have to say, a terribly attractive woman in many ways. Her buns are the best.
Hirst looks at him.
Her currant buns. The best.
HIRST Would you be so kind as to pour me another drop of whisky?
SPOONER Certainly.
Spooner takes the glass, pours whisky into it, gives it to Hirst.
SPOONER Perhaps itâs about time I introduced myself. My name is Spooner.
HIRST Ah.
SPOONER Iâm a staunch friend of the arts, particularly the art of poetry, and a guide to the young. I keep open house. Young poets come to me. They read me their verses. I comment, give them coffee, make no charge. Women are admitted, some of whom are also poets. Some are not. Some of the men are not. Most of the men are not. But with the windows open to the garden, my wife pouring long glasses of squash, with ice, on a summer evening, young voices occasionally lifted in unaccompanied ballad, young bodies lying in the dying light, my wife moving through the shadows in her long gown, what can ail? I mean who can gainsay us? What quarrel can be found with what is, au fond, a gesture towards the sustenance and preservation of art, and through art to virtue?
HIRST Through art to virtue.( Raises glass. ) To your continued health.
Spooner sits, for the first time.
SPOONER When we had our cottage . . . when we had our cottage . . . we gave our visitors tea, on the lawn.
HIRST I did the same.
SPOONER On the lawn?
HIRST I did the same.
SPOONER You had a cottage?
HIRST Tea on the lawn.
SPOONER What happened to them? What happened to our cottages? What happened to our lawns?
Pause.
Be frank. Tell me. Youâve revealed something. Youâve made an unequivocal reference to your past. Donât go back on it. We share something. A memory of the bucolic life. Weâre both English.
Pause.
HIRST In the village church, the beams are hung with garlands, in honour of young women of the parish, reputed to have died virgin.
Pause.
However, the garlands are not bestowed on maidens only, but on all who die unmarried, wearing the white flower of a blameless life.
Pause.
SPOONER You mean that not only young women of the parish but also young men of the parish are so honoured?
HIRST I do.
SPOONER And that old men of the parish who also died maiden are so garlanded?
HIRST Certainly.
SPOONER I am enraptured. Tell me more. Tell me more about the quaint little perversions of your life and times. Tell me more, with all the authority and brilliance you can muster, about the socio-politico-economic structure of the environment in which you attained to the age of reason. Tell me more.
Pause.
HIRST There is no more.
SPOONER Tell me then about your wife.
HIRST What wife?
SPOONER How beautiful she was, how tender and how true. Tell me with what speed she swung in the air, with what velocity she came off the wicket, whether she was responsive to finger spin, whether you could bowl a shooter with her, or an offbreak with a legbreak action. In other words, did she google?
Silence.
You will not say. I will tell you then . . . that my wife . . . had everything. Eyes, a mouth, hair, teeth, buttocks, breasts, absolutely everything. And legs.
HIRST Which carried her away.
SPOONER Carried who away? Yours or mine?
Pause.
Is she here now, your wife? Cowering in a locked room, perhaps?
Pause.
Was she ever here? Was she ever there, in your cottage? It is my duty to tell you you have failed to convince. I am an honest and intelligent man. You pay me less than my due. Are you, equally, being fair to the lady? I begin to wonder whether truly accurate and therefore essentially poetic definition means anything to youat all. I begin to wonder whether you do in fact truly remember her, whether you truly did love her, truly caressed her, truly did cradle her, truly did husband her, falsely dreamed or did truly adore her. I have seriously questioned these propositions and find them threadbare.
Silence.
Her eyes, I take it, were hazel?
Hirst stands, carefully. He moves,
Hirst looks at him.
Her currant buns. The best.
HIRST Would you be so kind as to pour me another drop of whisky?
SPOONER Certainly.
Spooner takes the glass, pours whisky into it, gives it to Hirst.
SPOONER Perhaps itâs about time I introduced myself. My name is Spooner.
HIRST Ah.
SPOONER Iâm a staunch friend of the arts, particularly the art of poetry, and a guide to the young. I keep open house. Young poets come to me. They read me their verses. I comment, give them coffee, make no charge. Women are admitted, some of whom are also poets. Some are not. Some of the men are not. Most of the men are not. But with the windows open to the garden, my wife pouring long glasses of squash, with ice, on a summer evening, young voices occasionally lifted in unaccompanied ballad, young bodies lying in the dying light, my wife moving through the shadows in her long gown, what can ail? I mean who can gainsay us? What quarrel can be found with what is, au fond, a gesture towards the sustenance and preservation of art, and through art to virtue?
HIRST Through art to virtue.( Raises glass. ) To your continued health.
Spooner sits, for the first time.
SPOONER When we had our cottage . . . when we had our cottage . . . we gave our visitors tea, on the lawn.
HIRST I did the same.
SPOONER On the lawn?
HIRST I did the same.
SPOONER You had a cottage?
HIRST Tea on the lawn.
SPOONER What happened to them? What happened to our cottages? What happened to our lawns?
Pause.
Be frank. Tell me. Youâve revealed something. Youâve made an unequivocal reference to your past. Donât go back on it. We share something. A memory of the bucolic life. Weâre both English.
Pause.
HIRST In the village church, the beams are hung with garlands, in honour of young women of the parish, reputed to have died virgin.
Pause.
However, the garlands are not bestowed on maidens only, but on all who die unmarried, wearing the white flower of a blameless life.
Pause.
SPOONER You mean that not only young women of the parish but also young men of the parish are so honoured?
HIRST I do.
SPOONER And that old men of the parish who also died maiden are so garlanded?
HIRST Certainly.
SPOONER I am enraptured. Tell me more. Tell me more about the quaint little perversions of your life and times. Tell me more, with all the authority and brilliance you can muster, about the socio-politico-economic structure of the environment in which you attained to the age of reason. Tell me more.
Pause.
HIRST There is no more.
SPOONER Tell me then about your wife.
HIRST What wife?
SPOONER How beautiful she was, how tender and how true. Tell me with what speed she swung in the air, with what velocity she came off the wicket, whether she was responsive to finger spin, whether you could bowl a shooter with her, or an offbreak with a legbreak action. In other words, did she google?
Silence.
You will not say. I will tell you then . . . that my wife . . . had everything. Eyes, a mouth, hair, teeth, buttocks, breasts, absolutely everything. And legs.
HIRST Which carried her away.
SPOONER Carried who away? Yours or mine?
Pause.
Is she here now, your wife? Cowering in a locked room, perhaps?
Pause.
Was she ever here? Was she ever there, in your cottage? It is my duty to tell you you have failed to convince. I am an honest and intelligent man. You pay me less than my due. Are you, equally, being fair to the lady? I begin to wonder whether truly accurate and therefore essentially poetic definition means anything to youat all. I begin to wonder whether you do in fact truly remember her, whether you truly did love her, truly caressed her, truly did cradle her, truly did husband her, falsely dreamed or did truly adore her. I have seriously questioned these propositions and find them threadbare.
Silence.
Her eyes, I take it, were hazel?
Hirst stands, carefully. He moves,
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