Chapter 7: A Mad Tea Party

ACT I

A table set out under a tree. A house.

Evening.

The Hatter, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his hat. He pulls at it with both hands, panting.
He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again.
As before.
Enter March Hare.
THE HATTER:
(giving up again). Nothing to be done.
MARCH HARE:
(advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying March Hare, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to The Hatter.) So there you are again.
THE HATTER:
Am I?
MARCH HARE:
I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.
THE HATTER:
Me too.
MARCH HARE:
Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get up till I embrace you.
THE HATTER:
(irritably). Not now, not now.
MARCH HARE:
(hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?
THE HATTER:
In a ditch.
MARCH HARE:
(admiringly). A ditch! Where?
THE HATTER:
(without gesture). Over there.

MARCH HARE:
And they didn’t beat you?
THE HATTER:
Beat me? Certainly they beat me.
MARCH HARE:
The same lot as usual?
THE HATTER:
The same? I don’t know.
MARCH HARE:
When I think of it . . . all these years . . . but for me . . . where would you be . . . (Decisively.) You’d be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.
THE HATTER:
And what of it?
MARCH HARE:
(gloomily). It’s too much for one hare. (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand what’s the good of losing heart now, that’s what I say. We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.
THE HATTER:
Ah stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing.
MARCH HARE:
Hand in hand from the top of the Eiffel Tower, among the first. We were respectable in those days. Now it’s too late. They wouldn’t even let us up. (The Hatter tears at his hat.) What are you doing?
THE HATTER:
Taking off my hat. Did that never happen to you?
MARCH HARE:
Hats must be taken off every day, I’m tired telling you that. Why don’t you listen to me?
THE HATTER:
(feebly). Help me!
MARCH HARE:
It hurts?
THE HATTER:
(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
MARCH HARE:
(angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don’t count. I’d like to hear what you’d say if you had what I have.
THE HATTER:
It hurts?
MARCH HARE:
(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!
THE HATTER:
(pointing). You might button it all the same.
MARCH HARE:
(stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.
THE HATTER:
What do you expect, you always wait till the last moment.
MARCH HARE:
(musingly). The last moment . . . (He meditates.) Hope deferred maketh the something sick, who said that?
THE HATTER:
Why don’t you help me?

