THE RED ROOM.
By Lucy Gough.
© Copyright 1998 Lucy Gough. All Rights Reserved. No part of this work
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transcribed in any form or by
any means, including, but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or other means, without prior written permission of the Author.
(C) 1999 Lucy Gough
CHARACTER:
CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
SETTING:
The setting is the interior of a room that the Bronte’s have rented whilst Charlotte’s Father has an eye operation. It has a mirror, a large apostles cupboard, and a writing desk as well as the bed on which her Father will lie. During the monologue Charlotte goes to an imaginary landscape of ice and snow, this should be suggested by Lighting changes and sound effects.
Charlotte is the only one on the stage, although the setting should be such that the presence of her father in the bed, the surgeon and his nurse are suggested by what Charlotte is saying.
This monologue comes from a Radio Play commissioned by BBC Radio 4 in 1997. In this Charlotte’s interior monologue was interwoven with biographical material (by Glyn Hughes) on Charlotte Bronte and the cataract operation her father had at the time she wrote Jane Eyre.
Produced at BBC Radio 4
Pebble Mill by Peter Leslie Wild and Rosie Boulton.
With Rachel Atkins as
Charlotte Bronte and Eric Allan as Father.
Directed by Peter Leslie Wild.
I would particularly like to thank to Peter Leslie Wild and Rosie Boulton for giving me the challenge of working with the documentary material.
Sc.01 THE ROOM
CHARLOTTE ENTERS THE ROOM. SHE LOOKS AROUND UNHAPPILY AND THEN OPENS THE WINDOW AND LOOKS OUT, AFTER A WHILE SHE SHUTS THE WINDOW TURNS TO LOOK AT THE ROOM AGAIN AND SIGHS IN DESPAIR.
CHARLOTTE:
I will suffocate here,
Melt into the floor.
Die of loneliness.
(AS SHE LIGHTS A CANDLE)
The shards of my heart,
Stuck fast in the wax of my dying.
(AS SHE LOOKS AROUND AND PACES FORWARD.)
There’s barely room to pace, three strides and my path is blocked by furniture.
The bed stretches like some insurmountable peak, and the heads on the Apostles cupboard flicker reproachfully in the candle light like disembodied ghosts, intent on haunting me.
(AS SHE REACHES THE MIRROR AND LOOKS INTO IT.)
Only the mirror suggests another world, a vast region of emptiness, of dark caverns and space to breath in.
(LONGINGLY)
To be standing on a moorland crag, breathing in the fresh air and feasting on the sweep and swell of a familiar land.
(SLIGHT PANIC)
How am I to find a place where my mind can wander?
(SHE LOOKS AROUND IN DESPAIR)
This room has all the appeal of a tomb.
(CHARLOTTE
STARTS TO PACE THE ROOM, AGITATED AND TRAPPED; LIKE AN ANIMAL IN A CAGE.)
I walk the floor.
Stalking imagination as it treads corridors.
Hiding under it’s cloak,
as the graveyard of memory is visited.
Cling fast as it searches:
For that place.
That comfort.
‘Angria’.
The country of my childhood.
HER PACING CHANGES TO CRUNCHING ON SNOW A COLD WIND IS HEARD AND THE LIGHTING CHANGES.
(SHIVERING)
I pace and pace.
Pace and pace.
Slowly…
(THE SOUND OF TRUDGING FOOTSTEPS ON THE SNOW)
Into the landscape of my imagination.
CHARLOTTE BLOWS OUT THE CANDLE. WE GO TO A BLACKOUT.
Sc.02 THE MIRROR
LIGHTS COME UP ON A NEW DAY CHARLOTTE WALKS OVER TO THE BED AND SITS BESIDE IT. THE IMPRESSION IS THAT HER FATHER IS IN THE BED, AND THE SURGEON IS AT WORK ON HIS EYE. SHE TAKES HER FATHERS HAND AND LOOKS INTO THE MIRROR FACING THEM.
CHARLOTTE :
How still we look. How resigned, framed by the gilt of the mirror, like figures from an oil painting.
(DESCRIBING THE PICTURE SHE SEES.)
A frail old man. His hand held by a plain, dutiful daughter. How brutally each detail of the room is repeated, even my novel, my hope for immortality lies unwrapped beside the water bowl. A testament to my failure!
But how little of the story does the mirror tell. Nowhere does it speak of the deep dark despair that roams, aimlessly plucking holes in my heart. Nor does the icewax of my fathers face plunge the depths of his terror as he faces the scalpel. Only the red of the damask curtains speak of a brooding passion, and the mountainous white pillows of a cold fear to overcome.
And the surgeon:
(STUDYING HIM NOW.)
As he works, the mirror studies him, he has the look of Wellesley. He’d go into battle or make love with the same assurance.
(CROSS WITH HERSELF.)
Even the walls blush at my thoughts. How well the mirror holds my little crooked face, and hides it’s scorching passion.
If I was to sit here naked would he notice me? Would he touch my breasts as tenderly as he drops the belladonna into my fathers eyes?
He studies his own reflection as he washes his hands.
(WITH ENVY)
To be so sure of ones face, to be able to study the features without fear of disappointment. He fills the mirror as he fills the room. The rest of us shadows in his background. If he was lying here instead of my father, if he was blinded. I would nurse him, my plainness concealed in the way my passion is now. He looks at my reflection, the plain Jane, if only he would look at me with something other than disinterest. Am I condemned to the transparency of a governess forever?
(PAUSE)
The mirror holds it’s breath.
(PAUSE)
He cuts as if through ice.
(PAUSE)
How still my father…
(PAUSE)
How steady the surgeons hands.
(PAUSE)
As the white of the eye turns red.
(STARTS TO BREATH FAST PANICKING INSIDE)
The sun burns red,
making the room swim blood.
The apostles heads dance with the dread of it all.
And my soul tries to leave the room.
(TRYING TO CALM HERSELF)
Still.
I must keep still.
I must cool this fever of imagination.
(SAID SLOWLY TRYING TO CALM HERSELF)
If only I could pace,
Walk the room.
Still.
I must keep still.
Though every sinew cries flight!
(CLOSE TO HAVING A PANIC ATTACK)
Still.
I must keep still.
As courage fails me…
(STILL ON THE EDGE OF PANIC)
I will have to get up,
Let go of his hand,
Leave the room.
Flee!
(ARGUES WITH HERSELF)
I can’t!
(FIRMLY)
I must stay here.
(FIRMLY)
I must keep still.
(SHE CALMS HERSELF DOWN, BREATHING SLOWLY)
Tread slowly into my mind.
Crawl out to the edge,
Seek refuge
In the landscape of imagination.
WE GO TO BLACKOUT.
