The Family Reunion

by T. S. Eliot

  In forty years.

  WARBURTON

  Indeed, yes.

  Even in a country practice. My first patient, now—

  You wouldn’t believe it, ladies—was a murderer,

  Who suffered from an incurable cancer.

  How he fought against it! I never saw a man

  More anxious to live.

  HARRY

  Not at all extraordinary.

  It is really harder to believe in murder

  Than to believe in cancer. Cancer is here:

  The lump, the dull pain, the occasional sickness:

  Murder a reversal of sleep and waking.

  Murder was there. Your ordinary murderer

  Regards himself as an innocent victim.

  To himself he is still what he used to be

  Or what he would be. He cannot realise

  That everything is irrevocable,

  The past unredeemable. But cancer, now,

  That is something real.

  WARBURTON

  Well, let’s not talk of such matters.

  How did we get onto the subject of cancer?

  I really don’t know.—But now you’re all grown up

  I haven’t a patient left at Wishwood.

  Wishwood was always a cold place, but healthy.

  It’s only when I get an invitation to dinner

  That I ever see your mother.

  VIOLET

  Yes, look at your mother!

  Except that she can’t get about now in winter

  You wouldn’t think that she was a day older

  Than on her birthday ten years ago.

  GERALD

  Is there any use in waiting for Arthur and John?

  AMY

  We might as well go in to dinner.

  They may come before we finish. Will you take me in, Doctor?

  I think we are very much the oldest present—

  In fact we are the oldest inhabitants.

  As we came first, we will go first, in to dinner.

  WARBURTON

  With pleasure, Lady Monchensey,

  And I hope that next year will bring me the same honour.

  [Exeunt AMY, DR. WARBURTON, HARRY.]

  CHORUS

  I am afraid of all that has happened, and of all that is to come;

  Of the things to come that sit at the door, as if they had been there always.

  And the past is about to happen, and the future was long since settled.

  And the wings of the future darken the past, the beak and claws have desecrated

  History. Shamed

  The first cry in the bedroom, the noise in the nursery, mutilated

  The family album, rendered ludicrous

  The tenants’ dinner, the family pic-nic on the moors. Have torn

  The roof from the house, or perhaps it was never there.

  And the bird sits on the broken chimney. I am afraid.

  IVY

  This is a most undignified terror, and I must struggle against it.

  GERALD

  I am used to tangible danger, but only to what I can understand.

  VIOLET

  It is the obtuseness of Gerald and Charles and that doctor, that gets on my nerves.

  CHARLES

  If the matter were left in my hands, I think I could manage the situation.

  [Exeunt.]

  [Enter MARY, and passes through to dinner. Enter AGATHA.]

  AGATHA

  The eye is on this house

  The eye covers it

  There are three together

  May the three be separated

  May the knot that was tied

  Become unknotted

  May the crossed bones

  In the filled-up well

  Be at last straightened

  May the weasel and the otter

  Be about their proper business

  The eye of the day time

  And the eye of the night time

  Be diverted from this house

  Till the knot is unknotted

  The crossed is uncrossed

  And the crooked is made straight.

  [Exit to dinner.]

  END OF PART I

  PART II

  The Library, After Dinner

  Scene I

  HARRY, WARBURTON

  WARBURTON

  I’m glad of a few minutes alone with you, Harry.

  In fact, I had another reason for coming this evening

  Than simply in honour of your mother’s birthday.

  I wanted a private conversation with you

  On a confidential matter.

  HARRY

  I can imagine—

  Though I think it is probably going to be useless,

  Or if anything, make matters rather more difficult

  But talk about it, if you like.

  WARBURTON

  You don’t understand me.

  I’m sure you cannot know what is on my mind;

  And as for making matters more difficult—

  It is much more difficult not to be prepared

  For something that is very likely to happen.

  HARRY

  O God, man, the things that are going to happen

  Have already happened.

  WARBURTON

  That is in a sense true,

  But without your knowing it, and what you know

  Or do not know, at any moment

  May make an endless difference to the future.

  It’s about your mother . . .

  HARRY

  What about my mother?

  Everything has always been referred back to mother.

