Paperweight

  Section Five

  Latin!

  Programme note

  The following was written for a production of Latin! (a double bill with Aunt Julie … the programme cover read in bold letters ‘A Double Bill of Strindberg and Fry’ which caused me much delight) mounted in 1989 at the New End Theatre, Hampstead, produced by a good friend to the play, Richard Jackson.

  Now Latin! has come back to haunt me. It is very difficult for a chap trying to make his way in the world, earn the respect of his peers, the affection of his friends and the hard cash of his paying customers suddenly to be confronted by the deeds of his wild youth. It is almost like meeting yourself as you once were. I am making the play sound like the most precocious juvenilia there ever was: in fact I wrote Latin! when I was twenty-two and, you may think, in a position to know better.

  Two friends of mine at Cambridge, Caroline Oulton and Mark McCrum, were setting up a new theatre, or ‘space’ as we rather oddly called them in those days. It was an L-shaped room to be called The Playroom, new plays were required for it and at the instigation of these two undergraduate impresarii, Latin! or Tobacco and Boys, to give it its full title, was written during the long vacation of 1980.

  Strangely enough, the subject matter of the piece was the least of my concerns. I had long ago decided that it would be interesting to start a play in which the audience were addressed as if they were fictional characters and then, suddenly, with no more than a lighting change, to have the ‘third wall’ of theatrical distance erected in front of them – to change them from participants to spectators in a flash. In choosing the subject of an English prep school, I followed the simple maxim of algebraic problem-solvers and novelists everywhere: ‘Write down what you know.’ Prep schools I knew. I had started boarding at one such, now since sadly closed, when I was seven and later on, a year before going up to university, I had taught at another.

  I would hate any of you to run away with the idea that Chartham School, the locus of Latin!, was in any way ‘based’ on either of those estimable and weird establishments. No such thing. The writing of Latin! was much more an experiment in the techniques of theatre and comedy, combined with a not entirely disgraceful undergraduate desire to shock. Death, homosexuality, incest, sadism and Thatcherism had all been proudly paraded on stage for years and the senses of the theatre-going public were quite anaesthetised to any of the horrors that those topics could engender: pederasty on the other hand could still, I hoped, set a few ganglions quivering.

  If you would like to contemplate the carefully crafted subtext of the piece for some essay on theatre or art that you may be preparing for your parish magazine, you might like to relate the name Dominic to the Latin dominus (or Scotch dominie) and note the anagrammatic connection between Rupert and the Latin puer from which, appropriately enough you may think, we derive our word ‘puerile’. You may also notice that Rupert’s initials are ‘R.C.’ and that it is a Dominican who detects Dominic’s forgery in the second half of the play.

  Perhaps it is fitting in these hysterical times that the play appears to constitute an apology for Islam, as well as for some of the more sensational practices that still abound in Islamic countries. These are things I do not know. I only know that I had the most terrific fun writing the play and acting in it in Cambridge and Edinburgh: I wish you a quarter as much pleasure in watching it. Valete.

  Latin! or Tobacco and Boys

  A Play in Two Unnatural Acts by Stephen Fry

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  MR DOMINIC CLARKE, schoolmaster in his middle twenties

  MR HERBERT BROOKSHAW, schoolmaster in his late fifties

  BARTON-MILLS

  CARTWRIGHT (Deponent)

  CATCHPOLE

  ELWYN-JONES

  FIGGIS

  HARVEY-WILLIAMS

  HOSKINS (Absent)

  HUGHES KINNOCK

  MADISON (Bound for Eton)

  POTTER

  SMETHWICK (Ugh)

  SPRAGG

  STANDFAST

  WHITWELL (Bumpkin)

  The action of the play takes place in Chartham Park Preparatory School For Boys, Hampshire, England. The time is the present. The play may be divided by an interval into two Acts. Running time without interval ≈ 1 hour.

  For those not acquainted with the prep-school system, it is worth pointing out that a prep school is a private school for children of the ages 7–13 and is used to prepare these individuals for public school (which means, of course, a private school for older pupils: Rugby, Winchester, Eton etc. are called ‘public’ schools). At the age of thirteen, prep-school boys take an examination known as Common Entrance, CE, a general exam the results in which determine acceptance by the public school. Some public schools demand a high score in the CE (65 per cent upwards), some are satisfied with less intellectually able boys. Ampleforth, mentioned in the play, is a famous Roman Catholic public school in Yorkshire.

