Peter and Alice by John Logan

The backroom of the Bumpus bookshop in London. June 26, 1932 .
    Imposing shelves of books, files, bibliographic supplies, etc. There is a door into the bookshop .
    PETER waits. He’s in his 30s .
    He hears voices off. He prepares himself, clears his throat, and straightens his conservative suit. He’s nervous .
    ALICE enters .
    She’s 80 .
    PETER : Mrs. Hargreaves… My name is Peter Davies. How do you do?
    ALICE : How do you do?
    PETER : We’re to wait here. I’m told.
    Beat .
    PETER : It’ll only be a few minutes, until everyone has gathered and then Charles will introduce me and I’ll introduce you. You’re to make some remarks and then–
    ALICE : I understand.
    Beat .
    PETER : This is a – pleasure, ma’am.
    ALICE : You were going to say “honor” but you thought it unduly reverential. It is challenging to know which note to strike with me. Do you honor him and the book through honoring me? But am I worthy of honor? Not her – me … Then how, indeed, do I feel about her ? You’ve no way of knowing… Is it an “honor” or a “pleasure”…or something else altogether?
    PETER : I think, now, the latter.
    She smiles slightly .
    He’s emboldened to continue .
    PETER : In any event, Mrs. Hargreaves, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.
    ALICE : No, Mr. Davies, I daresay you’ve been looking forward to meeting her .
    PETER : It is to you I wish to speak.
    ALICE : Is this by way of an ambush?
    PETER : I asked Charles if I might have a few words with you.
    She nods. Proceed .
    PETER : I have an imprint, not inconsiderable, called Peter Davies Limited. We have a proper list and my chief duty as publisher is to cast my eye about for worthwhile subjects.
    ALICE : And your eye has fallen on me, as worthwhile. How very flattering.
    PETER : That’s the curse of my trade. To a book man, every nook and cranny is a potential story.
    ALICE : Am I a nook or a cranny?
    PETER : I – Sorry?
    ALICE : Come to the point, Mr. Davies.
    PETER : When I got the invitation to come and meet you, I thought: there’s a story, and worth the telling… Have you considered your memoirs?
    ALICE : Considered them as what?
    PETER : Something you might wish to write.
    ALICE : To be published and vended?
    PETER : Yes.
    ALICE : This is not the first time I’ve been approached.
    PETER : Perhaps never by someone with such a personal understanding of your unique position.
    ALICE : Have I a “position”?
    PETER : Come now, Mrs. Hargreaves, you would not be here today if you did not.
    She grants the point .
    ALICE : Memoirs – autobiographies – are the records of the deeds of a life. I have had no deeds worthy of reportage. Not of my own… Those around me perhaps.
    PETER : Isn’t every life worth recording honestly?
    ALICE : Oh… You want honesty .
    Beat .
    ALICE : Aren’t you the ambitious young man?
    She strolls, considers the room .
    ALICE : In your element, Mr. Davies.
    PETER : Sorry?
    ALICE : Amongst the books.
    PETER : For you as well.
    ALICE : I was not amongst the books, I was in a book. That’s something different.
    She runs her hand along some of the spines .
    ALICE : From the outside they are one thing: ordered and symmetrical, all the same; like foot soldiers. From the inside they are altogether singular.
    PETER : Do you ever get tired of it?
    ALICE : What?
    PETER : Being Alice.
    ALICE : I’m loath to disillusion you, but people have forgotten me. Thus I fear for the commercial prospects of the House of Davies should you be so reckless as to publish my memoirs. Of course they remember her . But me ? … Those days are like the dark ages now, aren’t they? Before motor cars and chewing gum. Before airplanes and cinema andthe wireless. Lord, a time before the wireless , can you imagine the silence? You could hear the bees buzzing in the summer… Golden afternoons all gone away.
    PETER