ETERNITY AND POST-ETERNITY
(An endless Tone-Drama in the Shavian manner.)
Through the skylight of the subterranean dwelling of Colonel Lazyboy (R.A.S.C., T.D.), in the Chiltern Hills, an apparently endless procession of clouds may be seen racing across a Mediterranean-blue sky, a sure sign that rain will fall later. We may omit a number of stage directions about the history of the Lazyboy family, the detailed furnishing of the cavern, the mental processes of the Colonel himself, and a stupendous preface on “Midwifery and the Modern Play”—it being sufficient to state that, although a spacious mansion stands in the grounds hard by, it is entirely given over to the servants, the family preferring to share the cave life of the Colonel, who, since he commanded a Chinese Labour Battalion during the second battle of the Somme, has been quite unable to reaccustom himself to living in a house, preferring, as he says, the harder and more natural life of the dug-out.
The Colonel, Mrs. Lazyboy (a faded, bored woman), Mercia, their daughter, and Harmodius Hashovit, her husband, are at their morning wrangle. In the middle of the row, Nurse Allsopp hurries in. Being Mercia’s old nurse she is virtually mistress (and master) of the house.
Mrs. Lazyboy: Oh, dear! What is it now, Nursey?
Nurse: Oh, Im sure I beg pardon, Maam, but heres Miss Mercias young man—(suddenly observing Hashovit)—Oh, Im sure I beg pardon, sir, I didn’t see you. I meant to say——
Hashovit (heavily): You meant that popinjay Eustace Brill. You needn’t make a mystery about it, Nurse. Everyone knows hes my wifes young man.
Nurse (shocked): Oh, that Im sure they dont, sir.
The Colonel (pained): Harmodius, my dear fellow, er——Allsopp, tell Mr. Brill were not at home.
Mercia (bouncing up): Certainly not! Send Youstee away because Harmys jealous. Ill go and let him in myself.
Hashovit (sneering): So that you can kiss him in the passage without anyone seeing you——
Mercia (proudly): Ill kiss him before you all. (A terrific crash and splintering of glass heralds the arrival of Eustace by the skylight. He lands on the table, which collapses under him; recovers his feet, and smiles genially around.)
“The influence of that man Shaw.”
Mercia (crooning): Yousteeee!
The Colonel (testily): Confound it all, Brill, I wish you wouldn’t tear the place to pieces like that.... And you’ve shot a great fid of glass into my eye. Damn the thing. (He gropes, and finally extracts it.) There, now itll bleed for the rest of the day!
Eustace (surprised): I thought you prided yourself on keeping up active service conditions.
The Colonel: So I do.
Eustace: Then why make all this fuss about a trifling wound? You ought to be grateful. It adds a touch of reality to your life.
The Colonel: Id rather you left me to supply the reality myself, Brill. However—(Mercia, true to her threat, embraces Eustace with fervour).... Now really, Mercia, upon my soul.... (He clicks his tongue with vexation.)
Eustace (taken aback): Mercia, dear. I know you mean it awfully nicely. But really, in public——
Hashovit (glowering): You see—you degrade yourself to no purpose.
The Colonel (warmly): Degrade? Nonsense!... I, of course, dont mean to imply——
Hashovit: But damn it all, Colonel——
Mercia (screaming): Dont shout, Harmodius.
The wrangle proceeds on the familiar Shavian lines, the party being reinforced for no apparent reason by the arrival of Dan Bigby, an old sea-captain, and Michael John O’Sullivan.
Eustace (at long last): Look here, Im getting sick of this. Its all too much like a play by Bernard Shaw.
Hashovit (growling): Everyone is at heart a Shavian.
The Colonel (hastily): No, really, Harmodius.... O’Sullivan, Brill, we cant have that——
| Eustace: The truth about Shaw—— | } | (Spoken together.) |
| Hashovit: My idea of Shaw—— | } | |
| Michael John: Sure, if you cometo talk about Shaw—— | } | |
| Mrs. Lazyboy: Hes quite right. Theinfluence of that man Shaw—— | } | |
| Captain Dan: Who was Shaw, anyway? | } |
The Colonel (in his parade voice): Silence. Youre on parade. Behave accordingly.
Captain Dan: Avast there. Belay.
Mercia (stamping): I wont belay. I object——
Eustace: But whats this to do with Shaw? And whats the use of objecting when cosmic forces grip people by the throat? Ive no wish whatever to do anything thats not A1 at Lloyds and all that. But——
Hashovit: Cosmic fiddlesticks. Its lust, Brill, and you know it. You and Mercia want to misconduct yourselves, and its no good your trying to draw a red herring of formulas and psycho-analytic bosh across the track. It wont wash. In my young days——
Mercia (icily): I dont think were greatly interested in your young days, Harmodius.
