Arcadia (3 page)

noakes:
(Bleating)
Lord Little has one very similar—

lady croom: I cannot relieve Lord Little’s misfortunes by adding
to my own. Pray, what is this rustic hovel that presumes to superpose itself on
my gazebo?

noakes: That is the hermitage, madam.

lady croom: I am bewildered.

brice: It is all irregular, Mr Noakes.

noakes: It is, sir. Irregularity is one of the chiefest principles
of the picturesque style—

lady croom: But Sidley Park is already a picture, and a most
amiable picture too. The slopes are green and gende. The trees are
companionably grouped at intervals that show them to advantage. The rill is a
serpentine ribbon unwound from the lake peaceably contained by meadows on which
the right amount of sheep are tastefully arranged—in short, it is nature as God
intended, and I can say with the painter,
‘Et in Arcadia egoV
‘Here I am
in Arcadia,’ Thomasina.

Thomasina: Yes, mama, if you would have it so.

lady croom: Is she correcting my taste or my translation?

Thomasina: Neither are beyond correction, mama, but it was
your geography caused the doubt.

lady croom: Something has occurred with the girl since I saw
her last, and surely that was yesterday. How old are you this morning?

Thomasina: Thirteen years and ten months, mama.

lady croom: Thirteen years and ten months. She is not due to
be pert for six months at the earliest, or to have notions of taste for much
longer. Mr Hodge, I hold you accountable. Mr Noakes, back to you—

noakes: Thank you, my—

lady croom: You have been reading too many novels by Mrs
Radcliffe, that is my opinion. This is a garden for
The Castle ofOtranto
or
The Mysteries of Udolpho—

Chater:
The Castle ofOtranto,
my lady, is by Horace
Walpole.

noakes:
(Thrilled)
Mr Walpole the gardener?!

lady croom: Mr Chater, you are a welcome guest at Sidley
Park but while you are one,
The Castle ofOtranto
was written by whomsoever
I say it was, otherwise what is the point of being a guest or having one?
(The
distant popping of guns heard.)
Well, the guns have reached the brow—1 will
speak to his lordship on the subject, and we will see by and by—
(She stands
looking out.)
Ah!—your friend has got down a pigeon, Mr Hodge.
(Calls
out.)
Bravo, sir!

Septimus: The pigeon, I am sure, fell to your husband or to
your son, your ladyship—my schoolfriend was never a sportsman.

brice:
(Looking out)
Yes, to Augustus!—bravo, lad!

lady croom:
(Outside)
Well, come along! Where are my
troops? (brice, noakes
and
Chater
obediently follow her,
Chater
making
a detour to shake
Septimus’s
hand fervently.)

Chater: My dear Mr Hodge!

(Chater
leaves also. The guns are heard again, a little
closer.)

Thomasina: Pop, pop, pop ... I have grown up in the sound of
guns like the child of a siege. Pigeons and rooks in the close season, grouse
on the heights from August, and the pheasants to follow—partridge, snipe,
woodcock, and teal—pop—pop—pop, and the culling of the herd. Papa has no need
of the recording angel, his life is written in the game book.

Septimus: A calendar of slaughter. ‘Even in Arcadia, there
am I!’

Thomasina: Oh, phooey to Death!

(She dips a pen and takes it to the reading stand.)

I will put in a hermit, for what is a hermitage without a hermit?
Are you in love with my mother, Septimus?

Septimus: You must not be cleverer than your elders. It is
not polite.

Thomasina: Am I cleverer?

Septimus: Yes. Much.

Thomasina: Well, I am sorry, Septimus.
(She pauses in her
drawing and produces a small envelope from her pocket.)
Mrs Chater came to
the music room with a note for you. She said it was of scant importance, and
that therefore I should carry it to you with the utmost safety, urgency and
discretion. Does carnal embrace addle the brain?

Septimus:
(Taking the letter)
Invariably. Thank you.
That is enough education for today.

Thomasina: There. I have made him like the Baptist in the wilderness.

Septimus: How picturesque.

(LADY CROOM
is heard calling distantly for
THOMASINA
who
runs off into the garden, cheerfully, an uncomplicated girl.
Septimus
opens
Mrs Chater
⁹
s note. He crumples the envelope and throws it away. He
reads the note, folds it and inserts it into the pages of’The Couch of Eros
⁹
.)

