The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot

by By (author): T. S. Eliot

  COLBY. No, I don’t. I mean, I’ve never thought about it.

  LADY ELIZABETH. I can’t say that I believe in it.

  I did, for a time. I studied the doctrine.

  But I was going to say, if I believed in it

  I should have said that we had known each other

  In some previous incarnation. — Is this your mother?

  COLBY. No, that is my aunt. I never knew my mother.

  She died when I was born.

  LADY ELIZABETH. She died when you were born.

  Have you other near relatives? Brothers or sisters?

  COLBY. No brothers or sisters. No. As for other relatives,

  I never knew any, when I was a child.

  I suppose I’ve never been interested … in relatives.

  LADY ELIZABETH. You did not want to know your relatives!

  I understand exactly how you felt.

  How I disliked my parents! I had a governess;

  Several, in fact. And I loathed them all.

  Were you brought up by a governess?

  COLBY. No. By my aunt.

  LADY ELIZABETH. And did you loathe her? No, of course not.

  Or you wouldn’t have her portrait. If you never knew your parents …

  But was your father living?

  COLBY. I never knew my father.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Then, if you never had a governess,

  And if you never knew either of your parents,

  You can’t understand what loathing really is.

  Yet we must have some similarity of background.

  COLBY. But you had parents. And no doubt, many relatives.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Oh, swarms of relatives! And such unpleasant people!

  I thought of myself as a dove in an eagle’s nest.

  They were so carnivorous. Always killing things and eating them.

  And yet our childhood must have been similar.

  These are only superficial differences:

  You must have been a lonely child, having no relatives —

  No brothers or sisters — and I was lonely

  Because they were so numerous — and so uncongenial.

  They made me feel an outcast. And yet they were so commonplace.

  Do you know, Colby, when I was a child

  I had three obsessions, and I never told anyone.

  I wonder if you had the same obsessions?

  COLBY. What were they?

  LADY ELIZABETH. The first was, that I was very ugly

  And didn’t know it. Then, that I was feeble-minded

  And didn’t know it. Finally,

  That I was a foundling, and didn’t know it.

  Of course, I was terrified of being ugly,

  And of being feeble-minded: though my family made me think so.

  But you know, I actually liked to believe

  That I was a foundling — or do I mean ‘changeling’?

  COLBY. I don’t know which you mean.

  LADY ELIZABETH. However that may be,

  I didn’t want to belong there. I refused to believe

  That my father could have been an ordinary earl!

  And I couldn’t believe that my mother was my mother.

  These were foolish fancies. I was a silly girl,

  And very romantic. But it goes to show

  How different I felt myself to be

  And then I took up the Wisdom of the East

  And believed, for a while, in reincarnation.

  That seemed to explain it all. I don’t believe it now.

  That was only a phase. But it made it all so simple!

  To be able to think that one’s earthly parents

  Are only the means that we have to employ

  To become reincarnate. And that one’s real ancestry

  Is one’s previous existences. Of course, there’s something in us,

  In all of us, which isn’t just heredity,

  But something unique. Something we have been

  From eternity. Something … straight from God.

  That means that we are nearer to God than to anyone.

  — Where did you live, as a child?

  COLBY. In Teddington.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Teddington? In what county?

  COLBY. It’s very close to London.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Still, you were brought up, like me, in the country.

  Teddington. I seem to have heard of it.

  Was it a large house?

  COLBY. No, a very small one.

  LADY ELIZABETH. But you had your aunt. And she was devoted to you,

  I have no doubt. What is your aunt’s name?

  Is it Simpkins?

  COLBY. No, a married aunt.

  A widow. Her name is Mrs. Guzzard.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Guzzard? Did you say Guzzard? An unusual name.

  Guzzard, did you say? The name means something to me.

  Yes. Guzzard. That is the name I’ve been hunting for!

  COLBY. You may have come across the name before;

  Although, as you say, it is an uncommon one.

  You couldn’t have known my aunt.

  LADY ELIZABETH. No. I never met … your aunt.

  But the name is familiar. How old are you, Colby?

  COLBY. I’m twenty-five.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Twenty-five. What became of your father?

  COLBY. Well … I didn’t have a father.

  You see … I was an illegitimate child.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Oh yes. An illegitimate child.

  So that the only relative you knew

  Was Mrs. Guzzard. And you always called her ‘aunt’?

  COLBY. Why not? She was my aunt.

  LADY ELIZABETH. And as for your mother —

  Mrs. Guzzard’s sister, I suppose …

  COLBY. Her sister — which makes Mrs. Guzzard my aunt.

  LADY ELIZABETH. And are you quite sure that Mrs. Guzzard’s sister —

  Who you say was your mother — really was your mother?

  COLBY. Why, Lady Elizabeth! Why should I doubt it?

  That is not the kind of story my aunt would invent.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Not if she is your aunt. Did Mrs. Guzzard

  And Mr. Guzzard — have any children?

  COLBY. They had no children of their own.

