ESTOY ENCANTADA

My re-write is based on This House is Haunted, a novel by John Boyne (2013). The original work tells the story of Eliza Caine, a Governess who, in 1867, arrives for duty at Gaudlin Hall - a grand house in Norfolk, England. She soon discovers that its previous Mistress, Santina Westerley, haunts the house. The Master of the house, James Westerley, had travelled to Madrid as a young man, where he met and married Santina - a lowly peasant girl (“She wasn’t anybody, of course. Her family had nothing” p. 136) and returned to England with his new bride. His father was less than pleased, as he had plans for James to marry the daughter of a local landowner.  It's revealed that Santina was subjected to awful cruelty as a young girl and when she subsequently has children of her own, according to the characters telling the story, she becomes “demented” (p. 139) and loses “all control of herself” (p. 139).

 I didn’t wish to make any great political or ideological challenges to the original text, I merely wanted to give voice to Santina and describe the events and the feelings that led to her unraveling. How overwhelming would it have been for her to leave her village in Spain, arrive in England and take up residency as the Lady of the Manor – all whilst trying to wrestle with the demons of her past? What drives us to madness? To murder? Hopefully I have made Santina’s actions more understandable. To me, she was obviously suffering from post-natal depression and probably post traumatic stress syndrome – conditions we are accustomed to now, but that were completely misunderstood in the nineteenth century. Edwards (2008) says that the retelling of a story from another a point of view can help to “explore the gaps and silences” in a story and that is what was foremost in my mind during my re-write. I didn’t want to displace the original text, but rather fill in the blanks from Santina’s point of view. I was also aware of the idea that a re-write must “utilise enough of its source text to make it clear which text it is re-writing” (Mann, 2013) and the idea that re-writing “can enable all of us to read the old text in a new way, by foregrounding voices and perspectives silenced or marginalised in the original” (Mann, 2013). I have used some sentences and dialogue directly from the original text in my re-write, indicated in italics. I also kept Said’s notion of ‘overlapping territories’ and  ‘intertwined histories’ in mind. Spain and England were not at ‘odds with each other’, so to speak, and equally active in New World colonisation. Although Santina found immigration to England oppresive (because of her own demons), her character wasn’t literally oppressed by England.

ESTOY ENCANTADA

(I AM HAUNTED)

When I first saw him it wasn’t so much the event of his arrival that excited me, it was more that somehow I knew his presence in the village could ultimately lead to my departure from the place I had come to hate. This could be my chance. With his pale skin and blonde hair, he stood out from the men I had known all my life like an apparition – a pale spectre amongst the dark dusty men of my village. I had lived in El Espinar all my life and it was highly unusual for visitors to make the two-day trek from Madrid unless it was to visit Padre Felipe or to ensure the collection of long overdue rents. It was my sister who first alerted me to the stranger that had arrived in the village that morning. She had appeared breathless in the garden where I was hanging out the morning’s washing on the long line strung between the boughs of the cypress trees. I was hot and thirsty from my labours and irritated by her squawking.

“Ven pronto Santina, sígueme” she said. I was in no mood to follow her. My body ached and my mind was elsewhere. Her twelve-year-old mind was fascinated with everyday occurrences that I had long lost the luxury of noticing. For me, my days consisted of keeping my head down - staying near to the cocina or the wash-house and trying desperately not to be be caught out alone. I shooed her away but she was insistent. “Un extraño blanco ha llegado”, she said, a look of sheer delight upon her face.  I had often told Isobel of my dream to be taken away from El Espinar by a stranger – that he would come for me one day and that I would leave all this behind. The washing, the dust, the chatter of los pollos, the heat, but most of all, I would leave behind my father and my Uncle. I never told her this part of course. I couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. She asked many times why I had been crying, why I seemed frightened and jumpy in the evening when Papa and Uncle Mateo were drinking in the courtyard… I told her it was nothing. Sometimes I told her I cried because I missed Mama and she would beg me to tell her stories of the woman she could barely remember. Although my desire to escape overwhelmed me most days, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind to take my place with those men. My Papa. I was broken hearted that it had come to this. Life had been so sweet when we were little - she was four years younger than me so didn’t remember, but I had so loved him when I was a little girl. I would rush to greet him when he came in, smelling of fresh sweat and earth after a long morning in the fields. Mama would be in the kitchen singing and making pan de leche for our midday feast. Nor does she remember Mama brushing out our long dark hair before bed and tucking us up in the lumpy old bed that we shared in a tiny room off the cocina. Papa burnt the bed when Mama died. He wanted to ensure that the unseen assailant that had first turned my mother’s skin flush and slick with fever, filled her lungs with fluid and finally left her cold and still, did not come for us. He burnt everything. We scrubbed every surface of the house after her funeral but could never rid the air of his grief. It was everywhere. I soon assumed the burden of the household duties but I did it willingly. The busier I was, the less time I had to miss her and the less Papa noticed me. We became ghosts to him like Mama. For three years, life in our tiny house continued this way. Papa would work, I would clean and prepare meals, Isobel grew up.  When Uncle Mateo showed up from Palencia, everything changed. We had never met Mama’s brother before and she had rarely spoken of him. As a wave of industrialisation hit the far North, the men that ploughed the fields found themselves disenfranchised and hungry. He had come looking for work. Isobel and I shrank back from him. He was wild-eyed and stank of wine and old sweat, but Papa let him stay. He was family and Papa said he needed the help. What I needed was a way out of this life, a reprieve from the fear that I felt on the nights when Mateo and Papa would drink and somehow lose themselves to El Diablo himself. I would be woken and taken from my bed by one or the other and have to turn my face away from the glazed unseeing look and the stale breath whilst they wreaked havoc on my body and especially my soul.

