maybe in that speck of dust. I shall be in that speck of dust one day.
[ambushed emotionally]
We are all here so briefly. Awake, for a moment. Unique, for a moment. Able to look and to love, for a moment. And then we return. To the generosity of this universe and its great making power. That is love. And nothing, not even the merest particle, reveals itself without it.
A beat
.
A BBOTT . I have seen the face of God in a three hundred thousand year old trilobite.
A beat
.
P EARL . Seamus, you look at us and see an incoherent jumble. I look and see affinities. Patterns.
V ICTOR . A story.
P EARL . That’s right. A plot. You’re probably right, Seamus, we’re probably quite a bad idea, really. We don’t matter a great deal, we’re on the fringes; of empire, of science, art and culture. We cannot even claim the weight of oppression that might yield a diamond eons from now. But perhaps, simply by thinking our thoughts and living our lives with passionate curiosity and unreasonable kindness, we do our part in the slow universal accumulation of – of critical mass, to coina phrase – that crystallizes in true discovery.
F LORA . Pearl, it’s nigh on four o’clock, your friends will be faimished, come Wee Farleigh and help me –
P EARL
[going for her camera]
. Don’t you dare move, either of you.
F LORA . Your sister’s faint with hunger, look at her.
P EARL . Of course she’s half-starved, Victor’s turned her into a vegetarian.
V ICTOR . How can you talk of kindness, Pearl, and still eat other animals?
P EARL . Don’t start, Victor.
V ICTOR . You started it.
P EARL . I didna –! V ICTOR . Did –!
F LORA . I’ve a lovely leg of lamb, you’re all to stay; and for the vegetablists, we’ve a … what’s it called, Wee Farleigh?
W EE F ARLEIGH . A medley of beans. Baked savoury squash. A casserole of wild champignons and nuts. A milles-feuilles of goat cheese, grilled aubergine, slow-roasted tomato mousse and toasted garlic on a bed of kelp. And for dessert: chocolate éclaires.
P EARL . The éclaires are for everyone, surely.
V ICTOR . No, you get a black-pudding for dessert.
P EARL . Seamus, will you stay to tea?
A beat
.
D R R EID . You are stubborn, clannish and benighted. An apple falls from a tree and you do not shout, “Eureka!”, you eat the apple. You have no real conscience, only sentiment: you’d save the one to the detriment of the many, and call it “kindness”. You lack the mental rigour for true kindness. You shrink from inconvenient facts, preferring a retreat to your hot-house of exotic half-truths; your ramshackle relativism; your primordial swamp; your bog, your blur. You haven’t the strength to withstand the whirlwind, or the unflinching gaze required to see into it. One look at the face of God and you would be annihilated. It is dearly to be hoped that you occupy an evolutionary cul-de-sac. Otherwise, heaven help us all.
Exit
, D R R EID . P EARL
unwinds a cord with a small plunger from the camera and runs it to where the company is assembled for the photo. She holds the plunger and assumes her position in the photo line-up
.
P EARL . Ready?
[About to press the plunger.]
And –
C LAIRE . Ainaibh ri chelie.
Y OUNG F ARLEIGH
wakes up
.
P EARL . What does that mean?
Y OUNG F ARLEIGH . ’Tis Gaelic.
V ICTOR . I know “ ’tis Gaelic” –
F LORA . It’s your mother’s clan motto –
C LAIRE . It means: “unite”.
P EARL
presses the plunger and the camera responds with a poof and a flash. Curtain
. P UPPY
barks
.
Afterword
by
Ann-Marie MacDonald
Belle Moral: A Natural History
has its origins in an earlier play of mine called
The Arab’s Mouth
, and the story of its evolution is also the story of a creative relationship.