MARCH HARE:
Sometimes I feel it coming all the same. Then I go all queer. (He takes off his hat, peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, puts it on again.) How shall I say? Relieved and at the same time . . . (he searches for the word) . . . appalled. (With emphasis.) AP-PALLED. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it.) Funny. (He knocks on the crown as though to dislodge a foreign body, peers into it again, puts it on again.) Nothing to be done. (The Hatter with a supreme effort succeeds in pulling off his hat. He peers inside it, feels about inside it, turns it upside down, shakes it, looks on the ground to see if anything has fallen out, finds nothing, feels inside it again, staring sightlessly before him.) Well?
THE HATTER:
Nothing.
MARCH HARE:
Show me.
THE HATTER:
There’s nothing to show.
MARCH HARE:
Try and put it on again.
THE HATTER:
(examining his head). I’ll air it for a bit.
MARCH HARE:
There’s man all over for you, blaming on his hats the faults of his head. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the crown, blows into it, puts it on again.) This is getting alarming. (Silence. March Hare deep in thought, The Hatter pulling at his nose.) One of the thieves was saved. (Pause.) It’s a reasonable percentage. (Pause.) Gogo.
THE HATTER:
What?
MARCH HARE:
Suppose we repented.
THE HATTER:
Repented what?
MARCH HARE:
Oh . . . (He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details.
THE HATTER:
Our being born?
March Hare breaks into a hearty laugh which he immediately stifles, his hand pressed to his pubis, his face contorted.
MARCH HARE:
One daren’t even laugh any more.
THE HATTER:
Dreadful privation.
MARCH HARE:
Merely smile. (He smiles suddenly from ear to ear, keeps smiling, ceases as suddenly.) It’s not the same thing. Nothing to be done. (Pause.) Gogo.
THE HATTER:
(irritably). What is it?
MARCH HARE:
Did you ever read the Bible?
THE HATTER:
The Bible . . . (He reflects.) I must have taken a look at it.
MARCH HARE:
Do you remember the Gospels?
THE HATTER:
I remember the maps of the Holy Land. Coloured they were. Very pretty. The Dead Sea was pale blue. The very look of it made me thirsty. That’s where we’ll go, I used to say, that’s where we’ll go for our honeymoon. We’ll swim. We’ll be happy.
MARCH HARE:
You should have been a poet.
THE HATTER:
I was. (Gesture towards his rags.) Isn’t that obvious?
Silence.
MARCH HARE:
Where was I . . . How’s your head?
THE HATTER:
Swelling visibly.
MARCH HARE:
Ah yes, the two thieves. Do you remember the story?
THE HATTER:
No.
MARCH HARE:
Shall I tell it to you?
THE HATTER:
No.
MARCH HARE:
It’ll pass the time. (Pause.) Two thieves, crucified at the same time as our Saviour. One—
THE HATTER:
Our what?
MARCH HARE:
Our Saviour. Two thieves. One is supposed to have been saved and the other . . . (he searches for the contrary of saved) . . . damned.
THE HATTER:
Saved from what?
MARCH HARE:
Hell.
THE HATTER:
I’m going.
He does not move.
MARCH HARE:
And yet . . . (pause) . . . how is it –this is not boring you I hope– how is it that of the four Evangelists only one speaks of a thief being saved. The four of them were there –or thereabouts– and only one speaks of a thief being saved. (Pause.) Come on, Gogo, return the ball, can’t you, once in a way?
THE HATTER:
(with exaggerated enthusiasm). I find this really most extraordinarily interesting.
MARCH HARE:
One out of four. Of the other three, two don’t mention any thieves at all and the third says that both of them abused him.
THE HATTER:
Who?
MARCH HARE:
What?
THE HATTER:
What’s all this about? Abused who?
MARCH HARE:
The Saviour.
THE HATTER:
Why?
MARCH HARE:
Because he wouldn’t save them.
THE HATTER:
From hell?
MARCH HARE:
Imbecile! From death.
THE HATTER:
I thought you said hell.
MARCH HARE:
From death, from death.
THE HATTER:
Well what of it?
MARCH HARE:
Then the two of them must have been damned.
THE HATTER:
And why not?
MARCH HARE:
But one of the four says that one of the two was saved.
THE HATTER:
Well? They don’t agree and that’s all there is to it.
MARCH HARE:
But all four were there. And only one speaks of a thief being saved. Why believe him rather than the others?
THE HATTER:
Who believes him?
MARCH HARE:
Everybody. It’s the only version they know.
THE HATTER:
People are bloody ignorant apes.
He rises painfully, goes limping to extreme left, halts, gazes into distance off with his hand screening his eyes, turns, goes to extreme right, gazes into distance. March Hare watches him, then goes and picks up the hat, peers into it, drops it hastily.
MARCH HARE:
Pah!
He spits. The Hatter moves to center, halts with his back to auditorium.
THE HATTER:
Charming spot. (He turns, advances to front, halts facing auditorium.) Inspiring prospects. (He turns to March Hare.) Let’s go.
MARCH HARE:
We can’t.
THE HATTER:
Why not?
MARCH HARE:
We’re waiting for Alice.
THE HATTER:
(despairingly). Ah! (Pause.) You’re sure it was here?
MARCH HARE:
What?
THE HATTER:
That we were to wait.
MARCH HARE:
She said by the tree. (They look at the tree.) Do you see any others?
THE HATTER:
What is it?
MARCH HARE:
I don’t know. A willow.
THE HATTER:
Where are the leaves?
MARCH HARE:

It must be dead.

