FLORA. Here’s a wee pick-an-dab, Victor, sweetie.
VICTOR [suddenly macho]. Ambrosia! [Helping himself.] Pearl, take a proper photograph of me and Auntie. [Singing for FLORA.] “Green grow the rashes, O, The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, o!”
FLORA, giggling, delighted.
PEARL [renewed asperity]. I’ve no time for highland games, Victor, I’ve promised a cover photo for the next issue of “The Edinburgh Journal of Rules and Exceptions.”
VICTOR [genial]. I hope you know you’re drowning in a cultural backwater here.
PEARL. Dinna speak to me of cultural tarpits, ma kilted laddie.
VICTOR. I wear this relic in a spirit of pure irony, dear heart, as well as a sure-fire bid to irritate you to the depths of your Protestant soul.
PEARL. Edinburgh may not be at the centre of a great empire, but we are a modern city with a bittie of everything: art, science, golf. Not to mention a leading lunatic asylum; the patients perambulate freely about the grounds and in winter besport themselves on the curling rink. Nor have we any shortage of free-thinkers: there’s an Italian [pron. Eye-talian] green grocer in Princes Street across from the Scott Monument, and you know Rhouridh [pron. Roo-oo-rrry] MacGregor, Jinnie MacGregor’s cousin? He’s become a nihilist. What a waste.
FLORA. That’s what a papist comes to in the end.
VICTOR. Father’s dead, Pearl, you’ve no excuse now, get out and see the world, travel.
FLORA. She intends to book a camel.
PEARL. I can’t go anywhere til you take responsibility for Belle Moral –
VICTOR [enthusing]. To hell with Belle Moral, Pearl the world is changing, it’s cracking open, see it now so you’ll know how unrecognizable it’s about to become: the masses throbbing like a steam engine about to fly from the rails; men throwing off their shackles, women eschewing their corsets, clamouring for suffrage; humanity rising like sap or a lit fuse, and whether we burst into blossom or flame, who can tell? You sit here scribbling a note to send to town, meanwhile the products of the entire globe are at the fingertips of any toff in London with a telephone. Invention has outstripped its mother, necessity; the old ways and the old walls are tumbling, the lines are blurring; art and science set to flood their banks and mingle, can you imagine what their confluence might yield?
PEARL. Mud?
VICTOR. Look at Darwin. Thanks to him, science turns out to be stranger than a Greek myth: are we men or animals?
PEARL. Some of us are women, and we’re all of us animals.
FLORA. We’re not!
VICTOR. Science now tells us what art has been prophesying at the gates for years, namely that we can no longer take the evidence of our senses for granted.
PEARL. Science does that quite regularly. [Enjoying the argument as much as he is.] Until recently, mankind was flummoxed by the question: what is the basic substance of the universe? The apparent “Nothing” through which we and the planets move? The necessary “Something” which lends predictability to our mathematical calculations? That was the question.
FLORA. And, was there an answer?
PEARL. By dint of hard work, indeed there was.
VICTOR. What was it?
PEARL. Oh Victor, luminiferous ether, of course.
He’s never heard of it, nor has FLORA.
VICTOR. Pearl, is it not just possible that this time art is leading the way?; hinting to us that your quest for “substance” might be entirely beside the point. Look at the impressionists–
PEARL. I’d rather not.
VICTOR. Then look at Mother’s painting. Observe the brush strokes; each shimmering with possibility. Like a series of suggestions. Draw back and flux yields to stasis. A man, a woman, two children, solid and certain. Draw near and you lose the edges, so gradually do the colours blend one into another; as though they might give rise to any number of different pictures. Nearer still and they appear disconnected; a collection of random daubs, bald facts, meaningless. Until finally they are mere atoms that seem to dance before one’s eyes. Light turns to matter, and matter to motion. Are we seeing the painting itself, or only one possibility of itself? Is the picture emerging? Or is it fading?
PEARL. I can’t tell, it’s too blurry.
VICTOR. So is life. Mother may have been years ahead of her time.
PEARL. She may have been short-sighted.
FLORA. Ay, she had a stigmata.
VICTOR And what of the composition? Is it intentionally unbalanced as a comment on our family? Or did Mother mean to add another figure before she died?
FLORA [slightly alarmed]. What other figure? There is no other figure.
