Belle Moral: A Natural History (2 page)

For Zsa Zsa

Dramatis Personae

The action takes place in spring and summer 1899 on the coast of Scotland, a few miles outside Edinburgh, in a large old stone house called Belle Moral
.

The Arab’s Mouth
, an earlier version of this play, premiered at the Factory Theatre, Toronto, in the fall of 1990, with the following cast:

Belle Moral: A Natural History
was first performed at the Shaw Festival Theatre, Niagara-on-the-Lake, on July 7, 2005, with the following cast:

Night. Sound of the sea. A
B
RIDE
enters, dressed in a flowing white gown, and veil that covers her face. She is searching for something by the light of her candle. Delicate distant melody, “Au Claire de la Lune”. In one corner, lies a faded tartan blanket; sound of an infant crying
. T
HE
B
RIDE
is drawn toward the blanket. Sound of a bagpipe drone
. T
HE
B
RIDE
picks up the blanket, then pauses, sensing the presence behind her: it is a man with the head of a jackal reminiscent of Anubis. There is a formality to his movements. He is neither malevolent nor benevolent, merely a guide, a conductor of souls to the underworld. He claims the blanket from
T
HE
B
RIDE
,
and blows out her candle. Ambient female cry, “Pearl!”

Night
. P
EARL
is sitting bolt upright at her desk, eyes wide, having just awakened from the nightmare. She is dressed in high-collar blouse and neatly tailored tweeds. Her study is a model of Victorian polymathic precision: books, fossils, butterfly case, skulls of various species, a telescope, a microscope. Her desk is littered with papers and in one corner of it sits a murky specimen jar. A knocking at the door
. P
EARL
blinks
.

F
LORA
[offstage]
. Pearl?

P
EARL
. Auntie Flora?

F
LORA
. Were you ridin’ the nightmare again, pet?

P
EARL
[business-like]
. Perhaps I was. I don’t remember.

F
LORA
. You must endeavour to remember, dear. Your ancestors are tryin’ to tell you something.

P
EARL
. Which ancestors are those, Auntie? The apes or the amoebas?

F
LORA
. Do go to bed, pet, it’s nigh on three.

P
EARL
. I can’t, Auntie, I’m working.
[crisp and efficient]
I intend to submit an article on Cretaceous Caledonian mollusks to the Royal Geological Society in London, and this time I shall sign it, “Percival MacIsaac, Esquire”. See if they dismiss “Percy” with the same alacrity with which they advised “Pearl” to return to more womanly pursuits.

F
LORA
. What in the Lord’s name is that?

P
EARL
. The Cretaceous Period, Auntie, a fossil-rich –

F
LORA
. No, dear. That.

P
EARL
. Oh, that
[picking up the specimen jar]
. It is the tufted ear of a clinical idiot, upon which there is a point. Marvelous, isn’t it? Observe the whorls, the delicate lobe, at once so familiar, so … human; jarringly juxtaposed with the unmistakeable bestial peak into which the top of the ear resolves. And the thick growth of what could never be described as mere hair. See? Still glossy, gracefully suspended in sterile solution: fur.

F
LORA
. Wherever did you obtain such a blasphemy?

P
EARL
. Dr Reid …

F
LORA
. Dr Reid?

P
EARL
. Yes. He very kindly loaned it me when I admired it on the shelf of his laboratory. Dr Reid was quite the budding Darwin in his day, did you know that, Auntie? A pity, he abandoned his research. And what a shame, a specimen like this gathering dust.

F
LORA
. Dr Reid’s got no business lending you that ear.

P
EARL
. Why ever not?
A beat
.

F
LORA
. It’s … 
rhuadh.
^{[pron:
roo-ah]}

P
EARL
. It’s what? Speak English, Auntie.

F
LORA
. It’s red.

P
EARL
. So?

F
LORA
. That’s Faery hair.

P
EARL
. Auntie, I’m a redhead, Father was a redhead, are we fairies?

F
LORA
. No, no, dear, but …

P
EARL
. But what?

F
LORA
. You might have a gift.

P
EARL
. And what’s wrong with that?

F
LORA
. The gifts of the Faery can be … queer.

P
EARL
. Well this ear is certainly a gift, if not of “the Faery”, then of Nature.