“Lo extraño”? I asked her, trying to keep the mixture of fear and excitement out of my voice. She told me of the young man who had ridden into the village square that morning amid the staring eyes and whispers of the women gathered there. He looked rich according to Isobel, sitting atop a fine Andalusian usually ridden by Captains or Lords. He had taken refreshments at the Taberna and asked about lodging for the night. Senora Barranco had offered him a room, and it was there that Isobel believed him to be. With a racing heart I finished pegging out the last of the sheets and hurried to the washroom to discard my basket and wipe my hands. I had to see for myself.

I was only sixteen. I was lost in the darkness of my father’s grief-soaked existence, his desires as a man skewed by the influence of Uncle Mateo. I had become nothing to him except a maid and a cook and perhaps, when he’d drunk too much, a feint reminder of my mother. I took her Sunday dress from the chest in the front room, the one remaining thread of her existence, smoothed it over my aching body, brushed my hair and made my way to the square. When I saw him, standing in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the trees, I felt as if my eyes had fallen upon Christo himself. James was my Saviour. As I write this from my filthy cell in this cold and unforgiving country, I wonder how it went so wrong.

James and I married in the village church with only Isobel and Padre Felipe in attendance. When we left El Espinar for the last time in the inky pre-dawn stillness, we took Isobel with us. We left her in Madrid with the Sisters at the Convent of Las Descalzas Reales. It broke my heart but she said she was happy. She hated the thought of England, with Her cold and austere ways. I promised her that when I was settled I would send for her and that we would see each other soon. The only thing that made my heartache bearable was the fact that I had saved her from Papa and Mateo. I could imagine Papa storming into our room the morning after we left, throwing back the covers of our bed and the roar that would have escaped his throat when he discovered that we had stealed away in the night, never to return.

I had never been away from El Espinar in my life and the sights and sounds of Madrid were overwhelming, little did I know what was to come. We travelled by coach to Barcelona and then on through the Pyrenees to France. The journey felt endless but I had such hope in my heart and the further we travelled from the men that nearly destroyed me the better. Nearly a month later we arrived at Calais and the sight of the ocean left me both terrified and exhilarated at once. As we boarded the creaking ship at the port, James told me in his limited Spanish that it was called a Packet ship. It was small and fast and he explained it was especially built for the cross-channel route. The captain and crew were expert sailors and able to take advantage of every shift of the tide and wind and the journey was only 6 hours in the end. Once ashore we were met by a “post” - a fast light carriage. The horses were changed every thirty miles and so twelve hours later we arrived in London. I had never known such cold. The street were filthy, the very air grey and damp. I started to doubt my decision to come to this unforgiving country but I had had no choice. We made our way to Liverpool Street Station where the monstrous black steam train would take us to Norfolk. I was bewildered and frightened not only by the hulking mass I was to board but also by what awaited me at Gaudlin Hall. James had told me of his mother’s death when he was a little boy – this we had in common – but also of his father’s wishes for him to marry a girl of title from a place called Ipswich – apparently her father was a landowner there. This was one of the reasons that James had embarked upon his journey to Spain – he didn’t want to be told whom he should marry. However, his father’s wishes nagged at my heart and my stomach. How would he react to the news that I was the new Senora Westerley, a Spanish peasant girl with nothing to my name except a dark and shameful secret? Not only was I without means or title, I wasn’t even English. What had we done?

Needless to say there was a great commotion, the old man said we could not marry but of course the deed had been done. I saw the old man’s shoulders visible slump and the very fight go out of him as he spied the rose gold band upon my finger. James and his father were angry at each other for a while, but once tempers abated, they reconciled.