  When we were children, before we went to school,

  The rule of conduct was simply pleasing mother;

  Misconduct was simply being unkind to mother;

  What was wrong was whatever made her suffer,

  And whatever made her happy was what was virtuous—

  Though never very happy, I remember. That was why

  We all felt like failures, before we had begun.

  When we came back, for the school holidays,

  They were not holidays, but simply a time

  In which we were supposed to make up to mother

  For all the weeks during which she had not seen us

  Except at half-term, and seeing us then

  Only seemed to make her more unhappy, and made us

  Feel more guilty, and so we misbehaved

  Next day at school, in order to be punished,

  For punishment made us feel less guilty. Mother

  Never punished us, but made us feel guilty.

  I think that the things that are taken for granted

  At home, make a deeper impression upon children Than what they are told.

  WARBURTON

  Stop, Harry, you’re mistaken.

  I mean, you don’t know what I want to tell you.

  You may be quite right, but what we are concerned with

  Now, is your mother’s happiness in the future,

  For the time she has to live: not with the past.

  HARRY

  Oh, is there any difference!

  How can we be concerned with the past

  And not with the future? or with the future

  And not with the past? What I’m telling you

  Is very important. Very important.

  You must let me explain, and then you can talk.

  I don’t know why, but just this evening

  I feel an overwhelming need for explanation—

  But perhaps I only dream that I am talking

  And shall wake to find that I have been silent

  Or talked to the stone deaf: and the others

  Seem to hear something else than what I am saying.

  But if you want to talk, at least you can tell me

  Something useful. Do you remember my father?

  WARBURTON

  Why, yes, of course, Harry, but I really don’t see
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  What that has to do with the present occasion

  Or with what I have to tell you.

  HARRY

  What you have to tell me

  Is either something that I know already

  Or unimportant, or else untrue.

  But I want to know more about my father.

  I hardly remember him, and I know very well

  That I was kept apart from him, till he went away.

  We never heard him mentioned, but in some way or another

  We felt that he was always here.

  But when we would have grasped for him, there was only a vacuum

  Surrounded by whispering aunts: Ivy and Violet—

  Agatha never came then. Where was my father?

  WARBURTON

  Harry, there’s no good probing for misery.

  There was enough once: but what festered

  Then, has only left a cautery.

  Leave it alone. You know that your mother

  And your father were never very happy together:

  They separated by mutual consent

  And he went to live abroad. You were only a boy

  When he died. You would not remember.

  HARRY

  But now I do remember. Not Arthur or John,

  They were too young. But now I remember

  A summer day of unusual heat,

  The day I lost my butterfly net;

  I remember the silence, and the hushed excitement

  And the low conversation of triumphant aunts.

  It is the conversations not overheard,

  Not intended to be heard, with the sidewise looks,

  That bring death into the heart of a child.

  That was the day he died. Of course.

  I mean, I suppose, the day on which the news arrived.

  WARBURTON

  You overinterpret.

  I am sure that your mother always loved him;

  There was never the slightest suspicion of scandal.

  HARRY

  Scandal? who said scandal? I did not.

  Yes, I see now. That night, when she kissed me,

  I felt the trap close. If you won’t tell me,

  I must ask Agatha. I never dared before.

  WARBURTON

  I advise you strongly, not to ask your aunt—

  I mean, there is nothing she could tell you. But, Harry,

  We can’t sit here all the evening, you know;

  You will have to have the birthday celebration,

  And your brothers will be here. Won't you let me tell you

  What I had to say?

  HARRY

  Very well, tell me.

  WARBURTON

  It’s about your mother’s health that I wanted to talk to you.

  I must tell you, Harry, that although your mother

  Is still so alert, so vigorous of mind,

  Although she seems as vital as ever—

  It is only the force of her personality,

  Her indomitable will, that keeps her alive.

  I needn’t go into technicalities

  At the present moment. The whole machine is weak

  And running down. Her heart’s very feeble.

  With care, and avoiding all excitement

  She may live several years. A sudden shock

  Might send her off at any moment.

  If she had been another woman

  She would not have lived until now.

  Her determination has kept her going:

  She has only lived for your return to Wishwood,

  For you to take command at Wishwood,

  And for that reason, it is most essential

  That nothing should disturb or excite her.

  HARRY

  Well!

  WARBURTON

  I’m very sorry for you, Harry.