VICTOR There’s you, Auntie.
PEARL. It’s clear enough to me: Mother never finished anything either.
VICTOR [reasonable]. You can’t see Mother’s painting because you’re looking for vulgar likeness. As in your photograph.
PEARL. Don’t compare Mother’s painting with my photograph. One is art, such as it is, the other is science.
VICTOR. Your photo isn’t science, it’s just bad art.
PEARL. In which case, Mother’s painting is worse science.
VICTOR. Not if science proves that reality is a blur after all.
PEARL. Mother painted what she imagined. I photograph what is there. Art is subjective. Science is objective.
VICTOR. There’s no such thing.
PEARL. Sir Isaac Newton and his apple; gravity; the heliocentric movement of the planets; heat expands, cold contracts, facts. Facts, facts, facts. The scientific method yielding real answers.
VICTOR. Who’s asking the questions? What did they have for breakfast?
FLORA. Kippers?
VICTOR. “To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing.”
A beat.
PEARL [intrigued]. Who said that?
VICTOR. Oscar Wilde.
PEARL [dismissive]. Another of your Irishmen.
VICTOR. There is nothing more contrived than realism.
PEARL. “Ism” be hanged, my photo is a true and perfect record.
VICTOR. Your photo may be a record. But Mother’s painting is a map.
PEARL. Of what? The murky recesses of her psyche? What’s the good of that?
VICTOR. Why does it have to be good for anything? Why can’t it simply be beautiful and good for nothing? Like me.
PEARL [returning to her camera, chipper]. Stand up straight now, Victor, and try to look dignified, you’re about to become extinct. Ah, I’ve got it. Get Mother’s bagpipes down, Vickie, and make as though to woo Fate with the mournful tones.
VICTOR [suddenly terribly offended]. That’s no’ funny Pearl.
PEARL. What, I’ve always called you Vickie.
VICTOR. There’s nothing humorous in Mother’s bagpipes.
PEARL. Victor, I am not the mocker of the family. You are the one rendering risible one half your ancestry; I am attempting to immortalize it.
VICTOR [verge of angry tears]. Well you can’t immortalize it, sister dear, because it’s already dead.
He exits through the window.
FLORA. Now Pearl, you know he’s sensitive about his mother.
PEARL. He never knew his mother, Flora.
FLORA. That’s it, dear; she haunts him.
PEARL. I don’t believe in ghosts.
FLORA. That’s of nay concern to the ghosts.
VICTOR’S kilt comes flying in through the window.
FLORA. Poor Victor will catch his death of cold out there on the moor. [Picking up the kilt.] He’s ne’er been strong i’ the lungs.
PEARL. It’s not his lungs that are exposed to the elements, Auntie.
An elderly man enters, slowly, carrying a silver tray with lid.
MAN [to PEARL]. You rang, Miss?
FLORA. Young Farleigh; any sign of the good doctor?
YOUNG FARLEIGH. No’ yit, M’um.
PEARL. Oh yes, the note. Take this to Mr Abbott in town as quickly as possible.
[a beat] Perhaps I’ll just run it in myself on my bicycle.
YOUNG FARLEIGH. Ay, Miss. [Slowly goes to exit.]
PEARL. Young Farleigh, who’s the tray for?
He looks at the tray as though noticing it for the first time. FLORA comes to his rescue:
FLORA. It’s for Victor.
PEARL. Well don’t waste your winkles, Victor’s gone off them.
YOUNG FARLEIGH [bewildered]. Winkles? I’ve no’ winkled in years, Miss.
FLORA [pointedly]. Nonsense, you were out half the nicht. [to PEARL] The Farleighs are all great winklers.
PEARL [lifting the lid]. Mmm, kippers and … boiled sweets. I’ll have the fish in my study, you can give the gobstoppers to Victor.
YOUNG FARLEIGH. Is the lad come haim, then, Miss?
PEARL. I thought you said the tray was for –
FLORA. That will be all, Young Farleigh.
PEARL. Wait. I wish to consult you about a dog.
FLORA and YOUNG FARLEIGH exchange a look.
I want you to find a puppy for my brother. A black one, about yea tall, with a flat head for patting.
YOUNG FARLEIGH. Ay, Miss.