Hashovit: Be quiet, Mercia. I will speak my mind, so youd better make up your minds to listen. In my young days if a man and a girl wanted to behave improperly they just did so and said no more about it. But youve no decency. Youre not content with forbidden fruit, you go and flaunt your liaison in the husband’s face, and make a parade of it before all his and your friends. I wonder you dont advertise it in the papers. Upon my soul, its what were coming to——
Eustace: But——
Hashovit (yelling): Dont you interrupt me, sir. I dont care a swizzle stick about your stealing my wifes affections. As a matter of fact, she hasnt got any, as youll jolly soon discover when the noveltys worn off——
Mercia: Oh, Harmy. (She weeps.)
Hashovit: I dont care if you take her to Brighton or Nijni Novgorod—if youre such a blasted fool as to spend so much money on her. I dont care if you sit all day squeezing her hand, looking into her eyes till you both squint, pawing her about, and talking that horrible sickly twaddle I couldn’t help overhearing last night (he shudders at the recollection).... But—(rising to his feet)—but I will not have all your friends and my friends whispering and talking about me as though I were something to be pitied. (His voice rising to a scream.) If you want to know, I think Im just about the damn luckiest fellow alive to have unloaded this viperish, discontented, addle-headed, empty-hearted baggage on the most crass and pitiable fool Ive ever met—and if you want to say any more—(his poor, overstrained voice cracks and dies away in his throat with a mouse’s squeak; whereat he expresses his feelings by tearing the cushions to pieces and scattering the bits on the floor.)
The Colonel: Come, come, my dear fellow—pull yourself together.
Mercia (crisply): What I like about Harmodius is his obvious self-control.
Hashovit (his eyes bulging; he speaks in a hoarse whisper): Shut up, you she-porcupine, you hateful female skunk, you—(his vocal chords snap and his voice goes for ever.)
Mercia: His manners are so perfect, too: and hes so brave.... Cry-baby!
Hashovit (inarticulately): o o o o o o o b b—(or some similar noise. Blood gushes from his mouth.)
Nurse Allsopp: There, my poddle-poodkins, come with nursey-wursey. (Addressing the others sharply): And if you want any lunch go and wash your hands, all of you. (She leads Harmodius out by the hand. The others, except Eustace and Mercia, follow her meekly.)
Eustace (uneasily): You expect me to admire all that, I suppose.
Mercia (fixing him with vampire eyes): I expect you to admire nothing except me.
Eustace: Admire you. I loathe you. I struggle to escape from you. Youre like some awful drug, the same odious intoxication, the same irresistible fascination, and the same deadly remorse when its all over. You steal away my senses, and make me a slave.
Mercia: I make you a priest, not a slave.
Eustace: No, its slavery.
Mercia: Priesthood. High Priesthood to the divine desire in all of us.
Eustace (retreating): Im afraid of that.
Mercia (snaring him with her eyes): Afraid! Afraid of worshipping love?
Eustace: Yes. Ive no vocation.
Mercia (dangerously): Does that mean youve no inclination?
Eustace: No. It means what it says.... You talk about priesthood of love. You seem to think no vocation is necessary, though I suppose youd admit it in the case of a priest of Buddhism. Religion is a dedication of the spirit; Love, a dedication of the heart. You cant dedicate your spirit till its broken; nor can you your heart; and hearts dont break as easily as crockery, let me tell you. (Espying Michael John in the passage): O’Sullivan.
Michael John (entering and curling himself up in the coal-scuttle): Speak.
Eustace: Tell her how long a mans heart must beat against that of a woman before it will break.
Michael John: Four years and ninety minutes exactly. On the tick of the ninetieth minute the heart cracks, and the imprisoned soul passes from its bondage into the numbing bliss of everlasting heartache——
Captain Dan (entering unobserved and taking up the tale): And in the fifth year he shall be exalted above human understanding.... In the dog watches and under the dog stars Ive looked upon the ways of mankind, and held my hand from destroying them in sheer——
Eustace: Pity?
Captain Dan: Pity. No! Indifference.
Mercia (fixing him with her eyes): Danny, I make you mine. The priesthood of love——
Captain Dan (uneasily): Avast there.
Mercia (triumphantly): There’s no avasting where Ill take you. (Breaking into a chant)
I go by the mountains and rivers,
I go by the seashore and fell.
Eustace (satirically):
While the thankless old mariner shivers
Michael John:
And strives to break loose from her spell.
Mercia (her voice rising to prophetic fervour):
But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,
Shall go in the van as our guide,
Captain Dan (chuckling feebly):
Down the pathway of shame to the burning,
Mercia (laughing horribly):
When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.
(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)
Mercia (disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!
Captain Dan (in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!
Eustace (passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——
Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)
Mercia’s voice (a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——
Many years elapse. They are still talking.
Mercia (temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——
The Colonel (who is deaf by now): Whats that?
Mrs. Lazyboy (who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.
The Colonel: He! He! He!
A long time passes by.
Mr. Fuzzlewhitt (Mercias great grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——
Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt (who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....
Centuries roll by.
Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——
Æons pass.
Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)
Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.
A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.
A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.
A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.
A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.
The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.
A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.
The Eternal: Good.
The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.
The Eternal (apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.
Eternity passes.
Mr. Shaw (on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.
The Eternal (apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.
The End of the Play.