So I settled into life at Gaudlin Hall as best I could and committed myself to learning the English ways and language. It was so strange to be cooked for, to have Mrs. Livermore do the washing and Heckling oversee the sprawling grounds. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that I would one day have servants and to be honest I’m not sure I was ever entirely comfortable with it. I did my best to make friends with people in the village and felt particularly welcomed by Mr. Raisin and his wife Charlotte and Dr. Toxley and his wife Madge. Mr. Raisin and James had been childhood friends and it was partly due to their friendship that I felt that maybe happiness was possible for me in the end. I was still haunted by the memories of my father and Uncle Mateo but tried to put them out of my mind.

I didn’t know what it was that I felt for James. I was grateful yes, but also afraid. Was I in love? I didn’t even know what that meant. I had no real understanding of what it was that a man really wanted and when James touched me I froze. A terrible gulf opened in my belly when I saw that look in his eyes. I longed for the reassuring voice of Mama – for her to explain what was expected of me. I wanted to return to the innocence of my childhood in Spain, to have her brush my hair, lift it gently in her hands and whisper to me the secrets of love and passion and what it was that I was supposed to feel. Instead, my education had been in the savage grappling of my Uncle or the sad heaving of Papa, both of which left me screaming to escape my body but also hiding deep within my own bones at the same time. It wasn’t James’ fault and I felt terrible that I couldn’t respond to him. I know that my fear put a terrible strain on our relationship therefore I was immensely relieved when I realized I was with child. I hadn’t bled for three months and my body felt heavy and tender. Surely now he would leave me alone in the dark. I was amazed that I could actually conceive after the brutality of my childhood, and vowed that this child would never know such cruelty. Whilst I was pregnant old Senor Westerley became ill and before the baby was born, he died. James was now the Lord of the Estate. I constantly fretted that he regretted his decision to marry a peasant girl  - and a foreigner at that – and wondered if he would have much preferred an English woman at his side. When my daughter was born I felt my soul cleave. I felt I had let James down by not producing a son. The ache for my mother that I had contained so well broke the banks of my heart and I fell headlong into the dark. Some days I thought I heard Mama whispering to me, telling me to keep Isobella safe. Sometimes I thought I saw the shadow of Uncle Mateo or Papa lingering in the nursery and other nights I woke in the dark to the smell of wine and sweat in my nostrils and would rush to the side of Isobella’s cuna and snatch up her warm body, if only to still the wildness of my own heart hammering in my chest. Each time I spoke my daughter’s name, I thought of my sister at the convent school in Madrid. We had written on a regular basis, I had named my daughter after her but nothing could alleviate the guilt I felt at leaving her. I made a decision to send for her but James refused. I had withdrawn into the tiny world of my daughter and James was becoming increasingly frustrated with me. He didn’t understand why I didn’t want a nanny to take care of her. I understood that it was the custom of the English upper classes but I would never let my daughter out of my sight. I had grown up without a mother to protect me and had been subjected to such horror at the hands of my father – I would never let any harm come to my daughter as long as I lived.

Sleep became a memory as I watched and worried over Isobella. The voices whispering around Gaudlin Hall became louder and more constant. My fears surrounding her safety began to consume me and I became quite detached from everything around me except my baby. I contemplated some days whether to just end my life and take Isobella with me, where we would never be parted or in danger. I could see that James was at his wits end, and after one night when he demanded what he called “his conjugal rights”, I closed my heart to him once and for all. I would never be free of Papa’s legacy. I was aghast to discover I was once again with child and sank deeper into my nightmare. James aged before my very eyes. There seemed to be no solution to the disintegration of our relationship and I let it fall away. Isobella and the baby growing inside of me were all that mattered. The following summer I gave birth to a boy and James named him Eustace – a Westerly family name. He again began to insist we hire a nanny, again I refused and for a time, he let it rest. I spent my days alone with the children and my all-consuming fears and slept now permanently in the nursery. James and I were strangers to each other - I had only the children and the whispering voices for company.

 For several years, life at Gaudlin Hall continued this way. The villagers withdrew from me, I knew they considered me a mad woman - ‘la loca”, but I didn’t care. I was utterly shocked when James confronted me to say that he believed my relationship with the children to be an unhealthy one and that they needed outside influences. He had hired a governess. Miss Tomlin arrived and assumed her duties with the children. I was devastated. James would insist that she take them into the village alone but I would secretly follow, I couldn’t bear for them to be out of my sight. I know that Mr. Raisin saw me on one or more occasions watching them from a measured distance – part of me was embarrassed but I was consumed. As I write this from my cell, I feel as if the veil has been lifted from my eyes. If only I had listened to James, seen reason, but nothing could convince me at the time. It was as if I had been taken over by an unknown force – the fear and the voices urging me on. I regret terribly what I have done, but I was convinced they were going to steal my children. The voices told me. They said that if I ever lost sight of my children, then unspeakable things would happen to them.