The lights come up on the same room, on the same sort of
morning, in the present day, as is instantly clear from the appearance of
Hannah
jarvis;
and from nothing else.

Something needs to be said about this. The action of the
play shuttles back and forth between the early nineteenth century and the
present day, always in this same room. Both periods must share the state of the
room, without the additions and subtractions which would normally be expected.
The
general
appearance of the room should offend neither period. In the
case of props—books, paper, flowers, etc., there is no absolute need to remove
the evidence of one period to make way for another. However, books, etc.,
used
in both periods should exist in both old and new versions. The landscape
outside, we are told, has undergone changes. Again, what we see should neither
change nor contradict.

On the above principle, the ink and pens etc., of the
first scene can remain. Books and papers associated with Hannah’s research, in
Scene Two, can have been on the table from the beginning of the play. And so
on. During the course of the play the table collects this and that, and where
an object from one scene would be an anachronism in another (say a coffee mug)
it is simply deemed to have become invisible. By the end of the play the table
has collected an inventory of objects.

Hannah
is leafing through the pages ofMrNoakes’s sketch
book. Also to hand, opened and closed, are a number of small volumes like
diaries (these turn out to be Lady Groom’s ‘garden books’). After a few
moments,
Hannah
takes the sketch book to the windows, comparing the view
with what has been drawn, and then she replaces the sketch book on the reading
stand.

She wears nothing frivolous. Her shoes are suitable for
the garden, which is where she goes now after picking up the theodolite from
the table. The room is empty for a few moments.

One of the other doors opens to admit
CHLOfi
and
Bernard.
She is the daughter of the house and is dressed casually.
Bernard,
the
visitor, wears a suit and a tie. His tendency is to dress flamboyantly, but he
has damped it down for the occasion, slightly. A peacock-coloured display
handkerchief boils over in his breastpocket. He carries a capacious leather bag
which serves as a briefcase.
chloE: Oh! Well, she
was
here ... Bernard:
Ah ... the french window ... chloE: Yes. Hang on.

(CHLOE
steps out through the garden door and disappears
from view.
Bernard
hangs on. The second door opens and
VALENTINE
looksin.)

Valentine: Sod.

(Valentine
goes out again, closing the door.
chloE
returns,
carrying a pair of rubber boots. She comes in and sits down and starts
exchanging her shoes for the boots, while she talks.)
chloE: The best thing
is, you wait here, save you tramping around. She spends a good deal of time in
the garden, as you may imagine. Bernard: Yes. Why? chloE: Well, she’s writing a
history of the garden, didn’t you know? Bernard: No, I knew she was working on
the Croom papers but ... chloE: Well, it’s not exactly a history of the garden
either. I’ll let

Hannah explain it. The trench you nearly drove into is all to
do with it. I was going to say make yourself comfortable but that’s hardly
possible, everything’s been cleared out, it’s en route to the nearest lavatory.
Bernard: Everything is?

chloE: No, this room is. They drew the line at chemical ‘Ladies’’.
Bernard: Yes, I see. Did you say Hannah? chloE: Hannah, yes. Will you be all
right?

(She stands up wearing the boots.)

I won’t be ...
(But she has lost him.)
Mr
Nightingale? Bernard:
(Waking up)
Yes. Thank you. Miss Jarvis is Hannah

Jarvis the author? chloE: Yes. Have you read her book? Bernard:
Oh, yes. Yes. chloE: I bet she’s in the hermitage, can’t see from here with the
marquee ...

Bernard: Are you having a garden party?

chloE: A dance for the district, our annual dressing up and
general drunkenness. The wrinklies won’t have it in the house, there was a
teapot we once had to bag back from Christie’s in the nick of time, so anything
that can be destroyed, stolen or vomited on has been tactfully removed;
tactlessly, I should say—
(She is about to leave.)

Bernard: Um—look—would you tell her—would you mind not
mentioning my name just yet?

chloE: Oh. All right.

Bernard:
(Smiling)
More fun to surprise her. Would
you mind?

chloE: No. But she’s bound to ask ... Should I give you
another name, just for the moment?