THE HATTER:
No more weeping.
MARCH HARE:
Or perhaps it’s not the season.
THE HATTER:
Looks to me more like a bush.
MARCH HARE:
A shrub.
THE HATTER:
A bush.
MARCH HARE:
A—. What are you insinuating? That we’ve come to the wrong place?
THE HATTER:
She should be here.
MARCH HARE:
She didn’t say for sure she’d come.
THE HATTER:
And if she doesn’t come?
MARCH HARE:
We’ll come back tomorrow.
THE HATTER:
And then the day after tomorrow.
MARCH HARE:
Possibly.
THE HATTER:
And so on.
MARCH HARE:
The point is—
THE HATTER:
Until she comes.
MARCH HARE:
You’re merciless.
THE HATTER:
We came here yesterday.
MARCH HARE:
Ah no, there you’re mistaken.
THE HATTER:
What did we do yesterday?
MARCH HARE:
What did we do yesterday?
THE HATTER:
Yes.
MARCH HARE:
Why . . . (Angrily.) Nothing is certain when you’re about.
THE HATTER:
In my opinion we were here.
MARCH HARE:
(looking round). You recognize the place?
THE HATTER:
I didn’t say that.
MARCH HARE:
Well?
THE HATTER:
That makes no difference.
MARCH HARE:
All the same . . . that tree . . . (turning towards auditorium) that bog . . .
THE HATTER:
You’re sure it was this evening?
MARCH HARE:
What?
THE HATTER:
That we were to wait.
MARCH HARE:
She said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.
THE HATTER:
You think.
MARCH HARE:
I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.)
THE HATTER:
(very insidious). But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday?
MARCH HARE:
(looking wildly about him, as though the date was inscribed in the landscape). It’s not possible!
THE HATTER:
Or Thursday?
MARCH HARE:
What’ll we do?
THE HATTER:
If he came yesterday and we weren’t here you may be sure he won’t come again today.
MARCH HARE:
But you say we were here yesterday.
THE HATTER:
I may be mistaken. (Pause.) Let’s stop talking for a minute, do you mind?
MARCH HARE:
(feebly). All right. (The Hatter sits down on the mound. March Hare paces agitatedly to and fro, halting from time to time to gaze into distance off. The Hatter falls asleep. March Hare halts finally before The Hatter.) Gogo! . . . Gogo! . . . GOGO!
The Hatter wakes with a start.
THE HATTER:
(restored to the horror of his situation). I was asleep! (Despairingly.) Why will you never let me sleep?
MARCH HARE:
I felt lonely.
THE HATTER:
I had a dream.
MARCH HARE:
Don’t tell me!
THE HATTER:
I dreamt that—
MARCH HARE:
DON’T TELL ME!
THE HATTER:
(gesture toward the universe). This one is enough for you? (Silence.) It’s not nice of you, Didi. Who am I to tell my private nightmares to if I can’t tell them to you?
MARCH HARE:
Let them remain private. You know I can’t bear that.
THE HATTER:
(coldly.) There are times when I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for us to part.
MARCH HARE:
You wouldn’t go far.
THE HATTER:
That would be too bad, really too bad. (Pause.) Wouldn’t it, Didi, be really too bad? (Pause.) When you think of the beauty of the way. (Pause.) And the goodness of the wayfarers. (Pause. Wheedling.) Wouldn’t it, Didi?
MARCH HARE:
Calm yourself.
THE HATTER:
(voluptuously.) Calm . . . calm . . . The English say cawm. (Pause.) You know the story of the Englishman in the brothel?
MARCH HARE:
Yes.
THE HATTER:
Tell it to me.
MARCH HARE:
Ah stop it!
THE HATTER:
An Englishman having drunk a little more than usual proceeds to a brothel. The bawd asks him if he wants a fair one, a dark one or a red-haired one. Go on.
MARCH HARE:
STOP IT!
Exit March Hare hurriedly. The Hatter gets up and follows him as far as the limit of the stage. Gestures of The Hatter like those of a spectator encouraging a pugilist. Enter March Hare. He brushes past The Hatter, crosses the stage with bowed head. The Hatter takes a step towards him, halts.
