Hitler, Plenty)
PLAYS TWO
(Fanshen, A Map of the World, Saigon, The Bay at Nice, The Secret Rapture)
PLAYS THREE
(Skylight, Amy’s View, The Judas Kiss, My Zinc Bed)
RACING DEMON
MURMURING JUDGES
THE ABSENCE OF WAR
VIA DOLOROSA
THE BLUE ROOM
(from La Ronde by Schnitzler)
THE BREATH OF LIFE
THE PERMANENT WAY
STUFF HAPPENS
THE VERTICAL HOUR
GETHSEMANE
BERLIN/WALL
THE POWER OF YES
SOUTH DOWNS
BEHIND THE BEAUTIFUL FOREVERS
adaptations
PLATONOV by Chekhov
THE HOUSE OF BERNARDA ALBA by Lorca
ENEMIES by Gorky
YOUNG CHEKHOV
screenplays
COLLECTED SCREENPLAYS
(Wetherby, Paris by Night, Strapless, Heading Home, Dreams of Leaving)
THE HOURS
prose
ACTING UP
ASKING AROUND: BACKGROUND TO THE DAVID HARE TRILOGY
WRITING LEFT-HANDED
OBEDIENCE, STRUGGLE AND REVOLT
THE BLUE TOUCH PAPER
Copyright
First published in this collection in 2015
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2015
The right of David Hare to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights whatsoever in these plays are strictly re
served and applications to perform them should be made in writing, before rehearsals begin, to Casarotto Ramsay and Associates Ltd, 4th Floor, Waverley House, 7–12 Noel Street, London W1F 8GQ. No performance may be given unless a licence has first been obtained.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–32528–3