JOHN BUNYAN: I’m afraid that it is not.
JOHN CLARE: [Disappointed.] What, not the Clare or the Don Juan, now?
JOHN BUNYAN: Neither of them.
JOHN CLARE: Ah, God. Am I not even John Clare? [CLARE lapses into a depressed silence, staring at the ground. BUNYAN regards him, concerned.]
HUSBAND: Look, I’m no saint.
WIFE: [Not looking at him.] You can say that again.
HUSBAND: [After a pause.] What I’m saying is I’m only flesh and blood.
WIFE: [Angrily, turning to glare at him accusingly.] Well, what sort of excuse is that? We’re all just flesh and blood! You show me somebody who’s not! [She looks away from him again, reverting to silence. Behind the pair, CLARE and BUNYAN exchange lugubrious and unconvinced glances.]
JOHN CLARE: [He shrugs.] It strikes me that we’re only getting in the way here. What would you say to the prospect of a nice sit down? It is in my opinion quite the best of postures, and I am convinced that it is only all this standing up and walking to and fro that gets us into so much trouble as a population. Come, let’s take the weight from off our feet.
JOHN BUNYAN: I had intended I should see the nearby marketplace, where was the Earl of Peterborough’s edict handed down that I referred to in that piece of mine about the Holy War. Still, it may be that a few moments’ rest is no great matter in the long yards of posterity. But as for taking weight from off our feet, in our present condition I can’t see that there is any weight to take. Indeed, it is a wonder that we do not float away into the heavens for our want of heaviness.
JOHN CLARE: I had supposed we all must keep an ounce or two of it that’s carried in our hearts for such emergencies. Let us sit down, and then perhaps we can discuss this further. [CLARE begins to lead BUNYAN towards the rear of the space beneath the portico. BUNYAN starts towards the right-side alcove, at which CLARE grows agitated and corrects him.] Oh, no, that won’t do. This fellow is the recess that’s reserved for me, by virtue of my previous habitation. You must have the one upon the other side, that I keep specially for visitors. I’ll own it’s not as sumptuous as mine, but if that inconvenience is the worst thing that Eternity has got to throw at you, you should be glad. [BUNYAN looks disgruntled, but accedes to CLARE’s wishes. Both men take their seats in their allotted alcoves.]
JOHN BUNYAN: You’re right. It’s comfortable enough.
JOHN CLARE: It is. [Pause.] Are you referring to the recess, now, or the Eternity?
JOHN BUNYAN: Primarily the recess. [Pause. From OFF there is the SOUND of a solitary motorcar passing by through the fog. The HUSBAND and WIFE pay the passing car no attention, but CLARE and BUNYAN follow it with their eyes.] I have wondered about those things. They are clearly a variety of wagon, but I cannot fathom how their locomotion is effected.
JOHN CLARE: Well, I’ve given that some thought myself, and I believe the answer lies in some advance of natural science that has made the horse invisible to normal sight.
JOHN BUNYAN: Surely, that conjecture might be easily disproved with the plain observation that there’s no conspicuous abundance of the dung these unseen nags must certainly produce. Answer me that, if you’ve the measure of it.
JOHN CLARE: Ah! Ah! So I will, then. Does it not occur to you that beings that are visible unto plain sight such as ourselves make droppings that are equally apparent to the eye? Does it not follow that an unseen or invisibly transparent horse would thus produce manure that’s of a similar ethereal nature?
JOHN BUNYAN: [After a thoughtful pause.] Surely, though, however rarefied its substance, an unseen evacuation would still stink. Indeed, would not the spectral turd that you propose present a greater inconvenience to the pedestrian, surely more likely to step unawares into your numinous ordure than into an excrescence which is in the common view and therefore may be walked around and so avoided?
JOHN CLARE: [A pause, during which CLARE reconsiders.] I’d not thought of that, and thus withdraw my speculation. [Another pause, as CLARE worriedly contemplates invisible horse manure.] Horse muck that cannot be seen. It is a horror, now I come to understand the implications. Why, there’d be a reeking foulness hidden from the cognizance of all, that never could be cleaned away, in which the purest of things might be inadvertently made filthy …
HUSBAND: Celia, I promise you, there’s nothing going on. Nothing that anybody else can see. You show me where there’s something going on.
WIFE: I’ve got no need to see it. I can smell it. I can smell a rat. I can smell something fishy.