  Act One

  A school form-room. The stage is the master’s dais, the auditorium serves as the form-room proper, where the pupils, played by the audience, sit. The stage is set simply. A desk Centre. Behind it a chair, behind which is the blackboard. Another chair is set somewhere. There is one entrance, a door, Left or Right, it doesn’t really matter which. On the desk there is a pile of exercise books, a box of chalk, a board-rubber, a mark-book, an ash-tray and a packet of Sobranie ‘Jasmine’, or some other, rather effeminate brand. It would be a good idea to cook up a quantity of boiled cabbage and fried liver with onions in the auditorium some hours before the performance is due to begin, in order to introduce immediately to the nostrils the echt smell of school. Any other stage properties or means of affecting the atmosphere of a slightly decaying, traditional English prep school would be useful.

  DOMINIC CLARKE is sitting at the desk before and during the admission of the audience. He is marking exercise books rapidly, impatiently and with the use of three different-coloured biros. He is a young man, lean and effete. He wears grey trousers, a russet V-neck pullover and a green needle-cord jacket, which is hung on the back of the chair he sits in. His voice is clear and sharp when teaching, but younger when engaged in normal conversation. He is only able to operate his arms with any fluency from the elbows downwards, the upper arms being almost permanently clenched against his side, in a twisted, gnarled sort of way.

  When the time comes for the play to begin, which DOMINIC checks with his own watch, he stands and speaks. The houselights remain up. Any late-comers may be regaled impromptu, or as indicated below with POTTER and STANDFAST. The audience are his pupils, and the actor must judge pauses and deliver his lines entirely in accordance with what he feels is right for each audience. Ideally, no two nights will ever be the same. The actor may add and subtract lines from the opening scene with 6B ad libitum, so long, of course, as it ends with the right cue for BROOKSHAW’s entrance.

  DOMINIC. Right, settle down now. Hughes! Face the front, boy. Silence at the back! Harvey-Williams, what did I just say? ‘Silence, sir!’ Well belt up then! Drip. So … Potter and Standfast, where have you been? Well, we all heard the bell perfectly, what’s the matter with you? …(Quietly) Well perhaps your hearing will improve if I YELL at you. Sit down. Yahoos. Elwyn-Jones, sit up straight, you’re a slob. And if I catch you looking out the window again this period, you’ll get a Minus. All right then – Cartwright, what have you got in your desk that’s more interesting than me, hm? ‘Just stuff, sir’? Well, I’ll ‘just stuff’ you if you’re not careful. Don’t snigger, Standfast, it’s unsightly. Now, let’s have a look at … Figgis, I hope that’s not a Sherbert Fountain you’re vainly trying to conceal in your pudgy fingers. Remove it from my steely gaze at once, boy, or I’ll have it confiscated and sent to Oxfam. I’m not paid to teach Sherbert Fountains – though they’d probably learn more than you wouldn’t they Hughes? Catchpole? Potter? Yes, I’ve just been marking your prep and I’m not … that’s two Demerits, Smethwick. You know very well why, and don’t forget to wash
your hands before break, repellent object that you are, Smethwick. Now, silence, all of you. I’ve just spent an appalling morning marking the corporate insult to Rome that you choose to call your prep. And I’m afraid it’s not good enough. Yes, Barton-Mills, I’m talking about your prep, and yours, Figgis. Shambolic, shamruddy-bolic. When do you think Common Entrance is, hm? A year’s time? Because it’s not, Madison, it’s in two weeks. Two weeks, Standfast, Whitwell and co., two weeks and you can’t remember the simple fact that pareo takes the dative. Two weeks, Spragg, and you still think gradus is second declension. Well it’s not good enough, I’m afraid. 4A can do better than this and they’ve got two years until their exams. And it’s no use sneering, Elwyn-Jones, you graceless oik, they may be just squits to you but at least they’ve got the mental muscle and the moral guts to come to terms with the most basic – and sit up straight! If I have to tell you again you will suffer. Boys who rub me up the wrong way, Elwyn-Jones, come to a sticky end. No need to smirk, Cartwright. Let’s just take a look at these, shall we? You might as well have them back I suppose.

