by Tom Stoppard
pauses: the body is familiar to him, perhaps.) What’s going on?
ARCHIE: The dermatograph, you know. All kinds of disturbances under the skin show up on the surface, if we can learn to read it, and we——
GEORGE (abruptly turning off the set, so that the Big Screen goes blank): You must think I’m a bloody fool!
ARCHIE: What do you mean?
GEORGE: Well, everything you do makes it look as if you’re…
(Pause.)
ARCHIE: Well, what would it have looked like if it had looked as if I were making a dermatographical examination?
DOTTY: What’s the matter, Georgie?
GEORGE: Dotty…
DOTTY: Don’t take any notice of Archie—him and his ripe pears!
GEORGE: Crouch says McFee was shot!—here—last night—
He thinks Dorothy did it——
DOTTY: I thought Archie did it. You didn’t do it, did you, Georgie? (Disappears into Bathroom.)
GEORGE: Crouch says—You can’t hide!—Dorothy—it’s not a game! Crouch says he saw—For God’s sake—I don’t know what to do——
ARCHIE: Crouch says he saw what, George?
GEORGE: Well, he didn’t actually see…
ARCHIE: Quite. We just don’t know.
GEORGE: There are many things I know which are not verifiable but nobody can tell me I don’t know them, and I think that I know that something happened to poor Dotty and she somehow killed McFee, as sure as she killed my poor Thumper.
(GEORGE leaves the Bedroom and ARCHIE follows him out. The Bedroom blacks out. They both walk into the Study where CROUCH is seated at GEORGE’s desk, reading the typescript and
chuckling!)
CROUCH: Saint Sebastian died of fright!—very good! (To SECRETARY; surprisingly.) Of course, the flaw in the argument is that even if the first term of his infinitely regressing series is zero rather than infinitesimal, the original problem remains in identifying the second term of the series, which however small must be greater than zero—you take my point? I grant you he’s answered Russell’s first point, I grant you that—the smallest proper fraction is zero—but——
(GEORGE snatches the paper from behind CROUCH and studies it minutely, already talking.)
GEORGE: Yes, but you entirely miss my point, which is that having established that the first term—that is God—corresponds to zero, there’s no need to worry about the second term—it is enough that it is the second——Surely you can see that?
CROUCH (humbly): I expect you’re right, sir. I mean, it’s only a hobby with me.
ARCHIE (coming forward): Mr. Crouch!
CROUCH: Oh, good morning, Vice-Chancellor, sir…
(The situation: CROUCH and ARCHIE conversing out of the
Study into the Hall. GEORGE worrying his script. The
SECRETARY still the observer with pencil and pad ready. Once in the Hall, ARCHIE shuts the Study door.)
ARCHIE: I see you’re something of a philosopher, Mr. Crouch.
CROUCH: Oh, I wouldn’t call it that, sir—I just picked up a bit
… a bit of reading, a bit of chatting, you know.
ARCHIE: Isn’t that the academic life? Whom would you describe as your mentor?
CROUCH: It was the late Professor McFee.
ARCHIE: Really?
CROUCH: Yes, sir, it was a terrible thing, his death. Of course, his whole life was going through a crisis, as he no doubt told you.
ARCHIE: Yes…?
CROUCH: It was the astronauts fighting on the Moon that finally turned him, sir. Henry, he said to me, Henry, I am giving philosophical respectability to a new pragmatism in public life, of which there have been many disturbing examples both here and on the moon. Duncan, I said, Duncan, don’t let it get you down, have another can of beer. But he kept harking back to the first Captain Oates, out there in the Antarctic wastes, sacrificing his life to give his companions a slim chance of survival…. Henry, he said, what made him do it?—out of the tent and into the jaws of the blizzard. If altruism is a possibility, he said, my argument is up a gum-tree…. Duncan, I said, Duncan, don’t you worry your head about all that. That astronaut yobbo is good for twenty years hard. Yes, he said, yes maybe, but when he comes out, he’s going to find he was only twenty years ahead of his time. I have seen the future, Henry, he said; and it’s yellow.
