Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

SCENE TWO

March 2, 1853. The RUSKIN bedroom. Early morning (before
breakfast). EFFIE RUSKIN (24) is WITH HER SISTER SOPHIE
(9). EFFIE is taking the curling rags out of SOPHIE’s hair.
EFFIE has a headache.

EFFIE:        From where we left off. Top of the page, please. Page 145.

SOPHIE’s lesson is reading aloud from Tennyson’s “In Memorium.”

SOPHIE:     XCVII ... X. C. V. I. .I.

EFFIE:        No. In English....

SOPHIE:     But I go home today!

EFFIE:        XC is .... [Impatiently.] … XC is 90.

SOPHIE:     90 ...V 1...2.... 97!

EFFIE:        Go on.

SOPHIE:     [Begins again.] Number Ninety-Seven.
                   My love has talk’d with rocks and trees;
                   He finds on misty mountain-ground
                   His own vast shadow glory-.....

EFFIE:        [Looking at the text.] “Crowned”

SOPHIE:     His own vast shadow glory-crown’d;....
                   He sees himself in all he sees.
                   It’s like Mr. Ruskin!
                   Two partners of a married life —

EFFIE:        Skip to the next page, please.

SOPHIE turns page.

SOPHIE:    Her life is lone, he sits apart,
                   He loves her, yet she will not weep,

EFFIE:        He loves her yet, she will not weep,

SOPHIE:     [A perfect mimic.]
                   He loves her yet, she will not weep,
                   Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep
                   He seems to slight her simple heart!

EFFIE starts to work on her ring of embroidery

SOPHIE:    He thrids the labyrinth of the mind ... !
                   He reads the secret of the star ...!

EFFIE:        Not so much feeling, please. You’re not
                   on the stage.

SOPHIE:    What’s ‘thrids?’

EFFIE doesn’t know.

EFFIE:         It doesn’t matter. Go on.

SOPHIE:    What’s ‘thrids?’

EFFIE:        Ask Mr. Ruskin.

SOPHIE:     But how can I tell what it means if I don’t
                    know the word?

EFFIE:        Go on!

SOPHIE:     He seems so near and yet so far,
                   He looks so cold: she thinks him kind.
                   She keeps the gift of years before,
                   A wither’d violet is her bliss:
                   She knows not what his greatness is,
                   For that, for all, she loves him more.
                   That’s lovely! It is about Mr. Ruskin, isn’t it?

EFFIE:        No. Everything written is not about Mr.
                   Ruskin.

SOPHIE:     Unless he writes it himself.

EFFIE:        Sophie! Who told you that?

SOPHIE:     Tell me again. If you are my sister ...

EFFIE:         I AM your sister.

SOPHIE:     Yes. Exactly. So does that mean Mr. Ruskin
                    is my brother?

EFFIE:         In Law. Brother-in-law.

SOPHIE:     Even though he’s so old! And brothers
                    can’t marry sisters. But he married you.

EFFIE:        Yes. But he wasn’t my brother. He is my
                    husband, which means he is your brotherin-
                    law. By law. Not by blood.

SOPHIE:     So he can’t marry me, even if he wanted to?

EFFIE:        He is already married. To me.

SOPHIE:     And you are my sister. So Old Mrs.
                   Ruskin ... is .... my ....?

EFFIE:         She is just Mrs. Ruskin.

SOPHIE:     Then why do you call her ‘Mother.’

EFFIE:        Mr. Ruskin likes it.

SOPHIE:     She says I’m much prettier than you.

EFFIE:        Oh?

SOPHIE:     She says you’re an imbecile.

EFFIE:         That’s not very nice.

SOPHIE:     Oh, she’s very nice about it. She says to
                    me ‘Sophie’ she says, ‘Poor Effie can’t
                    help it.’

EFFIE:        And what is her proof I’m an imbecile?

SOPHIE:     The way you eat your soup. She says I
                    shouldn’t do the same, or make the noise
                    with my teeth, or people will think me a
                    rude and ignorant Scotch girl, too. She says
                    it’s not your fault. You can’t help it. You’re
                    too old to change.

EFFIE:         Finish the poem.

SOPHIE:     She knows not what his greatness is ...

EFFIE:        We’ve done that bit.

SOPHIE:     For him she plays, to him she sings
                   Of early faith and plighted vows;
                   She knows but matters of the house,
                   And he, he knows a thousand things.
                   Her faith is fixt and cannot move,
                   She darkly feels him great and wise,
                   She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
                   “I cannot understand: I love.”
                   ‘I cannot understand. I love.’ It’s lovely,
                   isn’t it? She reminds me of Zoë.

EFFIE:        Zoë is a dog.

SOPHIE:     What I don’t understand is why the man
                   knows so much. Are all men like that?

EFFIE:        That’s enough Tennyson for today.
                   Arithmetic. You don’t want to go home a
                   rude ignorant Scotch girl, do you?

SOPHIE:     We’ve done roman numerals. That’s Arithmetic.
                   And it’s very late. Perhaps I could just
                   write a letter. To Mama? I think Mama would
                    be very pleased. I could tell her all about the
                    walk with Mr. Ruskin yesterday and everything
                    he said to me and what I said, too. I
                    would write very quietly.

EFFIE:        Very well.

SOPHIE writes and then pauses.

SOPHIE:     Effie.... How do you spell the word
                    ‘beautiful?’


SCENE ENDS.