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JOHN CLARE: [He shrugs.] It strikes me that we’re only getting in the way here. What would you say to the prospect of a nice sit down? It is in my opinion quite the best of postures, and I am convinced that it is only all this standing up and walking to and fro that gets us into so much trouble as a population. Come, let’s take the weight from off our feet.
JOHN BUNYAN: I had intended I should see the nearby marketplace, where was the Earl of Peterborough’s edict handed down that I referred to in that piece of mine about the Holy War. Still, it may be that a few moments’ rest is no great matter in the long yards of posterity. But as for taking weight from off our feet, in our present condition I can’t see that there is any weight to take. Indeed, it is a wonder that we do not float away into the heavens for our want of heaviness.
JOHN CLARE: I had supposed we all must keep an ounce or two of it that’s carried in our hearts for such emergencies. Let us sit down, and then perhaps we can discuss this further. [CLARE begins to lead BUNYAN towards the rear of the space beneath the portico. BUNYAN starts towards the right-side alcove, at which CLARE grows agitated and corrects him.] Oh, no, that won’t do. This fellow is the recess that’s reserved for me, by virtue of my previous habitation. You must have the one upon the other side, that I keep specially for visitors. I’ll own it’s not as sumptuous as mine, but if that inconvenience is the worst thing that Eternity has got to throw at you, you should be glad. [BUNYAN looks disgruntled, but accedes to CLARE’s wishes. Both men take their seats in their allotted alcoves.]
JOHN BUNYAN: You’re right. It’s comfortable enough.
JOHN CLARE: It is. [Pause.] Are you referring to the recess, now, or the Eternity?
JOHN BUNYAN: Primarily the recess. [Pause. From OFF there is the SOUND of a solitary motorcar passing by through the fog. The HUSBAND and WIFE pay the passing car no attention, but CLARE and BUNYAN follow it with their eyes.] I have wondered about those things. They are clearly a variety of wagon, but I cannot fathom how their locomotion is effected.
JOHN CLARE: Well, I’ve given that some thought myself, and I believe the answer lies in some advance of natural science that has made the horse invisible to normal sight.
JOHN BUNYAN: Surely, that conjecture might be easily disproved with the plain observation that there’s no conspicuous abundance of the dung these unseen nags must certainly produce. Answer me that, if you’ve the measure of it.
JOHN CLARE: Ah! Ah! So I will, then. Does it not occur to you that beings that are visible unto plain sight such as ourselves make droppings that are equally apparent to the eye? Does it not follow that an unseen or invisibly transparent horse would thus produce manure that’s of a similar ethereal nature?
JOHN BUNYAN: [After a thoughtful pause.] Surely, though, however rarefied its substance, an unseen evacuation would still stink. Indeed, would not the spectral turd that you propose present a greater inconvenience to the pedestrian, surely more likely to step unawares into your numinous ordure than into an excrescence which is in the common view and therefore may be walked around and so avoided?
JOHN CLARE: [A pause, during which CLARE reconsiders.] I’d not thought of that, and thus withdraw my speculation. [Another pause, as CLARE worriedly contemplates invisible horse manure.] Horse muck that cannot be seen. It is a horror, now I come to understand the implications. Why, there’d be a reeking foulness hidden from the cognizance of all, that never could be cleaned away, in which the purest of things might be inadvertently made filthy …
HUSBAND: Celia, I promise you, there’s nothing going on. Nothing that anybody else can see. You show me where there’s something going on.
WIFE: I’ve got no need to see it. I can smell it. I can smell a rat. I can smell something fishy.
HUSBAND: Celia, listen to yourself. A fishy rat?
WIFE: [She leans forward, staring hard and accusingly into his eyes.] A fishy rat. Yes. That’s the very thing that I can smell, even when someone’s drenched it in cologne. A fishy rat, with hairy fins and scaly ears, that’s got a great long pink worm of a tail to drag behind it through the dirty water. God, you ought to be ashamed.
HUSBAND: I’m not! I’m not ashamed! I haven’t done a thing to be ashamed of! Why, my conscience is a pane of polished glass, without a streak of guilt or birdshit anywhere upon it. What is it that makes you think I’m guilty? Is there something guilty that I’ve said, or something guilty in my manner? Where is all this guilty, guilty, guilty coming from? Because it’s getting on my nerves, and if it keeps up I shall lose my rag. How can I think straight with this noise? And how long is she going to keep on playing that same tune before it drives me mad?
WIFE: [She stares at him, puzzled and then slightly worried.] How long is …? Johnny, she stopped playing nearly half an hour ago.
HUSBAND: [He stares at her blankly.] What, really?
WIFE: A good twenty minutes at the very least.
HUSBAND: [He turns and stares into space, horrified and haunted.] A half an hour. Or at least a good twenty minutes …
WIFE: Split the difference. Call it twenty-five.
HUSBAND: Oh, God. [They lapse into silence. The HUSBAND gazes, haunted, into the fog. His WIFE gazes at him for a few moments, mystified, and then looks away.]
JOHN BUNYAN: [After a respectful pause.] Do you yourself have any notion what it is that vexes them?
JOHN CLARE: Neither the first, nor faintest. I imagine it would be a marital perplexity that’s by and large opaque to the outsider, although having had two wives I am a man of more than ordinary experience. With my first wife Mary, who enjoyed the sweetest disposition, I was happy and there were no quarrels of the stripe we see enacted here. Our marriage bed was filled with harmony, and when I entered into her it was as though I entered into God’s own meadow. With my second wife, with Patty, it was naught but baleful hints and dark recriminations, although she was very often good to me. Still, there were nights that she’d be jealous of the time I had with Mary, who was a much younger girl than Patty was herself. No, as you see, I am no stranger to the married life and its upheavals, though in truth I was not often with my family.
JOHN BUNYAN: Then there’s another thing we hold in common, with our forenames, mutual occupation and our current state of incorporeality. I too had family, from whom I was made separate by my confinement.
JOHN CLARE: [Excitedly.] You were confined? Why, so was I! It is as though we were reflections of each other! Where were you confined?
JOHN BUNYAN: In prison, for my preaching. And yourself?
JOHN CLARE: [Suddenly vague and evasive.] Oh … it was in a hospital.
JOHN BUNYAN: [Concerned.] Then you were ailing in the flesh?
JOHN CLARE: Well … no. Not really. Not the flesh. Mind you, I did once have a nasty limp.
