MONICA. I’m afraid … not a very long time, Charles.
It’s almost certain that the winter in Jamaica
Will never take place. ‘Make the reservations’
Selby said, ‘as if you were going’.
But Badgley Court’s so near your constituency!
You can come down at weekends, even when the House is sitting.
And you can take me out, if Father can spare me.
But he’ll simply love having you to talk to!
CHARLES. I know he’s used to seeing me about.
MONICA. I’ve seen him looking at you. He was thinking of himself
When he was your age — when he started like you,
With the same hopes, the same ambitions —
And of his disappointments.
CHARLES. Is that wistfulness,
Compassion, or … envy?
MONICA. Envy is everywhere.
Who is without envy? And most people
Are unaware or unashamed of being envious.
It’s all we can ask if compassion and wistfulness …
And tenderness, Charles! are mixed with envy:
I do believe that he is fond of you.
So you must come often. And Oh, Charles dear —
[Enter LORD CLAVERTON]
MONICA. You’ve been very long in coming, Father. What have you been doing?
LORD CLAVERTON. Good afternoon, Charles. You might have guessed, Monica,
What I’ve been doing. Don’t you recognise this book?
MONICA. It’s your engagement book.
LORD CLAVERTON. Yes, I’ve been brooding over it.
MONICA. But what a time for your engagement book!
You know what the doctors said: complete relaxation
And to think about nothing. Though I know that won’t be easy.
LORD CLAVERTON. That is just what I was doing.
MONICA. Thinking of nothing?
LORD CLAVERTON. Contemplating nothingness. Just remember:
Every day, year after year, over my breakfast,
I have looked at this book — or one just like it —
You know I keep the old ones on a shelf together;
I could look in the right book, and find out what I was doing
Twenty years ago, to-day, at this hour of the afternoon.
If I’ve been looking at this engagement book, to-day,
Not over breakfast, but before tea,
It’s the empty pages that I’ve been fingering —
The first empty pages since I entered Parliament.
I used to jot down notes of what I had to say to people:
Now I’ve no more to say, and no one to say it to.
I’ve been wondering … how many more empty pages?
MONICA. You would soon fill them up if we allowed you to!
That’s my business to prevent. You know I’m to protect you
From your own restless energy — the inexhaustible
Sources of the power that wears out the machine.
LORD CLAVERTON. They’ve dried up, Monica, and you know it.
They talk of rest, these doctors, Charles; they tell me to be cautious,
To take life easily. Take life easily!
It’s like telling a man he mustn’t run for trains
When the last thing he wants is to take a train for anywhere!
No, I’ve not the slightest longing for the life I’ve left —
Only fear of the emptiness before me.
If I had the energy to work myself to death
How gladly would I face death! But waiting, simply waiting,
With no desire to act, yet a loathing of inaction.
A fear of the vacuum, and no desire to fill it.
It’s just like sitting in an empty waiting room
In a railway station on a branch line,
After the last train, after all the other passengers
Have left, and the booking office is closed
And the porters have gone. What am I waiting for
In a cold and empty room before an empty grate?
For no one. For nothing.
MONICA. Yet you’ve been looking forward
To this very time! You know how you grumbled
At the farewell banquet, with the tributes from the staff,
The presentation, and the speech you had to make
And the speeches that you had to listen to!
LORD CLAVERTON [pointing to a silver salver, still lying in its case]. I don’t know which impressed me more, the insincerity
Of what was said about me, or of my reply —
All to thank them for that.
Oh the grudging contributions
That bought this piece of silver! The inadequate levy
That made the Chairman’s Price! And my fellow directors
Saying ‘we must put our hands in our pockets
To double this collection — it must be something showy’.
This would do for visiting cards — if people still left cards
And if I was going to have any visitors.
MONICA. Father, you simply want to revel in gloom!
You know you’ve retired in a blaze of glory —
You’ve read every word about you in the papers.
CHARLES. And the leading articles saying ‘we are confident
That his sagacious counsel will long continue
To be at the disposal of the Government in power’.
And the expectation that your voice will be heard
In debate in the Upper House …
LORD CLAVERTON. The established liturgy
Of the Press on any conspicuous retirement.
My obituary, if I had died in harness,
Would have occupied a column and a half
With an inset, a portrait taken twenty years ago.
In five years’ time, it will be the half of that;
In ten years’ time, a paragraph.
CHARLES. That’s the reward
Of every public man.
LORD CLAVERTON. Say rather, the exequies
Of the failed successes, the successful failures,
Who occupy positions that other men covet.
When we go, a good many folk are mildly grieved,
And our closest associates, the small minority
Of those who really understand the place we filled
Are inwardly delighted. They won’t want my ghost
Walking in the City or sitting in the Lords.