I have been sentenced to die today. I sit alone in my filthy cell, four solid walls shutting me off from the other prisoners but the walls do not keep out the smell. I have grown used to it though. The other women are crammed into cages; they are not murderers like me. Pickpockets, thieves, streetwalkers most of them. When Madge Toxley from the village came to see me yesterday I could hear them all screaming and pleading as she passed by. 

“It was kind of you to come”, I told her, my accent still so present although my English was near perfect now.

“I thought about it for a long time”, she told me “But I felt that I should see you, on this day of all days”.

“You always showed such kindness towards me,” I said. She broke down then, tears welled up in her eyes as she pleaded with me to tell her why I had killed Miss Tomlin and injured my husband so. She asked what had possessed me to commit such an evil act, she asked if had been possessed by the devil.

I told her that I had been convinced that James and Miss Tomlin were going to steal my children. I told her that I had sworn from the moment I knew I was carrying Isobella that I would not let anyone touch them.

“Miss Tomlin was nothing more than a governess” she protested. “A young girl. She was there to help you. To take some of the weight off your shoulders. To instruct them in their historical studies and their sums and their reading. She presented no threat to you.”

My hands clenched into fists. “You do not know of the horror that can befall a child if their mother is not there to protect them” I snarled.

“But no one wanted to hurt them” she said, “Oh Santina, no one would have hurt them for the world, James told you that”.

It didn’t matter what James had told me. Madge left in tears, she just couldn’t understand. I suffered so greatly as a girl without my Mama. There is such cruelty in the world. It breathes on us; we spend our lives trying to escape it. I came to Gaudlin Hall as a girl with nothing but the spectre of my past to my name. It was on it’s alter that I sacrificed my future. James, Madge, Mr. Raisin and Charlotte all tried to make me feel safe here but it was an impossible task. These people, however kind and well meaning couldn’t understand that I could never draw Spain from my veins.

The dusty streets of El Espinar never left my mind, the cluck cluck cluck of los pollos were forever in my ears and the terrifying nights with my father and Uncle Mateo forever in my soul. The death of my mother and the crimes of my father and Uncle have left stains on my skin that even the scouring English air couldn’t remove.

Untitled Rewrite

The ocean groaned under the heavy smoky clouds in the evening: the light of day was fading slowly at night’s reach but the smoke billowing skies had grown darker by the minute. There was a family-fuelled feast taking place in the village nearby, where many would recall as a first of any kind of celebration since the Tsunami. Only this celebration was small and quiet; rightfully so as it was between two people, and the fact that the village was now near vacant. However, nature’s visible and voiced discontentment echoed in a lone middle-aged man, a foreigner visiting the rock of the Pacific. Waves rush head on, crashing into the distraught man as he sat on the sand holding a plain gold band. He travelled alone but this time, he wasn’t. Whoever was beside him either understood his pain, his loss or stood by, to take any action at his own will. Either way, his companion would let him be. To take him in or to be taken out by the sea. Nevertheless, he didn’t leave hastily but desperately gave up his last few words to a stranger:

“Some feel loneliness is self-inflicted, but when someone very close to you leaves without an explanation, without taking a single thing then what you’re left with is not and will never be enough to live for. That’s my suffering. Not even a roof will stop the rain from pouring because I am drowning. Knowing that I would not be saved is no worse than not realising what I have done to see my wife walk away from me. By the time I find out, I am far deep gone that I cannot see through the water, through this air.”

The stranger remained silent, never left his side. His profile was firm yet unresponsive, his face never completely shown. He listened intently the entire time, but made no attempt to comfort or assist the troubled man. The unspoiled beach seemed to hold the man back from the unsettled waters though it did not take his troubles away. The dark skies appeared as though they were controlled by his mind. The clouds intensified, the darker and bigger it became as the man sunk deeper within himself. He was very much a blank state. As the night sky rose, his shadowed companion instinctively knew that it was too late.