Bernard: Yes, why not?

chloE: Perhaps another bird, you’re not really a
Nightingale.
(She leaves again.
Bernard
glances over the books on the
table. He puts his briefcase down. There is the distant pop-pop of a shotgun.
It takes
Bernard
vaguely to the window. He looks out. The door he
entered by now opens and
GUS
looks into the room.
Bernard
turns
and sees him.)

Bernard: Hello.

(GUS
doesn’t speak. He never speaks. Perhaps he cannot
speak. He has no composure, and faced with a stranger, he caves in and leaves
again. A moment later the other door opens again and
Valentine
crosses
the room, not exactly ignoring
Bernard
and yet ignoring him.)

Valentine: Sod, sod, sod, sod, sod, sod ...
(As many
times as it takes him to leave by the opposite door, which he closes behind
him. Beyond it, he can be heard shouting.
Chlo! Chlo! Bernard’s
discomfort
increases. The same door opens and
Valentine
returns. He looks at
Bernard.)

Bernard: She’s in the garden looking for Miss Jarvis.

Valentine: Where is everything?

Bernard: It’s been removed for the, er ...

Valentine: The dance is all in the tent, isn’t it?

Bernard: Yes, but this is the way to the nearest toilet.

Valentine: I need the commode.

Bernard: Oh. Can’t you use the toilet?

Valentine: It’s got all the game books in it.

Bernard: Ah. The toilet has or the commode has?

Valentine: Is anyone looking after you?

Bernard: Yes. Thank you. I’m Bernard Nigh—I’ve come to see

Miss Jarvis. I wrote to Lord Croom but unfortunately I

never received a reply, so I—Valentine: Did you type it? Bernard:
Type it?

Valentine: Was your letter typewritten? Bernard: Yes. Valentine:
My father never replies to typewritten letters.

{He spots a tortoise which has been half-hidden on the
table.)

Oh! Where have you been hiding, Lightning?
{He picks up the
tortoise.)
Bernard: So I telephoned yesterday and I think I spoke to you—Valentine:
To me? Ah! Yes! Sorry! You’re doing a talk about—

someone—and you wanted to ask Hannah—something—Bernard: Yes.
As it turns out. I’m hoping Miss Jarvis will look kindly on me. Valentine: I
doubt it. Bernard: Ah, you know about research? Valentine: I know Hannah.
Bernard: Has she been here long? Valentine: Well in possession, I’m afraid. My
mother had read her book, you see. Have you? Bernard: No. Yes. Her book.
Indeed. Valentine: She’s terrifically pleased with herself. Bernard: Well, I
dare say if I wrote a bestseller—Valentine: No, for reading it. My mother
basically reads gardening books. Bernard: She must be delighted to have Hannah
Jarvis writing a book about her garden. Valentine: Actually it’s about hermits.

(GUS
returns through the same door, and turns to leave
again.)

It’s all right, Gus—what do you want?—

(But
Gus
has gone again.)

Well ... I’ll take Lightning for his run.

Bernard: Actually, we’ve met before. At Sussex, a couple of
years ago, a seminar ...

Valentine: Oh. Was I there?

Bernard: Yes. One of my colleagues believed he had found an
unattributed short story by D. H. Lawrence, and he analysed it on his home
computer, most interesting, perhaps you remember the paper?

Valentine: Not really. But I often sit with my eyes closed
and it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m awake.

Bernard: Well, by comparing sentence structures and so
forth, this chap showed that there was a ninety per cent chance that the story
had indeed been written by the same person as
Women in Love.
To my
inexpressible joy, one of your maths mob was able to show that on the same
statistical basis there was a ninety per cent chance that Lawrence also wrote
the
Just William
books and much of the previous day’s
Brighton and
Hove Argus.

Valentine:
(Pause)
Oh, Brighton. Yes. I was there.
(And
looking out.)
Oh—here she comes, I’ll leave you to talk. By the way, is
yours the red Mazda?

Bernard: Yes.

Valentine: If you want a tip I’d put it out of sight through
the stable arch before my father comes in. He won’t have anyone in the house
with a Japanese car. Are you queer?

Bernard: No, actually.