Exit YOUNG FARLEIGH. PEARL lights a cigarette.
FLORA. Must you, Pearl? It’s so unladylike.
PEARL. Flora. [Attempting a casual tone.] Did Mother love me?
FLORA. Of course she did, sweetheart.
PEARL. She’d’ve loved Victor more.
FLORA. Your mother had love enough for a dozen bairns. But she’d scarce laid eyes on Victor’s wee squallin’ face ‘afore she … was carried off.
PEARL [critical]. Mother was always weak.
FLORA. She was a great beauty. “Régine, Régine, my Highland Queen.”
PEARL. I’ll make it up to him with the puppy. Auntie, don’t let Dr Reid leave without looking in, I’ve a question to put to him.
FLORA. Ay, pet.
PEARL [pausing at the exit]. Why have you sent for the doctor first thing in the morning? [worried] You’re no’ ill?
FLORA. Not at all. It’s Young Farleigh. [As though complicity Ay, he’s confused.
PEARL. Well, little wonder; it would appear that of late, no one gets a winkle of sleep under this roof. [Exit.]
FLORA takes VICTOR’S flask from his sporran and has a sip. Regards the family portrait. Backs away from it. Examines it close up. Squints. DR REID exits, carrying his medical bag. They speak urgently, hurriedly.
DR REID. Good morning –
FLORA. Dr Reid, oh thank God, thank you for –
DR REID. I came the moment I received your note, Flora, what is –? [hushed] Where is Pearl?
FLORA. In her study.
DR REID. You’ve not told her.
FLORA. Certainly not.
DR REID. Flora, how in God’s name –?
FLORA. Twas my doing. I sent Young Farleigh to fetch her home.
DR REID. Why?
FLORA. I had no choice, Doctor; I couldna wrest another penny from the estate to pay for the poor creature’s upkeep without first the will being settled, and there was no telling when Victor would –
DR REID. Why didn’t you come to me?
FLORA. Ramsay would no’ approve of charity –
DR REID. charity?! I was his best –
FLORA. I know – I know – I know. [FLORA begins to shiver.]
DR REID. You need a cup of tea, or something stonger, [calling] Young Farleigh –
FLORA. Nay, let him be, he drove through the night. I’m well. Truly.
DR REID. Where have you put the …? Where have you put her?
FLORA. In the attic.
DR REID. Under lock and key.
FLORA [nods, “yes, pulling herself together].
DR REID. Is it your intention, then, to house the … patient here, indefinitely?
FLORA. No, no, Victor’s come haim this morning, so the will can be –
DR REID. Why then, ’twas all for naught.
FLORA. Ach, you maun think me foolish. A foolish auld woman. Am I, Seamus?
DR REID. Foolish? In this case, Flora, perhaps yes. Old? [kindly] Never. For what would that make me, eh?
A beat.
[apprehensive] How is she?
FLORA. She is … she’s … I canna say, she’s … quiet.
DR REID. Quiet.
FLORA. Ay. Wouldna’ touch a bite o’ breakfast.
DR REID. That’s not surprising; the journey, the shock of new surroundings. Does she … has she spoken?
FLORA. Nay. Not a word.
DR REID. No cries, no … sounds, of any kind?
FLORA. Nothing.
DR REID … How does she look?
A beat.
Has there been any … change?
FLORA. Not apart from one might expect. Given the years. [weeps]
DR REID. Hush, Flora.
FLORA. I promised … Régine –
DR REID. We need not speak of it –
FLORA. I promised. To look after the children.
DR REID. And you have. Hush, now.
YOUNG FARLEIGH enters.
YOUNG FARLEIGH. Mu’m, the doctor is [sees DR REID] here.
A woman screams in the distance. FLORA hurries toward the exit with DR REID in tow. But the cry is repeated and she rushes to the window. YOUNG FARLEIGH sinks onto a chair and closes his eyes.
VOICES OFF. Help! Miss Maclsaac! Send for a doctor! A doctor!
FLORA. God help us.
DR REID. [joining her]. What’s happened? [looking out] Good Lord.
They exit. YOUNG FARLEIGH opens one eye. Lights change, he slowly rises and exits as VICTOR is carried on. Lights back up on:
Scene 5 The Drawing Room
VICTOR lies on the couch, naked and wet under a blanket. DR REID attends him.
