Bedlam Page #2

Much written of.

I dare say, no man or woman

comes to London from the country...

who does not pay his tuppence.

Are they not witty, Mistress Bowen?

And look at the frolic

this one treats himself to.

All day long weaving nets

to catch peacocks for the royal dinner.

They're all so lonely.

They're all in themselves

and by themselves.

- They pay no heed to us.

- You noticed that.

They have their world and we have ours.

Like separate dreams.

Ours is a human world.

Theirs is a bestial world.

Without reason. Without soul.

They're animals.

Some are dogs.

These I beat.

Some are pigs.

Those I let wallow in their own filth.

Some are tigers.

These I cage.

And some, like this one...

are doves.

- I've seen enough.

- But you haven't seen the other cages.

I've seen enough!

But you have no idea

how merry they can be.

How much amusement they afford.

Amusement?

From that mad girl with her staring eyes?

If I have offended you, Mistress Bowen...

Thank you, sir.

My valet can plait a tress

or twirl a furbelow...

quicker than a handywoman...

but he has no knack with horses.

I was glad to do thee this little service.

I saw thee strike Sims.

Thee shouldn't have done that.

Do you think I'm afraid of him?

- Do you think he could harm me?

- Thee are able enough.

It is those poor ones in there

I'm thinking of.

Sims will make them suffer for that blow.

Are we lovers

that you "thee" and "thou" me?

- I've never seen your face before.

- He's a Quaker, Mistress Bowen.

My name is William Hannay.

I am one of the Society of Friends.

I've heard of them.

They turn the other cheek.

There is more to being a Quaker

than turning the other cheek...

and saying "thee" and "thou."

It is feeling pity for those in there.

As thee did.

Do you think I struck him

because I felt pity for the loonies?

- I saw it in thy face.

- Pity?

I had no such feeling, sir.

I struck the man because I wanted to.

Because he is an ugly thing

in a pretty world.

There are many ugly things

in this pretty world...

if thee would but see them.

Master Quaker,

I did not always wear velvet.

I had guessed that.

But where there is one like thee...

to wrest comfort from a hard world

with wit and cleverness...

there are 10,000 who cannot.

I have no pity for them.

Let them do as I did.

But those in there,

can they help themselves?

And I have no pity for them, either.

Animals without souls.

That is not thy thought.

Is it not?

Come a week hence to Vauxhall

in the evening...

and you will see me laughing

at these same loonies that you think I pity.

Thee will not laugh

at the poor and the afflicted. Not thee.

I've seen great ladies

and their hearts were like stone.

- But thee...

- My heart is a flint, sir.

It may strike sparks,

but they are not warm enough to burn.

I have no time to make a show

of loving kindness before my fellow men.

Not in this life.

I've too much laughing to do.

Flanked by lunacy...

and speaking with the voice of youth,

our golden age of Reason...

will tell you of its brightest adornment...

Lord Mortimer.

Come, Reason, you've wit enough

to say a word or two.

What say you to this, Wilkes...

a mad boy playing Reason?

That's a Tory joke for you.

And only the Tories will laugh at it.

The opposition wonders what the effect

may be on that poor sick boy.

The Tories care only for the jest...

but we Whigs have some concern

for the humanities.

Do you hear that, Nell?

Give them a jest

and they answer with a political tirade.

He said something about the boy.

- The effect.

- Go ask him.

He'll make you a speech on the matter.

"To this pretty world. Pretty world.

"To this pretty world...

"there came...

"Came...

"heaven sent...

"divinely inspired..."

Good. The great voice of Reason.

"The...

"blessing...

"Blessing of...

"Of our age..."

Come on. I spent all morning

beating it into your head.

You see, milord...

Reason is overcome with emotion

when it must speak of you.

Prod him on, Sims.

Go on. A few more of those golden words

I taught you, lad.

Somewhere I heard that the human body

must breathe through its pores.

If you shut those pores...

"A man...

"set...

"like a jewel..."

Another word, good, gentle Reason.

"This...

"prince of men.

"This...

"paragon...

"Lord...

"Lord...

"Mortimer."

Duck him in the river.

A bit of canvas, a handful of coarse sand

would get the gilt off.

Master Sims, isn't that

harsh treatment for a sick lad?

They have to get the gilt off,

if he is to be well again.

So you know that.

Know what, Mistress Bowen?

You know that anyone painted over

as thick as that poor lad will die.

If I understand you properly...

this boy is dying...

This boy is dead because

his pores are clogged by the gilt.

Then, sweet Mistress Bowen...

since you are such a stickler

for the correct definition...

you will grant me the legal fact

that this boy died by his own exhalations.

You might say he poisoned himself.

Milord, have we not had enough of this?

Enough of that boring, dull man

and his cruelty.

But we're all laughing, Nell.

- I am not laughing, milord.

- He shall make you laugh.

Spare me that.

- But, Nell.

- A boy died tonight.

A boy who had no mind

to guide his thoughts or deeds.

Maybe there'll be some concern about that

among the Whigs.

Certainly none among the Tories.

You'll find they're laughing, too.

Liberty. That is a great word

you Whigs found somewhere.

But, just the same...

you'll end either with the pox

or on the gallows.

That, milord, depends on

whether I embrace your sweetheart...

or your politics.

Here is Alfrieda, Queen of the Artichokes.

She will sing for you.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen

Here's to the widow of fifty

Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen

And here's to the housewife who's thrifty

Master Hannay.

This is a strange place to see thee,

Mistress Bowen.

A little dull, perhaps.

But a good enough place

to ask the questions I want to ask.

So far I have found thee more ready

with answers than with questions.

Don't worry,

my questions are pert enough.

First, do you think me

a woman of kind heart?

- I have told thee so.

- Why?

I saw thy face at Bedlam.

It had kindness and compassion.

I have never seen that in my mirror.

But let's say I grant the fact.

Let's say I saw things

that moved me to pity.

What then, Master Quaker?

Perhaps God sent thee here

that thee might find guidance.

- From you?

- I have not said so.

Well, from whom, then?

Perhaps he sent thee here

so we might speak together.

I have seen things tonight

I have no liking for.

My friends laughing at sorry idiots

brought out from Bedlam to amuse them.

- A poor boy.

- Thee need not tell me.

It's a bad time for the poor,

and the people suffer...

the ones with wit and the ones without.

And if you feel sorry for them?

- What do you do about all this?

- I do what I can.

I am a stonemason.

- How does that help people?

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