Arcadia by Tom Stoppard Read Free Book Online

Euripides, my lady! You should no
more grieve for the rest than for a buckle lost from your first shoe, or for
your lesson book which will be lost when you are old. We shed as we pick up,
Uke travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall
will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very
short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing
can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece,
or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal
themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will
have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes
had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a
corkscrew? I have no doubt that the improved steam-driven heat-engine which
puts Mr Noakes into an ecstasy that he and it and the modern age should all coincide,
was described on papyrus. Steam and brass were not invented in Glasgow. Now,
where are we? Let me see if I can attempt a free translation for you. At Harrow
I was better at this than
    Lord Byron.
    (He takes the piece of paper from her and scrutinizes it,
testing one or two Latin phrases speculatively before committing himself.)
    Yes—‘The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne ...
    burned on the water ... the—something—the poop was beaten
gold, purple the sails, and—what’s this?—oh yes,—so perfumed that—Thomasina: (Catching
on and furious) Cheat! Septimus: (Imperturbably) ’—the winds were
lovesick with them ...’ Thomasina: Cheat! Septimus: ‘... the oars were silver
which to the tune of flutes kept stroke ...’ Thomasina: (Jumping to her /eel)Cheat!
Cheat! Cheat! Septimus: (As though it were too easy to make the effort
worthwhile)
    ‘... and made the water which they beat to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes. For her own person, it beggared all description—she
did lie in her pavilion—’
    (Thomasina, in tears of rage, is hurrying out through the
garden.) Thomasina: I hope you die!
    (She nearly bumps into brice who is entering. She
runs out of sight, brice enters.) brice: Good God, man, what have
you told her? Septimus: Told her? Told her what? brice: Hodge!
    (Septimus looks outside the door, slightly contrite about Thomasina, and sees that Chater is skulking out of view.) Septimus:
Chater! My dearfellow! Don’t hang back-come in, sir!
    (Chater allows himself to be drawn sheepishly into the
room, where BRICE stands on his dignity.) Chater: Captain Brice does
me the honour-1 mean to say, sir, whatever you have to say to me, sir, address
yourself to
    Captain Brice.
    Septimus: How unusual. (To brice) Your wife did not
appear yesterday, sir. I trust she is not sick? brice: My wife? I have no wife.
What the devil do you mean, sir?
    (Septimus makes to reply, but hesitates, puzzled. He
turns back to CHATER.)
    Septimus: I do not understand the scheme, Chater. Whom do I
address when I want to speak to Captain Brice?
    brice: Oh, slippery, Hodge—slippery!
    Septimus: (To Chater) By the way, Chater— (he
interrupts himself and turns back to BRICE, and continues as before) by
the way, Chater, I have amazing news to tell you. Someone has taken to writing
wild and whirling letters in your name. I received one not half an hour ago.
    brice: (Angrily) Mr Hodge! Look to your honour, sir!
If you cannot attend to me without this foolery, nominate your second who might
settle the business as between gentlemen. No doubt your friend Byron would do you
the service. (Septimus gives up the game.)
    Septimus: Oh yes, he would do me the service. (His mood changes,
he turns to Chater.) Sir—1 repent your injury. You are an honest fellow
with no more malice in you than poetry.
    Chater: (Happily) Ah well!—that is more like the
thing! (Overtaken by doubt.) Is he apologizing?
    brice: There is still the injury to his conjugal property,
Mrs