ARCHIE (pause): You must have been a close friend of his.
(From now on, for the following speeches, the SECRETARY is the only person moving on stage. She gets up. She is going to go for lunch. Perhaps a clock has struck. She comes down stage to make use of the imaginary mirror… a grim, tense, unsmiling young woman, staring at the audience.)
CROUCH: Ah, well, he’d come by to pick up his girl.
ARCHIE: His girl?
CROUCH: And he was always a bit early and as often as not
Professor Moore kept her working a bit late.
ARCHIE: Professor Moore?
CROUCH: So he’d pass the time with me… I shall miss our little talks. And of course it’s tragic for her. I see she’s carrying on, losing herself in her work; it’s the only way… but after three years of secret betrothal, it takes a certain kind of girl.
ARCHIE: Yes. Why secret?
CROUCH: He made her keep it secret because of his wife.
ARCHIE: Ah. His wife didn’t know, of course.
CROUCH: His wife knew about her, but she didn’t know about his wife. He was terrified to tell her, poor Duncan. Well, he won’t be coming round here any more. Not that he would have done anyway, of course.
ARCHIE: Why’s that?
CROUCH: Well obviously, he had to make a clean breast and tell her it was all off—I mean with him going into the monastery.
ARCHIE: Quite.
CROUCH: And now he’s dead.
(SECRETARY snaps her handbag shut with a sharp sound and takes her coat out of the cupboard.)
ARCHIE: A severe blow to Logic, Mr. Crouch.
CROUCH (nodding): It makes no sense to me at all. What do you make of it, sir?
ARCHIE: The truth to us philosophers, Mr. Crouch, is always an interim judgment. We will never even know for certain who did shoot McFee. Unlike mystery novels, life does not guarantee a denouement; and if it came, how would one know whether to believe it?
(ARCHIE and CROUCH move out through the Front Door. The
SECRETARY is also leaving, now wearing her (white) coat—which has a bright splash of blood on its back.
GEORGE sees the blood as she leaves the Study, and the flat.
In the unseen Bedroom, DOTTY’s record of ‘Forget Yesterday’ starts to play.
GEORGE realizes that the blood must have come from the top of the cupboard, i.e. wardrobe. He needs to stand on his desk or chair. He puts Pat, whom he had been holding, down now and climbs up to look into the top of the cupboard; and withdraws from the unseen depths his mis-fired arrow, on which is impaled Thumper. The music still continues. Holding Thumper up by the arrow, GEORGE puts his face against the fur. A single sob. He steps backwards, down… CRRRRRUNCH!!!
He has stepped, fatally, on Pat. With one foot on the desk and one foot on Pat, GEORGE looks down, and then puts up his head and cries out, ‘Dotty! Help! Murder!’
GEORGE falls to the floor. The song continues. The process which originally brought the set into view now goes into reverse. His last sobs are amplified and repeated right into the beginning of the Coda.)
END OF ACT TWO
CODA
(The Symposium—in bizarre dream form, CROUCH is the
Chairman, ARCHIE stands to one side.
THREE USHERS (JUMPERS) sit in front of CROUCH’s raised platform. They wear yellow gowns.
Stained glass slides are in at the beginning and stay in. The sobs subside. GEORGE lies still.)
CROUCH: Well, gentlemen, that’s approximately two minutes of approximate silence. I think we might proceed with our opening statements—‘Man—good, bad or indifferent?’—Sir Archibald.
USHER: Call Sir Archibald Jumper!
ECHO: Call Sir Archibald Jumper.
(GEORGE remains prone. Enormous applause, unrealistically cut off, for ARCHIE.)
ARCHIE: Mr. Crouch, ladies and gentlemen. ‘Man—good, bad or indifferent?’ Indeed, if moon mad herd instinct, is God dad the inference?—to take another point: If goons in mood, by Gad is sin different or banned good, f’r’instance?—thirdly: out of the ether, random nucleic acid testes or neither universa vice, to name but one—fourthly: If the necessary being isn’t, surely mother of invention as Voltaire said, not to mention Darwin different from the origin of the specious—to sum up: Super, both natural and stitious, sexual ergo cogito er go-go sometimes, as Descartes said, and who are we? Thank you. (Shattering applause.