And I, who recognise myself as a ghost
Shan’t want to be seen there. It makes me smile
To think that men should be frightened of ghosts.
If they only knew how frightened a ghost can be of men!
[Knock. Enter LAMBERT]
LAMBERT. Excuse me, my Lord. There’s a gentleman downstairs
Is very insistent that he must see you.
I told him you never saw anyone, my Lord,
But by previous appointment. He said he knew that,
So he had brought this note. He said that when you read it
You would want to see him. Said you’d be very angry
If you heard that he’d gone away without your seeing him.
LORD CLAVERTON. What sort of a person?
LAMBERT. A foreign person
By the looks of him. But talks good English.
A pleasant-spoken gentleman.
LORD CLAVERTON [after reading the note]. I’ll see him in the library.
No, stop. I’ve left too many papers about there.
I’d better see him here.
LAMBERT. Very good, my Lord.
Shall I take the trolley, Miss Monica?
MONICA. Yes, thank you, Lambert.
[Exit LAMBERT]
CHARLES. I ought to be going.
MONICA. Let us go into the library. And then I’ll see you off.
LORD CLAVERTON. I’m sorry to turn you out of the room like this,
But I’ll have to see this man by myself, Monica.
I’ve never heard of this Señor Gomez
But he comes with a letter of introduction
From a man I used to know. I can’t refuse to see him.
Though from what I remember of the man who introduces him
I expect he wants money. Or to sell me something worthless.
MONICA. You ought not to bother with such people now, Father.
If you haven’t got rid of him in twenty minutes
I’ll send Lambert to tell you that you have to take a trunk call.
Come, Charles. Will you bring my coat?
CHARLES. I’ll say goodbye, sir.
And look forward to seeing you both at Badgley Court
In a week or two.
[Enter LAMBERT]
LAMBERT. Mr. Gomez, my Lord.
LORD CLAVERTON. Goodbye, Charles. And please remember
That we both want to see you, whenever you can come
If you’re in the vicinity. Don’t we, Monica?
MONICA. Yes, Father. (To CHARLES) We both want to see you.
[Exeunt MONICA and CHARLES]
[LAMBERT shows in GOMEZ]
LORD CLAVERTON. Good evening, Mr…. Gomez. You’re a friend of Mr. Culverwell?
GOMEZ. We’re as thick as thieves, you might almost say.
Don’t you know me, Dick?
LORD CLAVERTON. Fred Culverwell!
Why do you come back with another name?
GOMEZ. You’ve changed your name too, since I knew you.
When we were up at Oxford, you were plain Dick Ferry.
Then, when you married, you took your wife’s name
And became Mr. Richard Claverton-Ferry;
And finally, Lord Claverton. I’ve followed your example,
And done the same, in a modest way.
You know, where I live, people do change their names;
And besides, my wife’s name is a good deal more normal
In my country, than Culverwell — and easier to pronounce.
LORD CLAVERTON. Have you lived out there ever since … you left England?
GOMEZ. Ever since I finished my sentence.
LORD CLAVERTON. What has brought you to England?
GOMEZ. Call it homesickness,
Curiosity, restlessness, whatever you like.
But I’ve been a pretty hard worker all these years
And I thought, now’s the time to take a long holiday,
Let’s say a rest cure — that’s what I’ve come for.
You see, I’m a widower, like you, Dick.
So I’m pretty footloose. Gomez, you see,
Is now a highly respected citizen
Of a central American republic: San Marco.
It’s as hard to become a respected citizen
Out there, as it is here. With this qualification:
Out there they respect you for rather different reasons.
LORD CLAVERTON. Do you mean that you’ve won respect out there
By the sort of activity that lost you respect
Here in England?
GOMEZ. Not at all, not at all.
I think that was rather an unkind suggestion.
I’ve always kept on the right side of the law —
And seen that the law turned its right side to me.
Sometimes I’ve had to pay pretty heavily;
But I learnt by experience whom to pay;
And a little money laid out in the right manner
In the right places, pays many times over.
I assure you it does.
LORD CLAVERTON. In other words
You have been engaged in systematic corruption.
GOMEZ. No, Dick, there’s a fault in your logic.
How can one corrupt those who are already corrupted?
I can swear that I’ve never corrupted anybody.
In fact, I’ve never come across an official
Innocent enough to be corruptible.
LORD CLAVERTON. It would seem then that most of your business
Has been of such a nature that, if carried on in England,
It might land you in gaol again?
GOMEZ. That’s true enough,
Except for a false inference. I wouldn’t dream
Of carrying on such business if I lived in England.
I have the same standards of morality
As the society in which I find myself.
I do nothing in England that you would disapprove of.
LORD CLAVERTON. That’s something, at least, to be thankful for.
I trust you’ve no need to engage in forgery.