HUSBAND: Celia, listen to yourself. A fishy rat?
WIFE: [She leans forward, staring hard and accusingly into his eyes.] A fishy rat. Yes. That’s the very thing that I can smell, even when someone’s drenched it in cologne. A fishy rat, with hairy fins and scaly ears, that’s got a great long pink worm of a tail to drag behind it through the dirty water. God, you ought to be ashamed.
HUSBAND: I’m not! I’m not ashamed! I haven’t done a thing to be ashamed of! Why, my conscience is a pane of polished glass, without a streak of guilt or birdshit anywhere upon it. What is it that makes you think I’m guilty? Is there something guilty that I’ve said, or something guilty in my manner? Where is all this guilty, guilty, guilty coming from? Because it’s getting on my nerves, and if it keeps up I shall lose my rag. How can I think straight with this noise? And how long is she going to keep on playing that same tune before it drives me mad?
WIFE: [She stares at him, puzzled and then slightly worried.] How long is …? Johnny, she stopped playing nearly half an hour ago.
HUSBAND: [He stares at her blankly.] What, really?
WIFE: A good twenty minutes at the very least.
HUSBAND: [He turns and stares into space, horrified and haunted.] A half an hour. Or at least a good twenty minutes …
WIFE: Split the difference. Call it twenty-five.
HUSBAND: Oh, God. [They lapse into silence. The HUSBAND gazes, haunted, into the fog. His WIFE gazes at him for a few moments, mystified, and then looks away.]
JOHN BUNYAN: [After a respectful pause.] Do you yourself have any notion what it is that vexes them?
JOHN CLARE: Neither the first, nor faintest. I imagine it would be a marital perplexity that’s by and large opaque to the outsider, although having had two wives I am a man of more than ordinary experience. With my first wife Mary, who enjoyed the sweetest disposition, I was happy and there were no quarrels of the stripe we see enacted here. Our marriage bed was filled with harmony, and when I entered into her it was as though I entered into God’s own meadow. With my second wife, with Patty, it was naught but baleful hints and dark recriminations, although she was very often good to me. Still, there were nights that she’d be jealous of the time I had with Mary, who was a much younger girl than Patty was herself. No, as you see, I am no stranger to the married life and its upheavals, though in truth I was not often with my family.
JOHN BUNYAN: Then there’s another thing we hold in common, with our forenames, mutual occupation and our current state of incorporeality. I too had family, from whom I was made separate by my confinement.
JOHN CLARE: [Excitedly.] You were confined? Why, so was I! It is as though we were reflections of each other! Where were you confined?
JOHN BUNYAN: In prison, for my preaching. And yourself?
JOHN CLARE: [Suddenly vague and evasive.] Oh … it was in a hospital.
JOHN BUNYAN: [Concerned.] Then you were ailing in the flesh?
JOHN CLARE: Well … no. Not really. Not the flesh. Mind you, I did once have a nasty limp.
JOHN BUNYAN: So, not the flesh. I see. [From OFF there is the SOUND of the CHURCH CLOCK, striking once.]
HUSBAND: It’s like we’ve been here hours. Was that for half-past twelve or one o’clock, do you suppose?
WIFE: What does it matter? Who cares if it’s half-past twelve or one o’clock? It’s always going to be the same time from now on, as far as you’re concerned. It’s always going to be too late. Or who knows? It migh
t be half-past too late. I couldn’t say. [They lapse into another hostile silence.]
JOHN CLARE: What do you mean, you see?
JOHN BUNYAN: What?
JOHN CLARE: When I said that when confined to hospital I was not ailing in the flesh, you said “So, not the flesh. I see.” What did you see?
JOHN BUNYAN: It was a turn of phrase. Think nothing of it.
JOHN CLARE: I will not think nothing of it, for it seems to me there was an implication, was there not?
JOHN BUNYAN: An implication?
JOHN CLARE: Ah, don’t play the fool with me. I’m twice the idiot you’ll ever be. You know full well the nature of the implication I refer to. You as good as said “If not the flesh, then what?” Deny it if you can.
JOHN BUNYAN: I’ll not deny it. I had but supposed that you were deemed to be afflicted of the mind or spirit, and had been surprised that there were hospitals attending such affairs. Believe me when I say I did not seek to judge your clarity, or lack thereof.
JOHN CLARE: You did not seek to call me lunatic? There are those who would not be so restrained.
