Alan Moore - Jerusalem

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 Joyce?

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?