F
LORA
. Nature makes mistakes. And tisna’ wise to gaze too long upon them. You might look at something and find you can never look away again.

P
EARL
. Make up your mind, Auntie, are you Pagan or Protestant, you can’t be both you know. Or rather you can, in which case you’re Catholic.

F
LORA
[scandalized]
. I’m no’ Catholic –!

P
EARL
. I shall contemplate this ear to my heart’s content, for it is an aberration; one of Nature’s exceptions by which we divine Her rules.

F
LORA
. Look to your own ears, my dear. Thank God He shaped you in His image and do not dwell upon the margin He left to the divil.

P
EARL
. Auntie Flora, the “divil’s margin” is merely a necessary factor of chance by which all life on Earth has evolved.

F
LORA
. There’s that evil word again.

P
EARL
. There’s nothing evil about evolution, Auntie; it’s just a lot of hit and miss in the struggle for reproductive success.

F
LORA
. Pearl … isn’t there any young man you think of more than another?

P
EARL
. In what sense?

F
LORA
. Have you heard from Mr Abbott lately?

P
EARL
. I should think Mr Abbott is waiting to hear from us. He can’t very well read Father’s will with half the family still off gallivanting.

F
LORA
. I meant, have you heard from him … socially?

P
EARL
[suddenly]
. Auntie. I dreamt I was wearing Mother’s wedding gown.

F
LORA
[delighted]
. Ach, did you, lass, and were you by chance able to glimpse the groom?

P
EARL
. Auntie Flora, I’m going to buy a dog.

F
LORA
. What? Oh no, pet, now don’t you go buyin’ a dog.

P
EARL
. Why not?

F
LORA
. Why … your father could never abide a slaverin’ cur.

P
EARL
. I shall select a non-slavering breed. Besides. Father is dead. And the dog is for Victor. Why are you dressed?

F
LORA
. I was waiting up … 
[prevaricating]
in case your brother should arrive. His letter said today.

P
EARL
. And the letter before that said last week. I’d not lose sleep over Victor, Auntie, he’ll turn up when he pleases, in three days or three months. Depending on who’s standing him drinks.

F
LORA
. Don’t worry, pet.

P
EARL
. I’m not worried, I’m vexed.

F
LORA
. You’re hungry.

P
EARL
. Peckish.

F
LORA
. What about a nice pickled egg? Or, Young Farleigh’s fixed a lovely finan haddie.

P
EARL
. Any herring?

F
LORA
. There’s bloater paste. And a dollop of marmite on toast.

P
EARL
. Mmmm.

F
LORA
. I’ll go heap a plate. Now you get back to your stones and snails and puppy-dog tails and … forget about that ear. Especially at this hour.

P
EARL
. What hour is that, Auntie? “The hour of the Faery”?

F
LORA
. The hour of the wolf.

P
EARL
. Ha! The prodigal returns
[rising, delighted in spite of herself]
. Let’s have a right midnight feast with silly old Victor, shall we Auntie?

F
LORA
[urgent]
. Stay, Pearl!
[covering]
It mightn’t be him.

P
EARL
. Well who might it be “at this hour”?

F
LORA
[thinking quickly]
. Young Farleigh.

P
EARL
. Young Farleigh? What’s he doing out about?

F
LORA
. I sent him down to the shore for winkles.

P
EARL
. Ugh, I can’t abide winkles.

F
LORA
. Your brother loves them.

P
EARL
. He can have them [sitting]. Along with everything else.

F
LORA
. Hush now, this will a’ways be your haim. Our haim.

P
EARL
. Don’t console me, Auntie, I am quite steeled to my fate. In fact I relish the prospect of Victor inheriting Belle Moral with all its cash and chattels, and squandering the lot within a year. I shall then be forced to earn my living. Book a passage to Egypt. Cross the desert on a camel. Publish my findings anonymously. Return in glory.

F
LORA
[going to exit]
. I’ll fetch some cocoa too.

P
EARL
. Auntie Flora … was Father proud of me?

F
LORA
. Ach, you know he was. Look at you. Educated. Modern. And not a bit dried out.

P
EARL
. I’ve had the oddest feeling lately. Ever since Father’s funeral. As if there was someone missing. But I can’t say who. I suppose you’d say my ancestors are trying to tell me something.

F
LORA
. You miss your father. That’s all it is.