JOHN BUNYAN: I have myself been called the same, along with blasphemer and devil. It is ever thus, it seems, for any man who has a vision in his soul and dares to speak it, most especially if that should be a vision inconvenient to the wealthy or the ordinary run of things.
JOHN CLARE: That’s it exactly! You have bound it in a nutshell. When there is a fear that some truth may be told, the teller is put under lock and key and called a criminal or else a madman. My own circumstances make it plain, for if even Lord Byron may be deemed insane, then why not any man? It is beyond my comprehension.
JOHN BUNYAN: [A pause, during which BUNYAN gazes at CLARE with understanding and pity.] And mine likewise. [Another pause, thoughtful and reflective.] Then there are still inequalities and prisons in this age of unseen horses, even. Am I to suppose the New Jerusalem did not arrive?
JOHN CLARE: I must confess I have not noticed it in this vicinity, although it may be that it turned up while I was confined and no one thought to tell me.
JOHN BUNYAN: [He shakes his head, disappointed.] If that were the case, then we should all be saints.
JOHN CLARE: Perhaps we are.
JOHN BUNYAN: That is a dismal summary.
JOHN CLARE: You’re right. It is. That’s worse than the invisible manure. I wish I’d never said it. [He and BUNYAN lapse into a bleak silence.]
HUSBAND: The lion shall lie down beside the lamb. That’s in the Bible.
WIFE: Oh, and does the Bible say whether the lamb’s still there to get up in the morning?
HUSBAND: Celia, I thought you liked the Bible.
WIFE: Lots of things are in the Bible, Johnny. Lots and lots and lots. And then their daughters. So, do you admit it, then? Did you lie down beside the lamb?
HUSBAND: I’m not a saint.
WIFE: Yes, you’ve already told us that. You’re not a lion, either. And you’re not a man. You’re nothing but a snazzy creature that once ran a dance-band, and now you’re not man enough to face the music.
HUSBAND: [Startled.] You said it had stopped.
WIFE: It has. [A pause.] What was it that the grass was whispering about?
HUSBAND: I don’t know. Nothing. You know grass. It’s always whispering. It’s got nothing better to do. What does it know? It’s grass, for heaven’s sake.
WIFE: They say all flesh is grass.
HUSBAND: Well, not my flesh, it’s not. Not me. I’m not grass.
WIFE: Yes you are. You’re grass. Look at you. You’re half-cut and gone to seed. And like all flesh, you’ll have your season and you’ll be mowed down. And then you’ll have it on your conscience for eternity. The music, that’ll still be playing. And the grass will still be whispering. [Beneath the portico behind them, SAMUEL BECKETT enters from OFF, LEFT. He notices the couple on the steps, but does not notice CLARE or BUNYAN in their alcoves. BECKETT wanders over to stand just behind the couple, looking down at them in puzzlement as they ignore him.]
HUSBAND: Eternity. God, there’s a thought. All of that bloody whispering, for eternity.
BECKETT: Hello, now. How are things with you tonight?
WIFE: It’s me shall have to put up with the whispering and all the tongues.
BECKETT: Tongues? I’m not sure I follow you.
HUSBAND: Oh, and that’s my fault, is it?
BECKETT: I’m not saying that it’s your fault, I’m just saying I don’t follow you.
WIFE: Well, you’re the one with all the secrets and the mysteries and the goings on.
BECKETT: Ah, that’s a common thing, to say that I’m impenetrable.
HUSBAND: Oh, not that old tale again. Give it a rest with all of your long silences and all of that evasive and insinuating chatter you’re so fond of. I’m fed up of it.
BECKETT: I’d have to say I don’t think that you’ve understood contemporary drama.
JOHN CLARE: They can’t hear you. We’ve been through all this already.
WIFE: I’m the one who’s fed up of it.
BECKETT: [Startled, BECKETT wheels round to face CLARE and BUNYAN.] Who’s that? What’s all this about?
JOHN BUNYAN: Be not alarmed. My friend here has explained it to me. We, like you, are but departed shades, and living souls such as the pair upon the step can neither see nor hear us.
JOHN CLARE: I’d go further. I do not believe that they can smell us, either.
BECKETT: Departed shade? Don’t you go telling me I’m dead. I haven’t even got a cough. To my mind, it’s more likely that this is a dream of some description.
