Ann-Marie MacDonald - Belle Moral - A Natural History

PEARL. My God, Doctor. If you hadn’t been here …

He offers her a cigarette. She takes it, he lights it. They smoke and regain composure .

DR REID. I’ve never seen such a severe phobic reaction.

PEARL. Phobic? But Doctor, a dog was Victor’s one desire as a child, and it was his childhood’s tragedy that Father refused him.

DR REID. Victor’s desire for a canine companion was thwarted by your father; and, rather than admit defeat –

PEARL. Victor converted his desire into phobia.

DR REID. Just so, my dear; very good.

PEARL [flattered] . Thank you, Doctor.

DR REID. The thwarted little boy evolved into the phobic man. Your poor father.

PEARL. I should think Victor is in a better position to benefit from your sympathy.

DR REID. Forgive me, I mean only to say that Victor is also in the sole position to inherit Belle Moral and pass on Judge MacIsaac’s spotless name.

PEARL. Naturally Victor will inherit the MacIsaac estate, but I am just as capable of perpetuating the MacIsaac name.

DR REID. You’ve always been spirited, Pearl. Your father’s one regret was that you were not born a son.

PEARL. I was as good as any son.

DR REID. Ay and better, more’s the pity.

PEARL. Victor’s not a bad fellow, he’s just a little … artistic.

DR REID. I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Victor may be an hysteric.

PEARL. But hysteria is a woman’s disease.

DR REID. Right again, my dear, I’ve never heard of a case like his.

PEARL. That’s our Victor for you. Always got to be an exception.

DR REID. If not an aberration. [disturbed] I wonder — is it possible — have I allowed the boy’s natural high spirits — and my affection for him — to mask what ought to have been, to me as a physician, clear signs?

PEARL. What signs?

DR REID. The rapid oscillations betwixt melancholy and elation; his excessive sensuality; the obsession with his mother — not to mention the drink — and now this sudden aversion to animal food.

PEARL. Victor is merely panting after the latest avant-garde craze. He was quoting Oscar Wilde just now.

A beat . PEARL misinterprets his silence:

Flambouyant Irishman. Dramatist. Sports a velvet cape –

DR REID. Has Victor, to your knowledge, evinced a special fondness for any male companions?

PEARL. There’s his old school chum, Rhouridh MacGregor. But Victor has always been more at ease in the company of ladies.

A beat .

Rhouridh’s not really a nihilist; just a sulky romantic. Decent chap. Carried a note into town for me just now.

A beat .

Dr Reid, Victor’s passing fancy for Irishmen and and anti-vivisectionists –

DR REID. Anti-vivisectionists?

PEARL. He considers himself an ally of the underdog.

DR REID. And an enemy of science. Not uncommon in the inebriate.

PEARL. This morning it was impressionists, yesterday it was mesmerists, and tomorrow it will be Egyptologists. Though it points to a flighty nature, it hardly convicts him of hysteria.

DR REID. Admirably put. Might we not agree, however, that your brother is of a highly strung temperament. [tender] So, too, was your mother. Promise me you’ll keep a loving eye on him.

FLORA enters, winded .

FLORA. We’ve caught the wee beastie and tied him in the paddock. [sees VICTOR] Victor!

DR REID. I’ve given him a mild sedative.

FLORA. Oh. Oh, thank God.

YOUNG FARLEIGH enters with a small silver tray. He takes a crumpled note from his pocket, places it on the tray, hands it to PEARL.

PEARL. Excellent. Mr Abbott will come tomorrow and bring Father’s will.

FLORA and DR REID exchange a look . YOUNG FARLEIGH sinks into a chair .

DR REID. Pearl, I wonder if you oughtn’t to put off the will for a few days. Until your brother’s quite recovered.

PEARL. We could wind up putting it off indefinitely if your diagnosis is correct.

FLORA. What diagnosis?

PEARL. Victor is morbidly effeminate, Auntie, but that’s not news. He requires a brisk dose of responsibility. Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll make a man of Victor MacIsaac yet. One that’s fit to inherit the stones of Belle Moral.

DR REID. Gently, Pearl.

PEARL. I think not. Fresh air, exercise and hard work.

DR REID. You gave me a bit of a turn just now. PEARL. How so?

DR REID. For a moment you were your father. You were Ramsay all over.

PEARL. Thank you, Doctor.

PEARL exits, pleased with the compliment, but DR REID is slightly unsettled .

FLORA. Seamus, what were you thinking, giving the lass that evil jar?

DR REID. You know what Pearl is like once her interest is piqued. What would you have had me do? Whisk it away with a portentous muttering?

FLORA. Why keep such a thing on your shelf in the first place?

DR REID. Perhaps as a reminder. Of what might have been … had I continued my work. [Holding out his hand, summoning strength for what he is about to face.] Come, Flora. Take me to her.

FLORA takes his hand just as PEARL enters to retrieve her camera. They part hands immediately . PEARL notices. They remain silent until she exits with her equipment .

FLORA. Poor lassie. Her world will ne’er be the same after tomorrow.

DR REID. There is no good reason why Pearl should have to know the truth.

FLORA. Her brother’s bound to tell her.

DR REID. Not if he’s half the man his father was.

VICTOR [sprawled, comatose] .

FLORA. Poor Victor’s ne’er been able to keep a secret from anyone but himself.

DR REID. We must see that he does. We must also see that your unfortunate guest is returned to her rightful lodging as soon as possible. And Flora, get rid of that slavering cur.

They exit . PUPPY barks in the distance. He stops , VICTOR wakes with a jolt. Recovers, only to be startled at the sight of YOUNG FARLEIGH.

VICTOR. Young Farleigh. Young Farleigh.

He doesn’t wake . VICTOR tosses him the flask, he catches it .

[enjoying himself] Go ahead. Go on. I’m to be master of Belle Moral and as such I order you to stop respecting me. Let’s drink, comrade. Let us toast the inevitable decline of me and my bourgeois kind. Let us speak together as equals. And while you’re at it, fetch me slippers.

YOUNG FARLEIGH [toasting]. Aonaibh ri cheile. [pron. ehnev ree kaylee][drinks]

VICTOR. “Aonaibh ri cheile” . What does that mean?

YOUNG FARLEIGH. Tis Gaelic.

VICTOR. I know “tis Gaelic”, what in hell does it mean?

YOUNG FARLEIGH. Call yourself a Scot. [another drink]

VICTOR. When are we going to be rid of you? Snoolin’ about the house, muttering Gaelic incantations, scorching the toast. And you’re too decrepit to be out winkling in the night.

YOUNG FARLEIGH. Speak for yourself. [another drink]

VICTOR [logical] . I would but I haven’t a clue who that is. There was a time, not so long ago, when man asked the question, “What is the meaning of life?” Now we ask, “Is there a meaning?” Look at me. I’m useless. But perhaps uselessness will turn out to have some evolutionary value. I can’t know. Perhaps in a hundred years all the useful people will die of a plague that infects only those with a work ethic, and the useless will inherit the earth.

Pleased with himself , VICTOR reaches for the flask but YOUNG FARLEIGH keeps it and recites Robbie Burns with passion and surprising vigour .

YOUNG FARLEIGH. “Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,