The final duel was meant to be it. How he emerged from the water alive after a great fall in the middle of combat could not be soundly explained. He had no knowledge of what had become of his foe but while he was on his feet, reality quickly sunk in. He could not be seen nor heard. Not even by Watson. For the first time, he thought of Watson since he left him for the Englischer Hof. He felt heavy with regret, quietly admitting to himself that he missed him. His reality now had altered. For better or worse, at the moment the feeling was neither. He trusted his mind though, catching the first flight out of Geneva and flying straight for the South Pacific. The destination was unplanned but it was the hiding place he was seeking – somewhere far and isolated, unmarked or not. The plan to disappear was an insecure and temporary decision. This was not in his way of thinking or doing but considering the circumstances, he didn’t have a choice. The last contest came to no resolution: Moriarty’s whereabouts was unknown, a dejected Watson retreated back to mother England and their relationship now mired and indeterminate. There was no purpose to gain or look towards. The wall he built to safeguard the emotional disorder of his schoolboy days had weakened in the aftermath of the event, for he seemed uncertain of his next move. Contrary to the unconventional intellect he is known and seemingly born to be, he was now a shadow; coming into the detached, vulnerable existence he supposedly had under control, buried away in the machine that he always found functional and convenient. Imaginatively penning his escape, the white speckled sand felt rough and faintly sharp under his feet. The slow walk along the deserted southern coastline was breath-taking; at the same time, not a minute went by without a clear logic for the overcast that was growing within.

Sometimes walking away never solves anything. The stretched seaside began to wear Holmes down at each step. The pristine white strand pierced his eyes, as though it was cutting into his skin. He continued on sluggishly yet he managed to appear composed in his uncombed hair and unkempt clothes. Unbeknownst to Holmes, Samoa was at the peak of its dry season. This time the island was less lively and more sombre. 15 months on, the devastating Tsunami was still vivid, leaving a permanent mark on the rock. Its shadow continued to roam the island, with the southern coastal villages now almost abandoned and those remaining were left on their own. This resonated with Holmes. He was a dead man walking, as a silhouette of his frail existence rather than the highly intelligent, analytical individual he was. The place and time was coming into a period of inactivity and this did not sit well with Holmes. No other person seemed to inhabit this part of the island and without any other human life it was becoming increasingly difficult to stimulate his mental verve in a bare atmosphere. Still, Holmes had yet to grasp the actuality of what a human experience is. Compared to what the islanders had gone through in the past year, a day was not enough to determine the reality for those living on the rock. For Holmes, walking away from his home, from Watson was taking him further away from going back.

Returning to the coast was not an easy move but Ione knew in his heart that it was right. He had seen nothing like it. An empty nest it had become – not a sight he was used to seeing. Ione had lived in the inner city since he was a teenager and saw no difference in the way of life between the coast and in town since the state is built on cultural values and religion. The people held this rock together: familial and communal relations moulded the conversations, the gatherings, the laughter, the noise. Despite the enthralling tropical scenery, there was no denying that recovery would take years, possibly a lifetime. For Ione, he believed his return was the onset of realising the optimism expressed by the people. The light was dim but visible enough to see the hope in his eyes, even in the blue undercurrent. The discovery of a body of a European man rang across the island in the last 72 hours. More so partial to the bleak atmosphere, it had also attracted some attention from inland residents, assuming that the body had been recently returned with help from someone high above after he was taken away in their hands more than a year ago. Still, the shore remained desolate and former coastal villagers were afraid to revisit. Religion may be a source of faith and discipline but Ione wasn’t keen on the supposition. He knew that the huff would only diminish all the puff, given that the fear and loss was still raw. Not much was known about the dead body other than he was a tourist and had come alone with a single suitcase. It was alleged that he was last seen here on the beach and apparently, not alone. Whatever brought him to the coast on that tumultuously weathered day, he had come to the island with a cause and his last moments were now the subject of a murder or an accident. Le leoleo had not released any formal announcement on the incident nor did they seem to be in a rush to inform the public. From Ione’s standpoint, it was seemingly clear that the leoleo didn’t have much to find or work with. He spent the better part of his twenties on the frontline and his high interest and resolve in the incident was not unusual than that of a civilian. Someone else, aside from him, shared that same interest but was not exactly in for the same cause.

“The silence, I can’t say it’s deafening but there is something that I find quite engaging in the calmness of it all”, Holmes said as he approached from behind and stood less than a few metres away from Ione. Ione had not seen anyone else on the beach in the last 30 minutes or so, and assumed that nobody else would be since Manu was almost an uninhabited paradise.

Holmes glanced at him, waiting for a response. Ione did not say a thing. He looked at the stranger suspiciously.

“I think any noise would disrupt the dream that inhabits here”, Holmes added, looking out across the shoreline.

Ione half-smiled, somewhat amused by the stranger’s observation.

“If only that dream was true to begin with”, Ione replied.

Holmes shot back at him with a look. Ione then reciprocated with quiet content. Holmes quickly shook it off, before he took hold of the chains.

“The ocean is home to the living and the dead. It is a garden but it is also a cemetery. The Tsunami passed through uninvited. That was real, taking everything in its sight. What people experienced was a vision that could not be undone, forever stored in memory. If there was a question of truth, it would be why here? Why us?”

Ione was not going to dwell in those grounds, having accepted from the very beginning that it was beyond anyone’s control and for reasons that were mysterious and unexplained. Without hesitation, he took the head from his hands.