JOHN BUNYAN: That is very like what I myself supposed, and yet I’m told that we are halfway through the twentieth century after our Lord and I myself beneath the turf more than two hundred years.
BECKETT: Two hundred years? Well, I’m all right, then. [BECKETT looks around and gestures towards the surrounding town centre.] All this looks like just after the war, whereas as far as I’m aware I’m sleeping in a hotel in the far from satisfying 1970s.
JOHN CLARE: A hotel! In the 1970s! I do not know which of these things is harder to imagine!
JOHN BUNYAN: Just after the war, you say? Was it another civil war?
BECKETT: A civil war? God, no. Is that the time that you yourself are from? This was a war with Germany, primarily; the second of two world wars that we had. They flattened London so the English firebombed Dresden, and then the Americans dropped something that you can’t imagine on the Japanese, and then it was all over.
JOHN BUNYAN: [BUNYAN also glances around at the surrounding town, his expression mournful.] So, then, it would seem the nation’s pilgrimage has taken it to just beyond the City of Destruction. By my calculations, that would make this place Vanity Fair.
BECKETT: You’re quoting Bunyan at me, now?
JOHN CLARE: It’s not like he can help it. He’s John Bunyan. And I’m Byron.
JOHN BUNYAN: [To BECKETT.] Oh, don’t listen to him. [To CLARE.] No you’re not. You’re making both of us look bad and not to be believed. You said yourself you were John Clare. Stick to your tale or we’ll end up with everyone confused as you!
BECKETT: [BECKETT laughs in amazement.] John Bunyan. And John Clare. Well, now, this is a lively dream. I must book into this hotel again.
JOHN CLARE: [Surprised and incredulous.] John Clare. You’ve heard of him? You’ve heard of me?
BECKETT: Why, certainly. Being myself a writer, I’m familiar with the pair of you and have respect for your accomplishments. You, Mr. Clare, especially. In my day, you’re remembered as the Peasant Poet, as perhaps the greatest lyric voice that England ever entertained and treated so unfairly, what with dying in the madhouse and the rest of it. [A pause.] You were aware of that, the dying in a madhouse? I hope I’ve not been insensitive in breaking it to you like that.
JOHN CLARE: Oh, I already knew about it. I was there around that time. But tell me, is my darling wife remembered also? Mary Clare, who once was Mary Jo
yce?
BECKETT: [BECKETT regards CLARE with a serious and searching look.] Ah, yes. Your first wife. Yes, yes, it’s a well-known story, still discussed in literary circles.
JOHN CLARE: Then I’m glad. I should be sorry if I were remembered only for the madness.
JOHN BUNYAN: [To BECKETT.] You said that you were a writer also. Would yours be a name that we might know?
BECKETT: I shouldn’t think that’s likely. You’d both have been dead a while before I came along. I’m Samuel Beckett. You can call me Sam if I might know the pair of you as John. This is Northampton, isn’t it? The portico of All Saints Church?
JOHN BUNYAN: I meant to ask what you were doing here. Both Mr. Clare here and myself were born nearby and so often had business here, while from your voice I’d guess that you’re an Irishman. What is it brings you this way, either in posterity or, as you would prefer to have it, in your dreams?
BECKETT: Well, now, in the first instance that would be the cricket, and then later on it was to see a woman.
JOHN BUNYAN: Cricket?
JOHN CLARE: Oh, I’m well acquainted with the ins and outs of it. You ought to see it!
BECKETT: Sure, I played against Northampton at the County Ground. We stayed at the hotel next to the pitch, and on the night after the match my team mates were all of a mind to go out in pursuit of drink and prostitutes, the both of which this town has in abundance. I myself was more inclined to spend the evening in the company of old Northampton’s Gothic churches, which are equally profuse. I would imagine that it is the memory of that night which brings me back here in my dreams, though I’ll admit that you yourselves provide a novel element.
HUSBAND: All right! All right, I did it. Does that make you happy?
WIFE: [Coldly, after a pause.] Did it make you happy?
HUSBAND: [Defiantly, after a moment of deliberation.] Yes! Yes, it made me happy! It was wonderful and I was happier than I’ve ever been. [Less confidently, following a pause.] At least to start with.
BECKETT: What’s all this that’s going on? [BUNYAN and CLARE glance at each other, then reluctantly stand up from their stone alcoves and walk slowly across to join BECKETT near the quarrelling couple.]