GOMEZ. Forgery, Dick? An absurd suggestion!
Forgery, I can tell you, is a mug’s game.
I say that — with conviction.
No, forgery, or washing cheques, or anything of that nature,
Is certain to be found out sooner or later.
And then what happens? You have to move on.
That wouldn’t do for me. I’m too domestic.
And by the way, I’ve several children,
All grown up, doing well for themselves.
I wouldn’t allow either of my sons
To go into politics. In my country, Dick,
Politicians can’t afford mistakes. The prudent ones
Always have an aeroplane ready:
And keep an account in a bank in Switzerland.
The ones who don’t get out in time
Find themselves in gaol and not very comfortable,
Or before a firing squad.
You don’t know what serious politics is like!
I said to my boys: ‘Never touch politics.
Stay out of politics, and play both parties:
What you don’t get from one you may get from the other’.
Dick, don’t tell me that there isn’t any whisky in the house?
LORD CLAVERTON. I can provide whisky. [Presses the bell]
But why have you come?
GOMEZ. You’ve asked me that already!
To see you, Dick. A natural desire!
For you’re the only old friend I can trust.
LORD CLAVERTON. You really trust me? I appreciate the compliment.
GOMEZ. Which you’re sure you deserve. But when I say ‘trust’ …
[Knock. Enter LAMBERT]
LORD CLAVERTON. Lambert, will you bring in the whisky. And soda.
LAMBERT. Very good, my Lord.
GOMEZ. And some ice.
LAMBERT. Ice? Yes, my Lord.
[Exit]
GOMEZ. I began to say: when I say ‘trust’
I use the term as experience has taught me.
It’s nonsense to talk of trusting people
In general. What does that mean? One trusts a man
Or a woman — in this respect or that.
A won’t let me down in this relationship,
B won’t let me down in some other connection.
But, as I’ve always said to my boys:
‘When you come to the point where you need to trust someone
You must make it worth his while to be trustworthy’.
[During this LAMBERT enters silently, deposits tray and exit]
LORD CLAVERTON. Won’t you help yourself?
[GOMEZ does so, liberally]
GOMEZ. And what about you?
LORD CLAVERTON. I don’t take it, thank you.
GOMEZ. A reformed character!
LORD CLAVERTON. I should like to know why you need to trust me.
GOMEZ. That’s perfectly simple. I come back to England
After thirty-five years. Can you imagine
What it would be like to have been away from home
For thirty-five years? I was twenty-five —
The same age as you — when I went away,
Thousands of miles away, to another climate,
To another language, other standards of behaviour,
To fabricate for myself another personality
And to take another name. Think what that means —
To take another name.
[Gets up and helps himself to whisky]
But of course you know!
Just enough to think you know more than you do.
You’ve changed your name twice — by easy stages,
And each step was merely a step up the ladder,
So you weren’t aware of becoming a different person:
But where I changed my name, there was no social ladder.
It was jumping a gap — and you can’t jump back again.
I parted from myself by a sudden effort,
You, so slowly and sweetly, that you’ve never woken up
To the fact that Dick Ferry died long ago.
I married a girl who didn’t know a word of English,
Didn’t want to learn English, wasn’t interested
In anything that happened four thousand miles away,
Only believed what the parish priest told her.
I made my children learn English — it’s useful;
I always talk to them in English.
But do they think in English? No, they do not.
They think in Spanish, but their thoughts are Indian thoughts.
O God, Dick, you don’t know what it’s like
To be so cut off! Homesickness!
Homesickness is a sickly word.
You don’t understand such isolation
As mine, you think you do …
LORD CLAVERTON. I’m sure I do,
I’ve always been alone.
GOMEZ. Oh, loneliness —
Everybody knows what that’s like.
Your loneliness — so cosy, warm and padded:
You’re not isolated — merely insulated.
It’s only when you come to see that you have lost yourself
That you are quite alone.
LORD CLAVERTON. I’m waiting to hear
Why you should need to trust me.
GOMEZ. Perfectly simple.
My father’s dead long since — that’s a good thing.
My mother — I dare say she’s still alive,
But she must be very old. And she must think I’m dead;
And as for my married sisters — I don’t suppose their husbands
Were ever told the story. They wouldn’t want to see me.
No, I need one old friend, a friend whom I can trust —
And one who will accept both Culverwell and Gomez —
See Culverwell as Gomez — Gomez as Culverwell.
I need you, Dick, to give me reality!
LORD CLAVERTON. But according to the description you have given
Of trusting people, how do you propose
To make it worth my while to be trustworthy?
GOMEZ. It’s done already, Dick; done many years ago:
Adoption tried, and grappled to my soul
With hoops of steel, and all that sort of thing.
The Complete Poems and Plays of T. S. Eliot Page 48