DR REID [gently]. Victor. Victor, lad, what is it, eh? A woman? Are you in debt lad, is that it? Or were you just pullin’ a wee pliskie?
VICTOR covers his head with the blanket.
DR REID. Come along now, son, the North Sea in April is hardly a congenial prospect, and I know you not to be a swimmer. What were you doing leaping from the rocks?
VICTOR [soliloquizing from under the blanket]. There are times when I cannot fathom why any sane person would choose to live out the natural length of their days. Life is an expanse of arid predictability, relieved now and again by hilarious and brutal jokes. This, we call tragedy.
DR REID. Go on.
VICTOR [lowering the blanket, earnestly relishing his own words]. I strayed along the barren beach and heard the kelpies singing, each … to each. And then they sang to me; a beckoning back to the dank, devouring womb of the sea; their sweet and deadly strains, the echo of my own futility. I parted the waters to mate with Nothingness.
DR REID. I see. How long have you felt this way?
VICTOR. I haven’t been myself since the funeral.
DR REID. You miss your father.
VICTOR. I don’t know if I’d go that far.
DR REID. How does the prospect of being master of Belle Moral cause you to … feel?
VICTOR. Like jumpin’ into the sea.
DR REID. Victor, what would have become of your aunt and sister had you succeeded in your bid today? Who would look after them?
VICTOR. You would. They don’t need me.
DR REID. Ah but they do. You’ll find out soon enough, lad. Your father’s burdens will soon be yours. But luckily, so will his oldest friend.
VICTOR takes his flask from under the quilt and drinks. FLORA enters with a bowl and spoon. VICTOR hides the flask.
FLORA. How’s ma poor laddie?
VICTOR [feigning weakness]. I feel I’m fading, Auntie.
FLORA. See if you canna tak a bittie o’ parritch, ma hinnie.
VICTOR. I’ll try.
DR REID. Have you no beef tea, Flora?
FLORA. Ay, but the lad’s gone vegetative.
PEARL enters.
PEARL [brisk]. He’s fallen in with the Fabians. Armchair revolution
aries nibbling celery.
FLORA [spoon poised]. Here comes the coach-and-six, clop-clop clop-clop …
DR REID [taking her aside]. Pearl, I’m worried about your brother.
PEARL. As am I.
DR REID. Victor shows signs of neurasthenia: a degenerative instability which threatens the delicate edifice of brain and nerve.
PEARL. He gets that from Mother, no doubt.
DR REID does not immediately reply, reluctant to reveal to her the full extent of his concern.
DR REID. He has confessed an attempted suicide.
PEARL [loudly so VICTOR can hear].
DR REID., my brother is suffering from nothing more than extreme foolishness and a common cold.
FLORA. Pearl, we’re lucky your brother is alive. Ask Rhouridh MacGregor, who plucked him from the boiling sea.
PEARL. Saved by a nihilist. You ought to be ashamed.
DR REID. My dear Pearl, this is no way to treat a would-be suicide.
PEARL. Suicide, my eye. He ran down to the shore in high naked dudgeon for a little fleshly mortification, where he met Rhouridh MacGregor out walking with his mother and his cousin, Jinnie. Victor leapt into the drink to hide from the ladies.
FLORA. Oh Victor.
DR REID. Is this true, sir?
VICTOR. Pearl, those are only the facts, and you know it!
DR REID. You’ve trifled with a man of science, Mr MacIsaac.
VICTOR [indignant]. The squalid circumstances of my brush with death merely confirm my despair at the human condition. Not for me a dignified death by drowning. Not for me to inspire the poet’s lament, thus to snatch some meaning from the maw of death, no; I am the comic hero of a tragic farce. Plaything of a demented God who hasn’t the decency to exist.
PEARL. Cheer up, Vickie; you’ve only your own carelessness to blame, not some cosmic vendetta.
DR REID. [picking up his bag]. I’ll take my leave now. My genuinely ill patients will be waiting.
VICTOR [spritely]. Still skookin’ about the loony hoos, are you, Doctor?
PEARL. Victor.
VICTOR [imitating her]. “Edinburgh has a leading lunatic asylum.”
DR REID. If you refer to the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, yes I am on staff as specialist in organic diseases of the mind.