“What sort of issuance allows people like you to make such questionable calls about the truth? It happened! There’s nothing more to it!”

“Any call I make is no way influenced by or subjected to any one’s opinion”

“That, I will never take for an answer or as your word. You do not need to tell me that your insecurities are the source of your personal or intellectual interpretations.”

No response. Not a single utterance or movement. Sherlock was stiff with silence, though intent. Ione went on, “You ought to spare the talk and walk a bit more.”

“...because I need to be normal so it will be convenient for everyone to accommodate to their needs as well as mine.”

“- Because you must learn humility before you impose your opinions on any one else”.

Neither man spoke for a moment after that. Holmes had the feet but would not admit to his own truth. He managed to lead in effortlessly without showing face.

“As a former policeman, you had a hard time dealing with objectivity. The concept was unfamiliar to you. Unnatural, more so. Attachment issues, I must say”.

“Without flesh, mind and soul, we are trapped within the cages of our bones”, Ione told him calmly.

“Is that why you left?”, Holmes shot back.

“No, because the discipline wasn’t there anymore”, Ione said.

“Bones or not, your method will not help solve the murder”, Holmes said.

“How do you know it’s a murder?”

Surprisingly, Holmes could not provide an answer. For Ione, he didn’t need one. Contrary to the heat of the exchange, he sensed something significant beyond them.

“If someone has answers, it would be neither of us. For that someone, he or she is probably thankful that they are here and they are free because of what they have and what they lost. I am not the lion, you see. And you aren’t one either.”

Thank you !

Thanks to everyone for posting your Re-writes :)

An Ideal for Modern Life.

An Ideal for Modern Life

Josh Coombridge

 

Scene: Roberts’s living room.

Robert has beer spilled down his shirt and is hung-over after drinking away the stresses of the night before. Arthur is dressed in jeans and shirt, he has a job interview later that day. He is evidently distressed at Robert’s situation, though is enjoying helping his greatest friend.

Arthur: She is your wife I suppose... (pacing). Yes I definitely think you should have told her. You can keep secrets from other people, but your wife.... Firstly (clears throat), your wife is a woman- and women, wonderful as they are, have a curious knack for eventually finding these things out. I don’t think it is wise for you, for anyone, to keep secrets from a wife.

Robert: Arthur, I could not have told my wife she would have died. When could I have told her? During our holiday to Montreal? When we bought the house by the sea? Or just before her excursion to Topshop last week? She is a wonderful, beautiful, splendid best friend, but her freeness with money will be the death of me.

Arthur: She is really that great?

Robert: Yes. Her generosity and free-spiritedness is her only flaw. She is the greatest friend Arthur, The greatest friend. She thinks she is spending money on things that make me happy.

Arthur: She is fool with finance Robert and you are passing it off as being a good thing! This is why you have debt!

Robert: But one of the reasons we married was because we both didn’t want to worry about these things, and we just wanted to do things that made us happy!

 Arthur: Yes, but now that your source of income is at risk your “free-spiritedness” as you call it is becoming your downfall. You have to see the irony in that! The thing which made you so freeing is literally become a crippling, depressing, heartbreaking burden for you. The days of living for pleasure are over for both of you I’m afraid Robert. Pleasure seeking doesn’t stand up when it comes into public scrutiny. You’re a member of parliament. You need to tackle this issue from a moral high ground!

Robert: If you are suggesting talking to my wife about this I think that is quite out of the question. It is, as I say, what we based our relationship on. It was the one condition! I would surely lose her.

Arthur: Would it be all right for me to talk with her?

Robert: Yes, but I doubt it would change anything.

Arthur: Mmm. We could experiment with this. It is a possible solution. I at least look a slight bit better than you. You should have told ages ago you idiot.

Robert: When, during our dating years? When we were engaged? She would never have stayed with me. She has relentlessly talked to me about how my generosity and free-spiritedness is the making of me! Constantly she asks for money to give to this charity or that friend or to go out with me or buy her and me a trip away because we are too stressed! It’s so damn nice! Have I really dug myself a hole so deep that I cannot escape it?

Arthur: Your pleasure seeking is making you a less genuine person. It’s shameful, the situation you have gotten yourself into.

Robert: I wanted her to be happy, I was trying to protect her that is all!

Arthur: You were trying to protect yourself, Robert. Listen to me. Chevely will wreck you. She will wreck you so badly you will never be able to run for government again.

Robert: I have been married for 18 years and I have been a member of parliament for 16 of those years. Do you think that a little bit of debt outweighs the good that I have done! I mean sure, I haven’t been perfectly moral for all of the time, but we’ve always been absolutely fine, Elizabeth and I!