  That is to say, they had had one little boy

  Who died when I was very young indeed.

  I don’t remember him. I was told about him.

  But I can’t help wondering why you are so interested:

  There’s nothing very interesting about my background —

  I assure you there isn’t.

  LADY ELIZABETH. It may be more interesting

  Than you are aware of. Colby …

  [A knock on the door]

  Who’s that?

  [Enter SIR CLAUDE]

  SIR CLAUDE. Elizabeth! I was told that you were here with Colby.

  So I came over instead of telephoning,

  Just to give him these notes. They’re notes for my speech

  At the dinner of the Potters’ Company.

  COLBY. That’s tomorrow night, I believe.

  SIR CLAUDE. Yes it is.

  But you know that I’ll have to have my speech written out

  And then memorise it. I can’t use notes:

  It’s got to sound spontaneous. I’ve jotted down some headings.

  Just see if you can develop them for me

  With a few striking phrases. It should last about ten minutes.

  And then we’ll go over it tomorrow.

  COLBY [looking at the notes]. I’ll try.

  SIR CLAUDE. It’s just in ways like this, Elizabeth,

  That Colby can be of greater help than Eggerson.

  I couldn’t have asked Eggerson to write a speech for me.

  Oh, by the way, Colby, how’s the piano?

  COLBY. It’s a wonderful piano. I’ve never played

  On such an instrument. It’s much too good for me.

/>   SIR CLAUDE. You need a good piano. You’ll play all the better.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Claude!

  SIR CLAUDE. What is it, Elizabeth?

  LADY ELIZABETH. I’ve just made a startling discovery!

  All through a name — and intuition.

  But it shall be proved. The truth has come out.

  It’s Colby. Colby is my lost child!

  SIR CLAUDE. What? Your child, Elizabeth? What on earth makes you think so?

  LADY ELIZABETH. I must see this Mrs. Guzzard. I must confront her.

  This couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

  It seems incredible, doesn’t it, Claude?

  And yet it would be still more incredible

  If it were only a coincidence.

  Perhaps I ought not to believe it yet,

  Perhaps it is wrong of me to feel so sure,

  But it seems that Providence has brought you back to me,

  And you, Claude, and Eggerson have been the instruments.

  I must be right. Claude, tell me I am right.

  SIR CLAUDE. But Elizabeth, what has led you to believe

  That Colby is your son?

  LADY ELIZABETH. Oh, I forgot

  In my excitement: you arrived the very moment

  When the truth dawned on me. Mrs. Guzzard!

  Claude, Colby was brought up by a Mrs. Guzzard.

  SIR CLAUDE. I know that. But why should that make him your son?

  LADY ELIZABETH. It’s the name I’ve been hunting for all these years —

  That, and the other name, Teddington:

  Mrs. Guzzard of Teddington. That was all I knew.

  Then Tony was killed, as you know, in Africa,

  And I had lost the name. Mrs. Guzzard.

  SIR CLAUDE. I’m beginning now to piece it together.

  You’ve been asking Colby about his family …

  LADY ELIZABETH. And when he mentioned Teddington, there was a faint echo —

  And then Mrs. Guzzard! It must be true.

  SIR CLAUDE. It is certainly a remarkable coincidence —

  If it is a coincidence. But I’m afraid, Elizabeth,

  What has happened is that, brooding on the past,

  You began to think of Colby as what your son would be,

  And then you began to see him as your son,

  And then — any name you heard would have seemed the right one.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Oh Claude, how can you be so sceptical!

  We must see this Mrs. Guzzard, and get her to confess it.

  SIR CLAUDE. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. If Mrs. Guzzard comes

  To make her confession, it will be very different

  From what you expect. I’m afraid, Colby,

  It seems to me that we must let her know the truth.

  COLBY. It seems to me … there is nothing for me —

  Absolutely nothing — for me to say about it.

  I must leave that to you.

  SIR CLAUDE. I should have told you one day.

  I’ve always loathed keeping such a thing from you.

  I see now I might as well have told you before,

  But I’d hoped — and now it seems a silly thought …

  What happens is so like what one had planned for,

  And yet such a travesty of all one’s plans —

  I’d hoped that you would become fond of Colby,

  And that he might come to take the place of your own child,

  If you got to know him first — and that you’d want to adopt him.

  LADY ELIZABETH. But of course I want to adopt him, Claude!

  That is, if one’s allowed to adopt one’s own child.

  SIR CLAUDE. That’s not what I meant. Elizabeth,

  Colby is my son.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Quite impossible, Claude!

  You have a daughter. Now you want a son.

  SIR CLAUDE. I’d never want to take your son away from you.

  Perhaps you have a son. But it isn’t Colby.

  I ought to have told you, years ago.

  I told you about Lucasta, and you told me

  About your own … misfortune. And I almost told you

  About Colby. I didn’t. For such a foolish reason.

  Absurd it sounds now. One child each —

  That seemed fair enough — though yours had been lost,

  And mine I couldn’t lose. But if I had another

  I thought you might think — ‘and how many more?’