  I should have liked to spare you this,

  Just now. But there were two reasons

  Why you had to know. One is your mother,

  To make her happy for the time she has to live.

  The other is yourself: the future of Wishwood

  Depends on you. I don’t like to say this;

  But you know that I am a very old friend,

  And have always been a party to the family secrets—

  You know as well as I do that Arthur and John

  Have been a great disappointment to your mother.

  John’s very steady—but he’s not exactly brilliant;

  And Arthur has always been rather irresponsible.

  Your mother’s hopes are all centred on you.

  HARRY

  Hopes? . . . Tell me

  Did you know my father at about my present age?

  WARBURTON

  Why, yes, Harry, of course I did.

  HARRY

  What did he look like then? Did he look at all like me?

  WARBURTON

  Very much like you. Of course there are differences:

  But, allowing for the changes in fashion

  And your being clean-shaven, very much like you.

  And now, Harry, let’s talk about yourself.

  HARRY

  I never saw a photograph. There is no portrait.

  WARBURTON

  What I want to know is, whether you’ve been sleeping . . .

  [Enter DENMAN.]

  DENMAN

  It’s Sergeant Winchell is here, my Lord,

  And wants to see your Lordship very urgent,

  And Dr. Warburton. He says it’s very urgent

  Or he wouldn’t have troubled you.

  HARRY

  I’ll see him.

  [Exit DENMAN.]

  WARBURTON

  I wonder what he wants. I hope nothing has happened

  To either of your brothers.

  HARRY

  Nothing can have happened

  To either of my brothers. Nothing can happen—

  If Sergeant Winchell is real. But Denman saw him.

  But what if Denman saw him, and yet he was not real?

  That would be worse than anything that has happened.

  What if you saw him, and . . .

  WARBURTON

  Harry! Pull yourself together.

  Something may have happened to one of your brothers.

  [Enter WINCHELL.]

  WINCHELL

  Good evening, my Lord. Good evening, Doctor.

  Many happy . . . Oh, I’m sorry, my Lord,

  I was thinking it was your birthday, not her Ladyship’s.

  HARRY

  Her Ladyship’s!

  [He darts at WINCHELL and seizes him by the shoulders.]

  He is real, Doctor.

  So let us resume the conversation. You and I

  And Winchell. Sit down, Winchell,

  And have a glass of port. We were talking of my father.

  WINCHELL

  Always at your jokes, I see. You don’t look a year older

  Than when I saw you last, my Lord. But a country sergeant

  Doesn’t get younger. Thank you, no, my Lord;

  I don’t find port agrees with the rheumatism.

  WARBURTON

  For God’s sake, Winchell, tell us your business.

  His Lordship isn’t very well this evening.

  WINCHELL

  I understand, Sir.

  It’d be the same if it was my birthday—

  I beg pardon, I’m forgetting.

  If it was my mother’s. God rest her soul,

  She’s been dead these ten years. How is her Ladyship,

  If I may ask, my Lord?

  HARRY

  Why do you keep asking

  About her Ladyship? Do you know or don’t you?

  I’m not afraid of you.

  WINCHELL

  I should hope not, my Lord.

  I didn’t mean to put myself forward.

  But you see, my Lord, I had good reason for asking . . .

  HARRY

  Well, do you want me to p
roduce her for you?

  WINCHELL

  Oh, no, indeed, my Lord, I’d much rather not . . .

  HARRY

  You mean you think I can’t. But I might surprise you;

  I think I might be able to give you a shock.

  WINCHELL

  There’s been shock enough for one evening, my Lord:

  That’s what I’ve come about.

  WARBURTON

  For Heaven’s sake, Winchell,

  Tell us your business.

  WINCHELL

  It’s about Mr. John.

  HARRY

  John!

  WINCHELL

  Yes, my Lord, I’m sorry.

  I thought I’d better have a word with you quiet,

  Rather than phone and perhaps disturb her Ladyship.

  So I slipped along on my bike. Mostly walking,

  What with the fog so thick, or I’d have been here sooner.

  I’d telephoned to Dr. Warburton’s,

  And they told me he was here, and that you’d arrived.

  Mr. John’s had a bit of an accident

  On the West Road, in the fog, coming along

  At a pretty smart pace, I fancy, ran into a lorry

  Drawn up round the bend. We’ll have the driver up for this: