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17 Hope Springs Eternal |
From Mary Celeste |
[A pool of light on Priscilla, sister of the missing First Mate, and Agnes, fiancée of the missing Helmsman: both are in mourning, and lean desolately on brooms, staring at Arthur, frozen by his shattered toy]
[Behind them, a spotlight picks out the black-clad figure of Matilda, mother of Briggs; she relies on her broom for support. Initially she sings a cappella in a low, controlled voice, but all three women will become tremulous and vitriolic as the number builds up]
Matilda
Don't look too long in the shadows,
you might spot a figure in black,
but it's only some mariner's widow
who's waiting for her man to come back
[Priscilla picks up part of the toy, seeming to treat it as the real Mary Celeste; faint backing from the Band]
Priscilla
The mate of this ship was my brother
Agnes
the helmsman and I were to wed
Matilda
and I'm just the Captain's old mother
who's trying to believe ...
Agnes
trying to believe ...
Priscilla
trying to believe ...
Matilda
that he's dead
[Lights up on the Tourists, reading in deck chairs, chatting, or looking on curiously: the women move together and address them while sweeping. The Band accompanies full-bloodedly from this point]
Priscilla
You've read our names in your journal
you're thrilled by my stiff upper lip
and you tell me that hope springs eternal
and I thank you, sir, for that valuable tip
But it's not going to stop my heart aching
it just makes it hard to go on
when I see that there's nobody else who's partaking
in grief ...
Agnes
in the grief ...
Matilda
in the grief
Priscilla
for the brother who's gone
[A Tourist is about to get out of his chair to reply to Priscilla, but she rebuffs him with her broom: the Band brings in part of the refrain of No 2, Market the Myth]
Priscilla
But don't interrupt your conjectures,
your ballads and tortuous rhymes
Just wriggle back down in your deck chairs
and bury your face, bury your face in The Times
[One of the Mourners snatches a newspaper and all three scornfully comment on it]
All 3
All by men, full of masculine views
all clever theories and questions
feelings like love would confuse
all their clever suggestions
[They tear the newspaper derisively and fling it down, to be swept offstage with the toy ship detritus. Matilda finds the tiny Captain from the shattered model]
Matilda
Where is the boy that I carried?
I loved him until he was grown
and my love didn't end when he married
and his wife gave him kids of his own
[At this line she indicates Arthur; her next stanza is addressed to the Audience]
But my thirty-eight years of devotion
are vanishing, just like something I dreamt
and all of you onlookers show no emotion
as all he went through ...
Priscilla
all he went through ...
Agnes
all he went through ...
Matilda
is portrayed with contempt
Matilda
But don't let us ruin your Christmas
your family cruise holiday
your fabulous sight-seeing trip to the Isthmus
no, don't let the womenfolk get in the way
All 3
of the men and their overgrown myth
little boys longing for glory
Girls have to live with the truth
in this world, and it's tawdry, tawdry
[To the house at large: during this verse each takes from her pocket a framed photograph of the man she is in mourning for]
Agnes
If you should chance to discover
the fate that's befallen my beau
If it's not going to bring back my lover
then don't, please, don't bother letting me know
You can ponder his 'cause of expiry'
in phrases so callous and hard
But as for your public enquiry ...
I spit ...
Priscilla
and I spit ...
Matilda
and I spit ...
All 3
on your brutal charade
[Agnes shakes her broom at the Band and any members of the production team who happen to be visible; Mourners jettison brooms, and Arthur takes them off during the following stanza]
And you men behind this endeavour
exploiting my womanly woe
I curse your attempts to be clever
We all three spit on your cynical show
[Mourners' caustic style mellows into pathos: on their knees, before their photographs, they pray, to a pared-down reprise of the refrain from No 11, A Modern Miracle]
All 3
Mary of Heaven, (we pray), Mary the Blest
(hear our request)
Bring back the man that I cradled and loved and caressed
Maybe it's crazy, and maybe it's vain
just let me hold him, ah, pity my pain
Only to speak with him, only to hear him again
or even to see him?