Arthur: Yes, but you had money.

Robert: So?

Arthur: So as they say, money is what makes the world go round. Money is power. Shall I use some more clichés?

Robert: Honestly Arthur you think that all the people who’ve seen me through thick and thin have been motivated to do so because I am rich?

Arthur: You were rich Robert. You are no longer. It isn’t all as ridiculous as your stunned face would have me believe. It didn’t matter what you did because you had money. And because you had money, you were able to buy your way out of every tough situation. Your wife bought the favour of the people by giving to charity. You bought the favour of the people when you became a fashion icon. The favour of the public was on you because you were the trendsetter, and that made you likeable. Now that your assets are in jeopardy- thanks to your friends Mrs Cheveley, your whole career is in jeopardy. This all stems from money. Or lack thereof.

Robert: I never expected something like this. What this country worships is wealth. The god of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wea-

Albert: I must interrupt you there Robert! The almighty dollar does not always equate to power. Good people are also help in high regard. Life is more than just obtaining material goods. They key, I believe, is finding balance between looking nice, having nice things, and being a legitimate, genuinely good person.

Robert: I was, I am a good person!

Albert: Yes well I think you are, but I know you well enough to look past your somewhat stupid actions in the past. I mean look at you Robert, just look. Without wealth you really are, not much. Or that’s what the public will think anyway.

Robert: Really?

Arthur: I’m afraid so.

Silence

Robert: I feel as though I am bound for public disgrace. It seems indefinite. I will be shamed and everyone will know. I have over four hundred thousand followers on twitter you know! That’s something!

Albert: No Robert. The good things you have done are something. Your twitter doesn’t matter. Neither does your wife’s magazine feature, nor your flash car, nor the fact that you have won best looking MP for the last 6 years. What matters is that your private life becomes an honest and transparent one. Do you know what integrity is?

Robert: Of course I do!

Albert: Good. I think, and I probably should have said this a long time ago, but I think that you need to show some integrity. What if you actually cared about the poor? You know? What if you actually wanted a cleaner city? All of those things that you did, or said you were going to do, were only a way to glean votes, and gain the public favour. And now you are upset that I tell you that their favour is shallow.

Robert: Yes, alright Arthur, I think you have made your point quite clear.

Arthur: Yes.

Robert: Yes. What do I do?

Arthur: Well, the English can’t stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits he has been in the wrong. You my friend, have been in the wrong. You have sucked the life out of this country like a parasite, living off another beasts blood. In this case however, I believe in the best of you. I can also see that you are distraught and remorseful. I have no wish to drag your name through mud. I believe that in your case we can make an exeception to the rule. But remember this for the future Robert, Morals will always win.

Robert: I am on the brink of a social embarrassment, as well as poverty, you do realise that Arthur?

Arthur: I think so, yes.

Robert: Good. Can you help me?

Arthur: I think that I will be able to talk to Elizabeth. I can tell her about the modern fluctuation of the stock market.... yes, you know bore her, no; scare her with business things so much so that she will never want to spend again! Yes. As for Chevely, you leave her to me too my dear friend. She is quite hideously obsessed with me. I will be able to find some leverage in that I think. We’ll have this all cleared up in no time!

Robert: The bank was so happy to give me more money. I borrowed it all against the farm I inherited from my father. Now it is the only thing I have left. A farm. That is the result of my life’s work. And even that is being snatched from me. Being blackmailed isn’t pleasant you know.

Arthur: I don’t know sorry, I’ve mostly made sure no one had anything to blackmail me with. I have nothing to hide. So one more time to get this straight. Chevely obtained a letter, from your father, saying that if you were irresponsible with the land, the crown was to seize your property, sell it, and divide the wealth between the previous shareholders of your father business. Is that all?

Robert: Yes. And court costs.

Arthur: Oh yes and court cost. And if that happens you won’t have a house, because you’ve borrowed against your late father’s property?

Robert: Yes.

Arthur: I’ll tell you what Robert it’s awfully complicated, but the challenge is a noble one. Of course, I’ll do my utmost to help you out old friend. I don’t make a point of hating very many people, but an exception could almost be made for that horrible Mrs Chevely. In the meantime Arthur, while I work my magic, you must lie low. I’ll talk to Elizabeth about her spending problem. I’ll word it in a way that doesn’t incriminate you. All things going to plan we should have Chevely silenced and your wife’s habits in check before the end of the day. Now change your shirt. But not something to extravagant. Just dress normally for once. And don’t drive anywhere; your car is too noticeable. No one likes seeing politicians driving fast cars. All right?

