Read Online Lord Malquist & Mr. Moon: A Novel by Tom Stoppard - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Stoppard
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the Risen Christ stood there appalled.
‘It’s night,’ said the Risen Christ. ‘You could have knocked me heels over skull with a goose feather.’
Moon turned to the window and considered the view. It was not quite so effective now that the kitchen light was on but by squinting through his own reflection he finally got the perspective right. The distant hills bulked grey in their twilight.
One day all this will be yours, my son. There has always been a Moon at Petfinch and I know that you will carry on our name with honour. Ride hard and take your fences like a man. You will find Eton a new experience after Miss Blenkinshaw’s Academy but take your knocks as I did and play the game, play the game. And I want you to promise me, old fellow, that come what may you will take care of your mother.
The Risen Christ touched his arm.
‘Mr Boswell?’
‘Moon,’ said Moon. ‘Boswell is the company.’
‘Ah. And what business would it be that you’re in?’
‘Posterity,’ said Moon. ‘I’m in the posterity business.’
‘Posterity?’
‘Just a sideline. I’m a historian.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes it bloody well is right,’ said Moon curtly and walked passed the Risen Christ, who followed, and went back into the drawing-room, which was now empty.
There was a lamp on the writing desk. He turned it on and rolled back the desk-top, revealing untidy piles of paper neatly stacked, with one pile much bigger than the othersand not so neat. All the top sheets were irregularly filled with notes in small handwriting.
‘That’s a lot of stuff you’ve got there, yer honour.’
‘It’s for a book,’ Moon said. ‘It’s a book I’m writing.’
He picked up a loose sheet and read the four words on it:
THE GREEKS
The Greeks
Another sheet read:
History is the progress of Man in the World, and the beginning of history is the beginning of Man. Therefore
Moon crumpled up both sheets and threw them into the wastepaper basket. He rummaged about in a drawer until he found a small box almost full of white cards. He gave one to the Risen Christ and replaced the box and closed up the desk. The Risen Christ held the card close to his face and frowned at it.
BOSWELL INC.
If you wake up feeling witty, if
you are ready to impart your wisdom
to the world, don’t count on
word of mouth, don’t lose the credit.
Send for Our Man Boswell,
chronicler of the time, to dog
your footsteps, record your word.
Posterity assured. Copyright
respected. Publication arranged.
Two transcripts supplied.
‘I am nearly dead and no one knows
I was ever alive’
—Anon.
Ten guineas per day. Weekly terms.
‘What’s this then?’
‘What it says,’ said Moon. ‘What I’m offering is a kind of life after death. We’re in the same racket.’
‘It’s you then, is it?’
That’s my name on the back. And the address. That’s here, you see. It’s my business.’
‘Holy Mother, I owe you an apology, yer honour.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Pon my soul I thought it were a brothel.’
‘Why did you think that?’
The Risen Christ reflected.
‘Faith, I don’t know.’
Moon couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt trapped in the room, without a cue or a plausible motive for any speech or action. He moved casually towards the door, trailing a finger over pieces of furniture in an attempt to dispel the feeling of acting out a move, and escaped into the hall. He felt stranded there too. After some hesitation he went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me,’ said Moon.
‘Come in then.’
Jane and the ninth earl were sitting on the bed. She was naked to the waist and Lord Malquist was holding her right breast pressing it here and there with an air of interested detachment as though he might be trying to get a sound out of it. Jane’s dress lay flat and dead on the carpet, a peacock run over by a bus. Neither of them looked at Moon. Jane was absently playing with Lord Malquist’s
‘It’s night,’ said the Risen Christ. ‘You could have knocked me heels over skull with a goose feather.’
Moon turned to the window and considered the view. It was not quite so effective now that the kitchen light was on but by squinting through his own reflection he finally got the perspective right. The distant hills bulked grey in their twilight.
One day all this will be yours, my son. There has always been a Moon at Petfinch and I know that you will carry on our name with honour. Ride hard and take your fences like a man. You will find Eton a new experience after Miss Blenkinshaw’s Academy but take your knocks as I did and play the game, play the game. And I want you to promise me, old fellow, that come what may you will take care of your mother.
The Risen Christ touched his arm.
‘Mr Boswell?’
‘Moon,’ said Moon. ‘Boswell is the company.’
‘Ah. And what business would it be that you’re in?’
‘Posterity,’ said Moon. ‘I’m in the posterity business.’
‘Posterity?’
‘Just a sideline. I’m a historian.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes it bloody well is right,’ said Moon curtly and walked passed the Risen Christ, who followed, and went back into the drawing-room, which was now empty.
There was a lamp on the writing desk. He turned it on and rolled back the desk-top, revealing untidy piles of paper neatly stacked, with one pile much bigger than the othersand not so neat. All the top sheets were irregularly filled with notes in small handwriting.
‘That’s a lot of stuff you’ve got there, yer honour.’
‘It’s for a book,’ Moon said. ‘It’s a book I’m writing.’
He picked up a loose sheet and read the four words on it:
THE GREEKS
The Greeks
Another sheet read:
History is the progress of Man in the World, and the beginning of history is the beginning of Man. Therefore
Moon crumpled up both sheets and threw them into the wastepaper basket. He rummaged about in a drawer until he found a small box almost full of white cards. He gave one to the Risen Christ and replaced the box and closed up the desk. The Risen Christ held the card close to his face and frowned at it.
BOSWELL INC.
If you wake up feeling witty, if
you are ready to impart your wisdom
to the world, don’t count on
word of mouth, don’t lose the credit.
Send for Our Man Boswell,
chronicler of the time, to dog
your footsteps, record your word.
Posterity assured. Copyright
respected. Publication arranged.
Two transcripts supplied.
‘I am nearly dead and no one knows
I was ever alive’
—Anon.
Ten guineas per day. Weekly terms.
‘What’s this then?’
‘What it says,’ said Moon. ‘What I’m offering is a kind of life after death. We’re in the same racket.’
‘It’s you then, is it?’
That’s my name on the back. And the address. That’s here, you see. It’s my business.’
‘Holy Mother, I owe you an apology, yer honour.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Pon my soul I thought it were a brothel.’
‘Why did you think that?’
The Risen Christ reflected.
‘Faith, I don’t know.’
Moon couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt trapped in the room, without a cue or a plausible motive for any speech or action. He moved casually towards the door, trailing a finger over pieces of furniture in an attempt to dispel the feeling of acting out a move, and escaped into the hall. He felt stranded there too. After some hesitation he went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me,’ said Moon.
‘Come in then.’
Jane and the ninth earl were sitting on the bed. She was naked to the waist and Lord Malquist was holding her right breast pressing it here and there with an air of interested detachment as though he might be trying to get a sound out of it. Jane’s dress lay flat and dead on the carpet, a peacock run over by a bus. Neither of them looked at Moon. Jane was absently playing with Lord Malquist’s
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