The Habit of Art: A Play (10 page)

Auden
Late. Nine o’clock.

Stuart
You could still suck me off.

Auden
As a nightcap, you mean? I prefer Scotch. Were you ever innocent?

Stuart
What of? I haven’t done anything.

Auden
Untouched. Unfingermarked.

Stuart
When I was young. Still am young, I suppose. Though not untouched, obviously.

Auden
Do you blame anybody?

Stuart
(
looking at the room
) Do you?

Auden
Dirt is everywhere.

Stuart
Not on people. Also there’s no need to stink. Not these days.

Auden
Maybe you should be a nurse.

Stuart
I thought of that. Another job where you fiddle with people and take dicks for granted.

(
To the audience.
) He asked me all sorts of questions. I asked him nothing. Later, much much later, when all these people were dead, I started to read and it discovered to me what my questions should have been. These unasked questions reproach me still.

Carpenter
Both their deaths were appropriately located: Auden, aged sixty-six, a transient’s death of a heart attack alone in a middling hotel in Vienna. Not cosy, anyway.

Britten, true to form, died more decorously at home, aged sixty-three, in the arms of Peter Pears, though dying in someone’s arms can seldom be comfortable for either party so that one is never sure this isn’t simply a figure of speech. For all the sacred music Britten had written, it was Auden who was the believer – both of them, though, ending up commemorated in Westminster Abbey.

Auden
It cannot be said too often: what matters is the work.

Fitz
What’s this?

Kay
You know what it is. We did it yesterday. It’s the new ending.

Fitz
I still don’t see what’s wrong with what we’ve got. It’s a nice dying fall. It’s in the poet’s own words. What’s the matter with it?

Author
It was something Auden himself said – which is in the play, or was, till you cut it out – how he felt that the end of
The Tempest
really won’t do, that it’s all very neat but that there’s more to be said. And so he lets Caliban speak. That’s why the play is called
Caliban’s Day
. Look, Auden and Britten are dead, Carpenter died in 2005, the only survivor the boy – which is Caliban again. What happens to him?

Fitz
Does it matter? The audience aren’t going to care. The punters.

Author
Exactly. So it does matter. They have to be made to care. You have to dispose of the boy. They’re dead, but Caliban is still with us.

Henry
Caliban is always with us.

Kay
Let’s run it, anyway.

Henry
Is he supposed to win, the boy? Because that’s sentimental. Those boys don’t win.

Tim
Your friend at RADA did.

Donald
And he lives on. That’s winning in anybody’s book.

Author
Can we just do it?

Kay
Yes. Just top and tail it with the other. Fitz.

Auden
It cannot be said too often: what matters is the work. That night in Vienna I read from my poem on the death of Yeats.

Fitz
And that’s where I believe it ought to end, with the poetry.
Nobilmente
. Well, it trumps everything else. I’m sorry, love, but I do. And not for me. I don’t want the last word. I’m thinking of Auden. That’s where the audience will want it to end, anyway.

Author
With the boy left out of the account it’s too easy. If Auden thought
The Tempest
was too tidy, what is that?

Fitz
Let the poet speak, that’s all I’m saying.

Kay
For the moment I think we should rehearse what is written.

Author
Thank you.

Kay
Tim.

Stuart
Auden asked me that night what it was that I wanted. I didn’t know then and I don’t altogether know now, but if I had spoken then, this is what I should have said.

Carpenter
And the boy stands up like a wild fig tree from monumental marble.

Fitz
You see, what does that mean?

Author
It’s a quotation from Coleridge.

Fitz
Who’s going to know that?

Tim
Are we going to do the scene or not?

Kay
Yes, we are. Fitz, behave.

Tim
Then he summons Britten back, right? (
Then as Stuart.
) He should come back, for a start.

Britten
I have already. I do not need a summons. My famous car has disappeared.

Fitz
Is it me? (
Then as Auden.
) So once more Caliban prepares to address the audience.

Tim
Am I taking my clothes off?

Fitz
Oh, for fuck’s sake, does he have to? Nobody’ll look at anything else.

Author
He has to take his clothes off.

Fitz
It’s so old-fashioned.

Henry
That’s not for you to say, is it? He has to take his clothes off because he’s saying, ‘This is all I have.’

Kay
Could we leave it for today and just concentrate on the text? (
Giving cue.
) ‘So once more…’

Auden
So once more Caliban prepares to address the audience.