The USHERS hold up score cards: ‘9.7’—‘9.9’—‘9.8’.)
ARCHIE: Call the Archbishop of Canterbury.
(The cry is taken up by other voices. There is music for the ARCHBISHOP’s entrance. He enters, dressed as for a coronation, attended by two yellow-garbed chaplains (JUMPERS) who
position themselves downstage, facing the audience. GEORGE gets to his feet and looks at CLEGTHORPE, who ‘blesses’ him.)
USHER (to Archbishop): Take the book in your right hand and read what is on the card.
ARCHBISHOP: Nine.
ARCHIE: My lord, it might save the court’s time if I were to explain now that his Grace has certain doubts about the existence of God, and does not wish to take the oath, as a matter of conscience. You are Samuel Clegthorpe, Arch-bishop of Canterbury?
ARCHBISHOP: For my sins.
CROUCH: What does he mean by that?
ARCHIE: I think he was hoping for a Cabinet post, my lord.
… Your Grace, we are gathered together to dispute the goodness, badness or indifference of man. As the senior cleric of the Church of England, you have no doubt thought deeply about this.
CLEGTHORPE: Well, until recently, I have been mainly interested in the birds of the air and the beasts of the field—rooks, badgers, rabbits—and so on.
ARCHIE: Quite. But I think you are aware that there is great uncertainty in the land. The ground shifts. The common people to look to you for guidance.
CLEGTHORPE: Yes. My chaplains had to use tear gas to disperse them. In my opinion, the Government is going too fast. (The CHAPLAINS turn to look at him.)
ARCHIE: Surely that is a matter best left to the Government?
CLEGTHORPE: They were shouting ‘Give us the blood of the lamb.
Give us the bread of the body of Christ’——
ARCHIE: That’s hardly a rational demand.
CLEGTHORPE: They won’t go away!… Surely belief in man could find room for man’s beliefs…? (Behind him the USHERS stand up.)
ARCHIE: Archbishop, the cat has already jumped. (The CHAPLAINS back-flip into the middle of the stage,
flanking CLEGTHORPE now; or cartwheels if back-flips are not
possible.)
No further questions.
CLEGTHORPE: Well, I’d just like to say—I don’t like to see my flock weeping in my garden at Lambeth——
ARCHIE (sharply): My Lord Archbishop, when I was last in
Lambeth I saw good strawberries in your garden—I do beseech you send for some.
(USHERS and CHAPLAINS take a step.)
CLEGTHORPE: Yes, all right, but you must appreciate my position—I mean now that I am Archbishop of Canterbury——
ARCHIE: Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest!
(From each side of the stage, as though catapulted (from trampolines offstage) a YELLOW JUMPER leaps into the middle
of the stage, both JUMPERS landing together in front of
CLEGTHORPE, with the first bar of the introduction to ‘Sentimental Journey’.
The SEVEN JUMPERS (i.e. two chaplains, three ushers and the latter two) are now one unit, using the music to choreograph the threat to CLEGTHORPE.
GEORGE watches, moves hesitantly.
This is what happens now, and it ought not to take as long to happen as it does to describe it: The JUMPERS and the music
together keep the beat: The pattern of men changes and in six separate movements CLEGTHORPE is moved upstage until he is
standing on CROUCH’s desk as part of a pyramid of JUMPERS.)
GEORGE: Point of order, Mr. Chairman.
CLEGTHORPE: Professor—it’s not right. George—help.
CROUCH: DO you have any questions for this witness, Professor?
GEORGE: Er… no, I don’t think so.
CROUCH: Thank you.
(The music goes louder.)
GEORGE: Well, this seems to be a political quarrel…. Surely only a proper respect for absolute values… universal truths—philosophy——
(A gunshot. It stops the music, and knocks CLEGTHORPE out of the pyramid, which disintegrates.
When everything is still:)
ARCHIE: Call Dotty Moore!