THE HATTER:
(gently.) You wanted to speak to me? (Silence. The Hatter takes a step forward.) You had something to say to me? (Silence. Another step forward.) Didi . . .
MARCH HARE:
(without turning). I’ve nothing to say to you.
THE HATTER:
(step forward). You’re angry? (Silence. Step forward). Forgive me. (Silence. Step forward. The Hatter lays his hand on March Hare’s shoulder.) Come, Didi. (Silence.) Give me your hand. (March Hare half turns.) Embrace me! (March Hare stiffens.) Don’t be stubborn! (March Hare softens. They embrace.
The Hatter recoils.) You stink of garlic!
MARCH HARE:
It’s for the kidneys. (Silence. The Hatter looks attentively at the tree.) What do we do now?
THE HATTER:
Wait.
MARCH HARE:
Yes, but while waiting.
THE HATTER:
What about hanging ourselves?
MARCH HARE:
Hmm. It’d give us an erection.
THE HATTER:
(highly excited). An erection!
MARCH HARE:
With all that follows. Where it falls mandrakes grow. That’s why they shriek when you pull them up. Did you not know that?
THE HATTER:
Let’s hang ourselves immediately!
MARCH HARE:
From a bough? (They go towards the tree.) I wouldn’t trust it.
THE HATTER:
We can always try.
MARCH HARE:
Go ahead.
THE HATTER:
After you.
MARCH HARE:
No no, you first.
THE HATTER:
Why me?
MARCH HARE:
You’re lighter than I am.
THE HATTER:
Just so!
MARCH HARE:
I don’t understand.
THE HATTER:
Use your intelligence, can’t you?
March Hare uses his intelligence.
MARCH HARE:
(finally). I remain in the dark.
THE HATTER:
This is how it is. (He reflects.) The bough . . . the bough . . . (Angrily.) Use your head, can’t you?
MARCH HARE:
You’re my only hope.
THE HATTER:
(with effort). Gogo light—bough not break—Gogo dead. Didi heavy—bough break—Didi alone. Whereas—
MARCH HARE:
I hadn’t thought of that.
THE HATTER:
If it hangs you it’ll hang anything.
MARCH HARE:
But am I heavier than you?
THE HATTER:
So you tell me. I don’t know. There’s an even chance. Or nearly.
MARCH HARE:
Well? What do we do?
THE HATTER:
Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer.
MARCH HARE:
Let’s wait and see what she says.
THE HATTER:
Who?
MARCH HARE:
Alice.
THE HATTER:
Good idea.
MARCH HARE:
Let’s wait till we know exactly how we stand.
THE HATTER:
On the other hand it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes.
MARCH HARE:
I’m curious to hear what she has to offer. Then we’ll take it or leave it.
THE HATTER:
What exactly did we ask her for?
MARCH HARE:
Were you not there?
THE HATTER:
I can’t have been listening.
MARCH HARE:
Oh . . . Nothing very definite.
THE HATTER:
A kind of prayer.
MARCH HARE:
Precisely.
THE HATTER:
A vague supplication.
MARCH HARE:
Exactly.
THE HATTER:
And what did she reply?
MARCH HARE:
That she’d see.
THE HATTER:
That she couldn’t promise anything.
MARCH HARE:
That she’d have to think it over.
THE HATTER:
In the quiet of her home.
MARCH HARE:
Consult her family.
THE HATTER:
her friends.
MARCH HARE:
Her agents.
THE HATTER:
Her correspondents.
MARCH HARE:
Her books.
THE HATTER:
Her bank account.
MARCH HARE:
Before taking a decision.
THE HATTER:
It’s the normal thing.
MARCH HARE:
Is it not?
THE HATTER:
I think it is.
MARCH HARE:
I think so too.
Silence.
THE HATTER:
(anxious). And we?
MARCH HARE:
I beg your pardon?
THE HATTER:
I said, And we?
MARCH HARE:
I don’t understand.
THE HATTER:
Where do we come in?
MARCH HARE:
Come in?
THE HATTER:
Take your time.
MARCH HARE:
Come in? On our hands and knees.
THE HATTER:
As bad as that?
MARCH HARE:
Your Worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?
THE HATTER:
We’ve no rights any more?
Laugh of March Hare, stifled as before, less the smile.
MARCH HARE:
You’d make me laugh if it wasn’t prohibited.