Stuart
No, not Caliban, whoever he was. And not in the language of Henry James, or any other tosser. No. Me. Us. Here. Now. When do we figure and get to say our say? The great men’s lives are neatly parcelled for posterity, but what about us? When do we take our bow? Not in biography. Not even in diaries.

‘A boy came round. Picked up on the hill. Didn’t stay.’

‘Your grandfather was sucked off by W. H. Auden.’

‘Benjamin Britten sat naked on the side of my bath.’

Because if nothing else, we at least contributed. We were in attendance, we boys of art. And though there’s the odd photograph, nobody remembers who they’re of: uncaptioned or ‘with an unidentified friend’, unnamed girls, unnameable boys, the flings, the tricks. The fodder of art.

Carpenter
So what is it you want? A mention? A footnote?

Stuart
I want to figure. He goes on about stuff being cosy, England and that. But it’s not England that’s cosy. It’s art, literature, him, you, the lot of you. Because there’s always someone left out. You all have a map. I don’t have a map. I don’t even know what I don’t know. I want to get in. I want to join. I want to know.

Auden
No. You don’t want to know. Nobody wants to know any more. You want what Caliban always wants: you want to be knowing. We can’t help you.

Kay
Thank you. Well done, darlings. Full company ten o’clock tomorrow.

Fitz
It will be better.

Kay
(
hugging Fitz
) I know.

Fitz
And tomorrow I can smoke.

Henry
It is bleak. I thought maybe at the finish I should take his hand?

Author
No…

Matt
Fitz, your car’s outside.

Fitz
Thank you.

Tim
Will you be all right?

Fitz
You see, that’s what’s wrong with
The Tempest.
The question Caliban never got the chance to ask:

‘Will you be all right, Prospero?’

I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. What’s done is done. What’s not done…that’s done, too. And now for some real work:

‘How would you describe your favourite instant coffee? Because if you are like me it comes with a hint of the hacienda!’ Now that is proper acting. Night.

Tim
Oh dear.

Henry
Don’t worry. He’ll get away with it. He always has. And if he forgets, he’s playing someone who does forget. They’ll think it’s inspired. Whereas I, who know every plodding word, will be thought to have turned in my usual efficient performance.

Kay
And thank goodness.

Henry
You’ve seen it all before.

Donald
I’ve still not found him, have I?

Tim
Who?

Donald
Carpenter.

Kay
It’s getting there, love.

Donald
Did the music thing help?

It’s hard because to me, you see, Carpenter is the centre of the play. Its heart.

Henry
(
to Tim, who is wheeling his bike
) Which way are you going?

Tim
The pub.

Donald
I wonder if I ought to have a wig.

Kay
Tomorrow, darling.

Author
Actors. I never get used to them.

Kay
Fitz is frightened, that’s what it is. But then everybody’s frightened. To act is to be frightened. When I used to do it I was always frightened. Threw up before every performance.

Author
I didn’t know you acted.

Kay
Yes. I loved it.

Author
What happened?

Kay
Nothing. That was the trouble.

Author
You were very good this afternoon.

Kay
Actors are like soldiers. The soldiers fear the enemy. The actors fear the audience. Fear of failing. Fear of forgetting, fear of art. Olivier ended up terrified. If you sat in the front row you could see him trembling. And besides all that, there’s the fear of this building. I worked once or twice with Ronald Eyre. Difficult man and, like all the best directors, an ex-schoolmaster. Ron knew what fear was…he’d worked at the RSC and he was here not long after it opened. The opening was, of course, disastrous. Ron said they should have moved out straight away, gone back to the Old Vic and rented the place out, made the Olivier into a skating rink, the Cottesloe a billiard hall and the Lyttelton boxing. Then after twenty-odd years of ordinary unpretentious entertainment, when it’s shabby and run-down and been purged of culture, and all the pretension had long since been beaten out of it, then with no fanfare at all they should sneak back with the occasional play and nobody need be frightened any more. Except of course the actors.

He was wrong, though, Ron. Because what’s knocked the corners off the place, taken the shine off it and made it dingy and unintimidating – are plays. Plays plump, plays paltry, plays preposterous, plays purgatorial, plays radiant, plays rotten – but plays persistent. Plays, plays, plays. The habit of art.

Author
What happened to him?

Kay
Ron? Oh, you know. He died.

Author
But about the play. I am right, aren’t I? There is always somebody left out, one way or another.

Kay
Oh yes, darling. Every, every time.