  DOMINIC goes to the audience and starts to hand out exercise books, looking for the face to fit the name, giving some, throwing others to the end of a row, in typical schoolmaster fashion. He can tap some individuals on the head with exercise books as he admonishes them, if he dares.

  DOMINIC. Barton Mills? Cartwright? You’re an idle oaf, Cartwright. Catchpole? Butterfingers. Elwyn-Jones? Yes, well I told you to use a fountain pen, didn’t I, Elwyn-J., hm? ‘Yes sir.’ Well, I simply do not accept Day-Glo felt-tip, I’m afraid. I want a fair copy from you, you can do it during detention this afternoon. Don’t argue, boy, I don’t care if you’ve got a test match at Lord’s this afternoon, elegantly written Latin is of more consequence in this world than cricket. I don’t think I’m interested in Mr Grey’s view of cricket, thank you Elwyn-Jones, you’ve heard mine. When they start to present candidates for CE with a paper on cricket, then you can argue, but it won’t be with me, because I will have resigned when that day comes. Until then, you’ll do as you’re told. And stop scowling, or you’ll be in on Saturday afternoon as well. (Consults next book) Yobbo. Now. Figgis? Figgis? Oh, do get up off the floor, Figgis, stop groping about between Standfast’s legs, there’s nothing there. Never you mind how I know, Cartwright, just face the front. Well, you wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t been fiddling with it, would you? (Sighs) Can anyone lend Figgis a spare contact lens for this lesson? Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to look at the board with one eye, Figgis. You lost the other one yesterday. How? Well, you could have retrieved it from your custard, couldn’t you? Oh. That was a stupid, greedy act, wasn’t it Potter? Well, I’m sorry Figgis, you’ll just have to follow Potter around for a few days and exami – and hope it comes out in the wash. And be quiet the rest of you, don’t be so puerile. Here you are then Figgis, catch. (Throws book) Sorry! Oh, don’t be such a baby, it’s just a gash. Harvey-Williams? Hoskins? Hoskins? Does anyone know where Hoskins is? Oh, I see. Oh dear. Does anyone know how he died? I see. I had no idea. No, you may not have his desk, Barton-Mills, stay where you are. Poor old Hoskins. I suppose I’d better keep his book then. (Slips the exercise book to the bottom of the pile.) Now where were we? Hughes. Yes, where are you Hughes? What is the third person singular imperfect subjunctive active of moneo? Monoret. Exactly. You see, you know it, but as soon as it comes to writing it down, you fall apart. Not bad otherwise. Kinnock? Yes, very clever, Kinnock. Madison? Complete rubbish, Madison. Potter? Catch it, boy! Smethwick? Ugh! (Hands it out at arm’s length) Standfast? Moron. Are you sucking your thumb again, Harvey-Williams? That’s detention. I warned you, didn’t I? If you need a nipple substitute, go and see Matron and she’ll give you a rubber dummy. And you can do your detention after games, yes I thought that would shut you up. I know Elwyn-Jones is doing his during games, but he’s disgustingly developed enough, whereas you, on the other hand, are an underdeveloped little weed, who needs all the exercise he can get. What? I don’t think the prospect of your mother writing to the headmaster frightens me at all, Harvey-Williams, just wipe your nose and shut up. (To himself) Little wet. Whitwell? Yes, well, you’re a bumpkin, aren’t you, Whitwell? What are you, boy? ‘Bumpkin, sir.’ Precisely. (He comes to the last book in the pile) And Hoskins? Oh yes, poor Hoskins. Now, settle down all of you, let’s get through these, we’ve wasted enough time as it is.

  DOMINIC sits at the desk. He notices that the flowers in the vase on his desk have died. He drops them into the bin, one by one.

  DOMINIC. Sic transit, boys, gloria, as you will all too soon discover for yourselves, mundi. Now, let’s get on and make some sense out of these sentences shall we? Number one: ‘The master set out to capture the slaves.’ All right then, read out what you put will you …(Surveys the form) … put your hands down … Madison!

  As MADISON supposedly calls out his answer, DOMINIC writes it up on the blackboard.