The Arab’s Mouth
was first produced in 1990 by Toronto’s Factory Theatre and its then-artistic director, Jackie Maxwell. An interesting sidebar – and natural history is all about the sidebars – is that, at the time, I
[ambushed emotionally]
We are all here so briefly. Awake, for a moment. Unique, for a moment. Able to look and to love, for a moment. And then we return. To the generosity of this universe and its great making power. That is love. And nothing, not even the merest particle, reveals itself without it.
A beat
.
A BBOTT . I have seen the face of God in a three hundred thousand year old trilobite.
A beat
.
P EARL . Seamus, you look at us and see an incoherent jumble. I look and see affinities. Patterns.
V ICTOR . A story.
P EARL . That’s right. A plot. You’re probably right, Seamus, we’re probably quite a bad idea, really. We don’t matter a great deal, we’re on the fringes; of empire, of science, art and culture. We cannot even claim the weight of oppression that might yield a diamond eons from now. But perhaps, simply by thinking our thoughts and living our lives with passionate curiosity and unreasonable kindness, we do our part in the slow universal accumulation of – of critical mass, to coina phrase – that crystallizes in true discovery.
F LORA . Pearl, it’s nigh on four o’clock, your friends will be faimished, come Wee Farleigh and help me –
P EARL
[going for her camera]
. Don’t you dare move, either of you.
F LORA . Your sister’s faint with hunger, look at her.
P EARL . Of course she’s half-starved, Victor’s turned her into a vegetarian.
V ICTOR . How can you talk of kindness, Pearl, and still eat other animals?
P EARL . Don’t start, Victor.
V ICTOR . You started it.
P EARL . I didna –! V ICTOR . Did –!
F LORA . I’ve a lovely leg of lamb, you’re all to stay; and for the vegetablists, we’ve a … what’s it called, Wee Farleigh?
W EE F ARLEIGH . A medley of beans. Baked savoury squash. A casserole of wild champignons and nuts. A milles-feuilles of goat cheese, grilled aubergine, slow-roasted tomato mousse and toasted garlic on a bed of kelp. And for dessert: chocolate éclaires.
P EARL . The éclaires are for everyone, surely.
V ICTOR . No, you get a black-pudding for dessert.
P EARL . Seamus, will you stay to tea?
A beat
.
D R R EID . You are stubborn, clannish and benighted. An apple falls from a tree and you do not shout, “Eureka!”, you eat the apple. You have no real conscience, only sentiment: you’d save the one to the detriment of the many, and call it “kindness”. You lack the mental rigour for true kindness. You shrink from inconvenient facts, preferring a retreat to your hot-house of exotic half-truths; your ramshackle relativism; your primordial swamp; your bog, your blur. You haven’t the strength to withstand the whirlwind, or the unflinching gaze required to see into it. One look at the face of God and you would be annihilated. It is dearly to be hoped that you occupy an evolutionary cul-de-sac. Otherwise, heaven help us all.
Exit
, D R R EID . P EARL
unwinds a cord with a small plunger from the camera and runs it to where the company is assembled for the photo. She holds the plunger and assumes her position in the photo line-up
.
P EARL . Ready?
[About to press the plunger.]
And –
C LAIRE . Ainaibh ri chelie.
Y OUNG F ARLEIGH
wakes up
.
P EARL . What does that mean?
Y OUNG F ARLEIGH . ’Tis Gaelic.
V ICTOR . I know “ ’tis Gaelic” –
F LORA . It’s your mother’s clan motto –
C LAIRE . It means: “unite”.
P EARL
presses the plunger and the camera responds with a poof and a flash. Curtain
. P UPPY
barks
.
Afterword
by
Ann-Marie MacDonald
Belle Moral: A Natural History
has its origins in an earlier play of mine called
The Arab’s Mouth
, and the story of its evolution is also the story of a creative relationship.
The Arab’s Mouth
was first produced in 1990 by Toronto’s Factory Theatre and its then-artistic director, Jackie Maxwell. An interesting sidebar – and natural history is all about the sidebars – is that, at the time, I
Similar Books