Enter Lady Elizabeth Chiltern

Elizabeth: Hello Arthur! My God Robert what have you done to yourself. It’s 11o’clock! Go and get some better clothes on. I actually just bought you a new shirt! Perfect! I gave it to Phipps but he might run off with it already... Phipps! (excitedly clomps of stage in robust heels)

Arthur: This could be more difficult than we first anticipated Robert.

Elizabeth: Look! Red checks! You have to wear this to the forum next week alright darling? Darling? Darling?

Robert: Yes, yes!

Elizabeth: Excuse me, don’t get snippy. Especially not in front of guests! Arthur doesn’t want to see you all grumpy with your wife now does he!

Arthur: Well, I don’t think-

Elizabeth: Now Arthur. You’ll approve of this! I was updating Roberts facebook page, and then my friend Joanne linked me to a new charity page, that helps these people build houses who can’t afford too. It’s local too so you’d be helping your own people and essentially buying votes. The owner of the charity also owns a pharmacy, so we could get cheaper make-up for yours truly! I think we should do it. Wouldn’t you agree Arthur?

Arthur: I don’t think that being generous for one’s own gain is entirely moral... if the only reason you would give to these people is so that you can buy their votes, to use your words, then I don’t think that to be very honourable at all. So no, I don’t think I do agree...

Elizabeth: Well we’re helping them aren’t we?

Arthur: Yes in a way I suppose you are. But I don’t think it is very genuine is it?

Robert: No it is not. Elizabeth, I am in full support of what Arthur is saying.

Elizabeth: Since when have you cared about that sort of thing...? And you (points at Arthur) You’re normally all about this generosity malarkey... What has the world come to? To think what my poor mother (Wandering off stage) And Robert. Change that bloody shirt!

Elizabeth exits.

Arthur: I’ve just had a brain wave. Robert. Could you get for me a list of the guests that were here last night at your members’ ball?

Robert: Absolutely.

Arthur: I’ll also need an appointment with your wife. Do you trust me?

Robert: Absolutely.

Arthur: All right I’ll call you. Don’t go anywhere! Elizabeth!

Arthur rushes off after Elizabeth leaving Robert shuffling through paper looking confused. End of scene.

Explanation:

I have chosen to re-write the beginning of the second act in the play. Robert has just been black-mailed by Mrs Chevely, who has seduced a solicitor into giving her a document from Roberts late Fathers will. This scene is where the characters deal with immense tension as they try to juggle Aesthetics and morals. Arthur is trying to help his friend Robert out of this sticky situation. Robert is the mirror of the character “Sir Robert Chiltern” from the play “An Ideal Husband”. In the play he and his wife hold “morals” in the highest regard. “Sir Robert Chiltern” however, has something in his past which was not moral and it is from this indecency that the tension arises in the play. In my re-write, Robert and his wife Elizabeth have lived their whole lives for pleasure and for their own gain. Now that concept (which was glorified in the play) has been shown for what it really is when it evolves: Consumerism.

Arthur is the equivalent of “Lord Goring” from the play. Arthur has a balance between Aesthetics and Morals. For example, he dresses nicely, but also has never had anything that he has needed to keep a secret; revealed in the line “I’ve mostly made sure no one had anything to blackmail me with.” This is a contrast to Lord Goring, who holds “aesthetics” in the highest regard. In the play it is him who convinces “Lady Chiltern” to compromise on her unwavering moral high ground; in the name of love. In this re-write, Arthur is trying to convince Robert that he must take on board some moral responsibility “What if you actually cared for the poor?” Arthur is in the process in this re-write of convincing Robert that a balance between pleasure and Morals is what conquers all.

The theme of consumerism, and living by aesthetic pleasures is epitomised by Robert and Elizabeth. They are having issues with their marriage because of debt, which is only made worse by Elizabeth’s spending habits in the name of generosity. Robert has been drinking at the beginning of this scene. I saved Elizabeth for the end of the scene so that she could re-emphasise the aesthetics ideas of living for pleasure. Everything she says is done out of a self motivation. She is an over dramatised character, to emphasise the post-colonial theme of aestheticism and the way that it quickly turns into a negative form of consumerism. This is why I set the play in the modern age, so I could use provocative examples from the internet, such as social media, to emphasise this.

The post-colonial theme from “An Ideal Husband” is that “morals” were a huge part of society. Wilde critiques this concept with his play through the character of Lord Goring, who is a dandy, obsessed with aesthetics and pleasure. My re-write further critiques Wilde’s ideas of “aesthetics” being the ideal. In this re-write, I present the idea that the ideal is to have a combination of the two, and that is why Arthur has the quality traits of both ends of the moral-aesthetic scale. I introduced Robert and furthermore Elizabeth, as examples of what modern aesthetics taken to the extreme are. They represent consumerist society, swamped in debt but still spending up large to save face or to look good or to have fun.