  You might have suspected any number of children!

  That seems grotesque now. But it influenced me.

  And I found a better reason for keeping silent.

  I came to see how you longed for a son of your own,

  And I thought, I’ll wait for children of our own,

  And tell her then. And they never came.

  And now I regret the decision bitterly.

  I ought to have told you that I had a son.

  LADY ELIZABETH. But why do you think that Colby is your son?

  SIR CLAUDE. Colby is the son of Mrs. Guzzard’s sister,

  Who died when he was born. Mrs. Guzzard brought him up,

  And I provided for his education.

  I have watched him grow. And Mrs. Guzzard

  Knows he is my son.

  LADY ELIZABETH. But where were you, Claude,

  When Colby was born?

  SIR CLAUDE. Where was I? In Canada.

  My father had sent me on a business tour

  To learn about his overseas investments.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Then how do you know that the sister had a child?

  Perhaps Mrs. Guzzard invented the story….

  SIR CLAUDE. Why should she invent it? The child was expected.

  LADY ELIZABETH. In order to get money from you, perhaps.

  No, I shouldn’t say that. But she had a child

  Left on her hands. The father had died

  And she’d never been told the name of the mother;

  And the mother had forgotten the name of Mrs. Guzzard,

  And I was the mother and the child was Colby;

  And Mrs. Guzzard thought you would be happy

  To think you had a son, and would do well by him —

  Because you did care for the girl, didn’t you?

  SIR CLAUDE. Yes, I did care. Very much. I had never

  Been in love before.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Very well then.

  That is the way it must have happened.

  Oh, Claude, you know I’m rather weak in the head

  Though I try to be clever. Do try to help me.

  SIR CLAUDE. It could have happened. But I’m sure it didn’t.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Oh, Colby, doesn’t your instinct tell you?

  SIR CLAUDE. Yes, tell us everything that’s in your mind.

  I know this situation must be more of an agony

  To you, than it can be even to … us.

  COLBY. I only wish it was more acute agony:

  I don’t know whether I’ve been suffering or not

  During this conversation. I only feel … numb.

  If there’s agony, it’s part of a total agony

  Which I can’t begin to feel yet. I’m simply indifferent.

  And all the time that you’ve been talking

  I’ve only been thinking: ‘What does it matter

  Whose son I am?’ You don’t understand

  That when one has lived without parents, as a child,

  There’s a gap that never can be filled. Never.

  I like you both, I could even come to love you —

  But as friends … older friends. Neither, as a parent.

  I am sorry. But that’s why I say it doesn’t matter

  To me, which of you should be my parent.

  LADY ELIZABETH. But a mother, Colby, isn’t that different?

  There should always be a bond between mother and son,

  No matter how long they have lost each other.

  COLBY. No, Lady Elizabeth. The p
osition is the same

  Or crueller. Suppose I am your son.

  Then it’s merely a fact. Better not know

  Than to know the fact and know it means nothing.

  At the time I was born, you might have been my mother,

  But you chose not to be. I don’t blame you for that:

  God forbid! but we must take the consequences.

  At the time when I was born, your being my mother —

  If you are my mother — was a living fact.

  Now, it is a dead fact, and out of dead facts

  Nothing living can spring. Now, it is too late.

  I never wanted a parent till now —

  I never thought about it. Now, you have made me think,

  And I wish that I could have had a father and a mother.

  LADY ELIZABETH. Stop, Colby! Something has come to me.

  Claude! I don’t want to take away from you

  The son you thought was yours. And I know from what you said,

  That you would rather he was ours than only yours.

  Why should we make any further enquiries?

  Let us regard him as being our son:

  It won’t be the same as what we had wanted —

  But in some ways better! And prevent us both

  From making unreasonable claims upon you, Colby.

  It’s a good idea! Why should we not be happy,

  All of us? Already, Claude,

  I feel as if this brought us closer together.

  SIR CLAUDE. I should be contented with such an understanding;

  And indeed, it’s not so far from what I had intended.

  Could you accept us both in that way, Colby?

  COLBY. I can only say what I feel at the moment:

  And yet I believe I shall always feel the same.

  SIR CLAUDE. Well?

  COLBY. It would be easier, I think,

  To accept you both in the place of parents

  If neither of you could be. If it was pure fiction —

  One can live on a fiction — but not on such a mixture

  Of fiction and fact. Already, it’s been hard

  For me, who have never known the feelings of a son,

  To be disputed between two parents.

  But, if we followed your suggestion,

  I know, I know I should always be haunted

  By the miserable ghosts of the other parents!

  It’s strange enough to have two parents —

  But I should have four! What about those others?

  I should have to live with those ghosts, one indignant

  At being cheated of his — or her — parenthood,

  The other indignant at the imputation

  Of false parenthood. Both mocked at.

  SIR CLAUDE. Then what do you want, Colby? What do you want?

  Think of the future. When you marry

  You will want parents, for the sake of your children.