(Everything comes vividly to life: loud music brings the JUMPERS to their feet. The Screen turns to a brilliant starry sky. The music is the introduction to ‘Sentimental Journey’, and DOTTY is to make her entrance on a spangled crescent
moon… with the JUMPERS as Dancers.)
JUMPERS (sing): Calling Dotty Moore, calling Dotty Moore, call
Dotty Moore.
DOTTY (sings): Did I hear you call, will you tell me why?
Am I dreaming, is this really me?
Show me where to stand, and I’ll tell you my Philosophy.
Here is my consistent proposition,
Two and two make roughly four—
Gentlemen, that is my position,
Yours sincerely, Dorothy Moore.
As for man, I got my reservations,
Going by experience
Some ain’t bad and some are revelations,
Never met indifference.
Heaven, how can I believe in heaven?
Just a lying rhyme for seven!
Scored for violins on multi-track
That takes me back
To happy days when I knew how to make it
I knew how to hold a tune
Till the night they had to go and break it——
GEORGE (shouts): Stop!!
(Everything freezes.)
A remarkable number of apparently intelligent people are baffled by the fact that a different group of apparently intelligent people profess to a knowledge of God when common sense tells them—the first group of apparently intelligent people—that knowledge is only a possibility in matters that can be demonstrated to be true or false, such as that the Bristol train leaves from Paddington. And yet these same apparently intelligent people, who in extreme cases will not even admit that the Bristol train left from Paddington yesterday—which might be a malicious report or a collective trick of memory—nor that it will leave from there tomorrow—for nothing is certain—and will only agree that it did so today if they were actually there when it left—and even then only on the understanding that all the observable phenomena associated with the train leaving Paddington could equally well be accounted for by Paddington leaving the train—these same people will, nevertheless, and without any sense of inconsistency, claim to know that life is better than death, that love is better than hate, and that the light shining through the east window of their bloody gymnasium is more beautiful than a rotting corpse!—In evidence of which I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to consider the testimony of such witnesses as Zeno Evil, St. Thomas Augustine, Jesus Moore and my late friend the late Herr Thumper who was as innocent as a rainbow…
ARCHIE: Do not despair—many are happy much of the time; more eat than starve, more are healthy than sick, more curable than dying; not so many dying as dead; and one of the thieves was saved. Hell’s bells and all’s well—half the world is at peace with itself, and so is the other half; vast areas are unpolluted; millions of children grow up without suffering deprivation, and millions, while deprived, grow up without suffering cruel
ties, and millions, while deprived and cruelly treated, none the less grow up. No laughter is sad and many tears are joyful. At the graveside the undertaker doffs his top hat and impregnates the prettiest mourner. Wham, bam, thank you Sam. (The light has reduced to a spot on DOTTY.)
DOTTY (sings without music): Goodbye spoony Juney Moon.
BLACKOUT
Forget Yesterday
If you don’t love me this morning
Don’t break the news too soon;
Can’t keep the daylight from dawning,
Can’t face the afternoon.
But save it baby I’ll get by
Tell me under a starry sky
Just like you found me
Want you to leave me
Below a lover’s moon.
Call it a day but wait for the night
Don’t go away the sun is still high
I’ll drink to you in moonshine tonight
Tell me I’m through I’ll find someone new
You won’t see me cry.
Don’t have to give me the lowdown,
Call off the honeymoon
You paid the piper but slow down,
Take time to call the tune.
Need time ’til all my tears have dried
Catch me when I’m all starry eyed.
Just like you found me
Want you to leave me
Below a lover’s moon.
Call it a day, it’s nearly tonight
Help me to keep tomorrow at bay
I’ll dream of you, pretend it’s all right,
Maybe it’s true
Tomorrow is new
Forget yesterday.
* Available from Grove Press
* In the event, the corpse was not hung on the back of the Bedroom door, in the original production, but on the inside of the door of a cupboard adjacent to the Bedroom door; the closing of the Bedroom door mysteriously caused the opening of the cupboard door, a device gratefully borrowed from the famous Robert Dhery sketch in La Plume de ma Tante.