Complete Poems and Plays (43 page)

W
ARBURTON
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
                                 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.

W
ARBURTON
.
                             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.

H
ARRY
.
O God, man, the things that are going to happen

Have already happened.

W
ARBURTON
.
                      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 …

H
ARRY
.
                                  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.

W
ARBURTON
.
                      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.

H
ARRY
.
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?

W
ARBURTON
.
Why, yes, of course, Harry, but I really don’t see

What that has to do with the present occasion

Or with what I have to tell you.

H
ARRY
.
                                            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?

W
ARBURTON
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
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.

W
ARBURTON
.
You overinterpret.

I am sure that your mother always loved him;

There was never the slightest suspicion of scandal.

H
ARRY
.
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.

W
ARBURTON
.
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?

H
ARRY
.
                      Very well, tell me.

W
ARBURTON
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
                                                           Well!

W
ARBURTON
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
Hopes? … Tell me

Did you know my father at about my present age?

W
ARBURTON.
Why, yes, Harry, of course I did.

H
ARRY
.
What did he look like then? Did he look at all like me?

W
ARBURTON
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
I never saw a photograph. There is no portrait.

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

[
Enter
D
ENMAN
]

D
ENMAN
.
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.

H
ARRY
.
                                                 I’ll see him.

[
Exit
D
ENMAN
]

W
ARBURTON
.
I wonder what he wants. I hope nothing has happened

To either of your brothers.

H
ARRY
.
                                    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 …

W
ARBURTON
.
                            Harry! Pull yourself together.