  DOMINIC. ‘Dominus … progressit … ut capere servos est.’ (Laying the chalk down) Yes, well, that’s just arrant nonsense, isn’t it Madison? I don’t know what it means to you, but I’m afraid it bears no relation at all to the Roman tongue, which would appear to have you licked. It’s not that funny, Potter. You’re an idle and irritating oaf, Madison. Cartwright’ll tell you where you went wrong, won’t you Cartwright? Cartwright? (sing-song) Hello! Cosy naplet? Good. Now, tell us the answer please, we’re all agog. Well, what sort of clause is it? Precisely, a final clause. Ut plus subjunctive, Madison, not ut plus infinitive. Put your hand down, Smethwick, I’m not interested. No, wait until the end of the period. You can hold out until then. Just keep a firm grip on yourself. I speak figuratively, Smethwick, disgusting reptile. So, copy this down everybody, neatly. What you all should have written is this. (Writes it up as he speaks) ‘Dominus profectus est, ut servos caperet.’ ‘Dominus’ note, Standfast, not ‘magister’. ‘Magister’ is a schoolmaster, and schoolmasters don’t keep slaves. It isn’t a matter of opinion, Potter, it’s a matter of fact. And no, Figgis, I can’t write any bigger, and do stop blubbing, it stopped bleeding ages ago. We can all do without your pluvia lacrimarum flooding the form-room. Parse pluvia lacrimarum, Elwyn-Jones. Oh, never mind, go back to sleep. Ignoramus. So. Number two. ‘With Caesar’s forces having been …’

  There is a knock at the door.

  Come in!!

  The houselights go down the moment BROOKSHAW enters. A much older man than DOMINIC, and much more of the school. He wears Harris tweed, bechalked cavalry twill trousers and impossible spectacles. He smokes a very old pipe, which gurgles. DOMINIC is marking as before the lesson. The pupils are not there.

  DOMINIC. Oh, it’s you.

  BROOKSHAW. Yes, I hope I’m not disturbing you, Clarke.

  DOMINIC. No, no. Come in. I’m just marking for third period. Sit down, won’t be a tick. (Crosses something out) I’ve marked most of them.

  BROOKSHAW. Have you marked but the fall o’the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it?

  DOMINIC. (Absorbed) Hm?

  BROOKSHAW. I’ve just been talking to Jane, Dominic.

  DOMINIC. Really?

  BROOKSHAW. Yes. She tells me that you and she are (blows nose) engaged.

  DOMINIC. Yes.

  BROOKSHAW. To be married.

  DOMINIC. Yes.

  BROOKSHAW. So it’s true then?

  DOMINIC. Yes.

  BROOKSHAW. I see.

  DOMINIC. But she really shouldn’t have told you. (Looks up) It was supposed to be a secret, until my position here is more – secure. And that all rather depends upon CE results, so I’d rather you didn’t tell anybody just now. (Goes back to marking) Oh, Potter, you stupid boy. T! (Vicious crossing out)

  There is a pause, during which BROOKSHAW lights his pipe.

  BROOKSHAW. Tell me, Dominic. Do you think I can’t see what you’re up to?

  DOMINIC. Eh?

  BROOKSHAW. I know perfectly well why you’re marrying that poor brainless dise
ase.

  DOMINIC. Mr Brookshaw, have a care, you’re speaking of the poor brainless disease that I love.

  BROOKSHAW. In a pig’s arse, Clarke. I am speaking of the poor brainless disease who is also the headmaster’s daughter.

  DOMINIC. So?

  BROOKSHAW. Oh do credit me with a little intelligence. You are marrying the girl out of an … admirable … sense of ambition. When the Old Man dies, you will inherit the school. Perfectly simple, I’d do the same in your place, if I thought there was an outside chance of the girl accepting me. But I shall do the next best thing instead, and stop the marriage.

  DOMINIC. Really? How?

  BROOKSHAW. God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, has seen fit to place in my path certain useful pieces of information. Information concerning you, Dominic.

  DOMINIC. What information? What are you talking about?

  BROOKSHAW. Tell me Clarke. (Beat) What house is Cartwright in?

  DOMINIC. Cartwright? Cartwright? What’s that got to do with anything? Er, he’s an Otter, isn’t he?

  BROOKSHAW. Dominic, you know perfectly well that Cartwright is a Kingfisher.

  DOMINIC. Is he? I still don’t …

  BROOKSHAW. That makes you his housemaster, does it not?

  DOMINIC. Ye-e-s.

  BROOKSHAW. I was merit-adding for the fortnightly orders last night, Dominic.

  DOMINIC. You? Merit-adding? But that’s the Old Man’s –