THE HATTER:
We’ve lost our rights?
MARCH HARE:
(distinctly). We got rid of them.
Silence. They remain motionless, arms dangling, heads sunk, sagging at the knees.
THE HATTER:
(feebly). We’re not tied? (Pause.) We’re not—
MARCH HARE:
Listen!
THE HATTER:
I hear nothing.
MARCH HARE:
Hsst! (They listen. The Hatter loses his balance, almost falls. He clutches the arm of March Hare, who totters. They listen, huddled together.) Nor I.
Sighs of relief. They relax and separate.
THE HATTER:
You gave me a fright.
MARCH HARE:
I thought it was she.
THE HATTER:
Who?
MARCH HARE:
Alice.
THE HATTER:
Pah! The wind in the reeds.
MARCH HARE:
I could have sworn I heard shouts.
THE HATTER:
And why would she shout?
MARCH HARE:
At her horse.
Silence.
THE HATTER:
(violently). I’m hungry!
MARCH HARE:
Do you want a carrot?
THE HATTER:
Is that all there is?
MARCH HARE:
I might have some butter.
THE HATTER:
Give me a carrot. (March Hare rummages in his pockets, takes out the butter and gives it to The Hatter who takes a bite out of it. Angrily.) It’s the best butter!
MARCH HARE:
Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a carrot. (He rummages again in his pockets, finds nothing but butter.) All that’s butter. (He rummages.) You must have eaten the last. (He rummages.) Wait, I have it. (He brings out a carrot and gives it to The Hatter.) There, dear fellow.
(The Hatter wipes the carrot on his sleeve and begins to eat it.) Make it last, that’s the end of them.
THE HATTER:
(chewing). I asked you a question.
MARCH HARE:
Ah.
THE HATTER:
Did you reply?
MARCH HARE:
How’s the carrot?
THE HATTER:
It’s a carrot.
MARCH HARE:
So much the better, so much the better. (Pause.) What was it you wanted to know?
THE HATTER:
I’ve forgotten. (Chews.) That’s what annoys me. (He looks at the carrot appreciatively, dangles it between finger and thumb.) I’ll never forget this carrot. (He sucks the end of it meditatively.) Ah yes, now I remember.
MARCH HARE:
Well?
THE HATTER:
(his mouth full, vacuously). We’re not tied?
MARCH HARE:
I don’t hear a word you’re saying.
THE HATTER:
(chews, swallows). I’m asking you if we’re tied.
MARCH HARE:
Tied?
THE HATTER:
Ti-ed.
MARCH HARE:
How do you mean tied?
THE HATTER:
Down.
MARCH HARE:
But to whom? By whom?
THE HATTER:
To your girl.
MARCH HARE:
To Alice? Tied to Alice! What an idea! No question of it. (Pause.) For the moment.
THE HATTER:
Her name is Alice?
MARCH HARE:
I think so.
THE HATTER:
Fancy that. (He raises what remains of the carrot by the stub of leaf, twirls it before his eyes.) Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.
MARCH HARE:
With me it’s just the opposite.
THE HATTER:
In other words?
MARCH HARE:
I get used to the muck as I go along.
THE HATTER:
(after prolonged reflection). Is that the opposite?
MARCH HARE:
Question of temperament.
THE HATTER:
Of character.
MARCH HARE:
Nothing you can do about it.
THE HATTER:
No use struggling.
MARCH HARE:
One is what one is.
THE HATTER:
No use wriggling.
MARCH HARE:
The essential doesn’t change.
THE HATTER:
Nothing to be done. (He proffers the remains of the carrot to March Hare.) Like to finish it?
A terrible cry, close at hand. The Hatter drops the carrot. They remain motionless, then together make a sudden rush towards the wings. The Hatter stops halfway, runs back, picks up the carrot, stuffs it in his pocket, runs to rejoin March Hare who is waiting for him, stops again, runs back, picks up his hat, runs to rejoin March Hare. Huddled together, shoulders hunched, cringing away from the menace, they wait.

Lewis Carroll, Balbus, Dares, Edgar Cuthwellis, Edgar U. C. Westhill, Mad Mathesis, Mr. De Ciel, R. W. G., Carolus Ludovicus …