LANG:
Ladies and gentlemen. (He pauses for effect). My name is Willard Lang and it is my pleasure to welcome you (another dramatic pause) to the Swann symposium.
DRUNKEN VOICE:
Hear, Hear.
SOBER VOICE:
Shhhh.
LANG:
I would like to extend a special welcome from the Steering Committee, which has worked long and hard to make this symposium possible, and to remind you that tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, we will be assembling in —
He is suddenly interrupted. The room is thrown into darkness. There is a great deal of evident confusion, and overlapping voices can be heard.
… the lights —
… power cut or, ahem, else —
… someone find the bloody switch …
Ladies and gentlemen —
Good heavens!
My God, talk about chaos —
… sure that if we remain calm the power will be restored.
Christ!
… so if you will be patient, ladies and gentlemen.
Ouch, that’s my foot.
Sorry, I didn’t mean —
If you think this is a nightmare, remember —
Someone in the crowd strikes a match; someone else
lights a lighter. Gradually the matches and lighters go on around the room, revealing the assembled faces, buoyant only a moment ago, now ghostly with shadow and looking surprisingly frail, a look of having been caught doing something foolish. Very slowly the hubbub begins to build again; there is even some laughter, thought it is nervous laughter, ignited perhaps by drink. An instant later the overhead lights go on, blinding, brighter than before, so that people are caught off guard, dazed.
… at last. I just about —
About time —
… talk about timing, I mean he just —
… miniature theatre of the absurd —
… major power cut, wouldn’t be at all surprised —
… Mary Swann putting in an appearance —
Ha!
… as I was saying, ahem, Swann is a kind of symbolic orphan who voices the —
… wouldn’t you think a hotel like this would have an emergency power source, or else —
Remember that time at the St. Thomas in New York —
My briefcase!
It was right here.
… Oedipal darkness as symbol of, but only a symbol, let me say —
… is going to publish those love poems. You know, the ones he found under the kitchen floor—the linoleum, actually.
It was a black leather briefcase, the standard size and shape— … let’s hope that tomorrow will —
It was sitting right here by this table leg before the lights went out, and —
CAMERA
close up: Jimroy is talking heatedly to two or three waiters. As a crowd begins to gather around him,
CAMERA
slowly withdraws, rising to overhead position once again. We see the cluster of people around Jimroy increase, and over the murmuring crowd his voice rings out with extreme clarity.
JIMROY:
My briefcase! All my notes for the symposium, my talk, the program, everything! I had them in my briefcase. My papers. And a fountain pen, a very valuable fountain pen. It was right here! Someone must have picked up—yes, of course, I’m sure. How could I possibly not know where my own briefcase was? It was right here beside me, you idiot, right here.
Jimroy has started to shout; his face, so smooth and amiable before, has grown red and has a furious boiled look; he is mortally offended, embarrassed, and angry; clearly he sees the blackout and the loss of his briefcase as damaging to his dignity. The
CAMERA
focuses on the image of his angry face and freezes.
Fade to: Interior of a meeting room. The next morning.
The frozen image of Jimroy’s face slowly dissolves into Willard Lang’s face, which is genial, smiling, perhaps a little ingratiating. He is eager, despite the catastrophe of the night before, to launch the symposium on the right note. People attending are seated in rows on folding chairs. Some of them have pens in hand, ready to take notes; others sit with books or papers on their laps; many are in conversation with one another. Lang is at the front of the room, standing at a small lectern equipped with a microphone. He clears his throat, but the buzz in the room persists.
LANG:
Ladies and gentlemen, assembled scholars. (The voices die.) Good morning. Once again I welcome you to the first, but let us hope not the last, Mary Swann symposium. And let us also hope—(the microphone gives a jarring electronic squawk)—that the electricity will not fail us as it did last night. (Another squawk.)
MAN WITH OUTSIZE AFRO:
Hear, hear.
LANG
(slightly annoyed): Just two items before I introduce our keynote speaker. I wish to draw your attention to a display that has been set up in the corridor. Some off-prints of recent articles have been assembled, and also, you will be happy to hear, a photograph of Mary Swann, which has been brought along by Miss Rose Hindmarch of Nadeau. Ah, is Miss Hindmarch with us this morning? (There is a brief stir: people turn their heads looking for Rose, who is seated in the last row.) Ah! Perhaps Miss Hindmarch would be good enough to stand and be recognized.
Rose, enormously embarrassed, rises slowly, her shy smile showing pleasure, awkwardness, confusion. She manages a gawky nod, a slight shake of her newly permed head, then sits down again to scattered, somewhat indifferent applause.
LANG:
Thank you, thank you. And now for item two. A personal plea, if I may, concerning our mini-disaster (laughs dismissively) yesterday evening. If anyone should find himself, or herself, with an extra briefcase, black leather, initials M.J. on the clasp, Mr. Jimroy would appreciate its speedy return. And now, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Swannians, if I may address you in such a manner, it is my great pleasure to introduce our
speaker. Not that Morton Jimroy, holder of two honorary degrees needs a—yes?
CAMERA
picks up Jimroy sitting in a chair a little apart from the others. He is somewhat tense, a little strained. Almost bashfully apologetic, he lifts his arms in a shrug; he is holding up three fingers.
LANG
(comprehending): Ah, excuse me, Morton.
Three
honorary degrees, of course! The most recent from Princeton University, I believe. Everyone in this room is familiar, I am sure, with Morton Jimroy’s esteemed biography of Ezra Pound,
A Perverse Pilgrimage
, and his equally fine biography of the American poet John Starman, entitled
Verse, Voice and Vision
… (he becomes distracted). Yes? (He catches Jimroy’s eyes once again.) Yes, Mr. Jimroy?
JIMROY
(quietly, shyly, half-bobbing from his chair): That’s
Voice, Vision and Verse
, just a small correction. Sorry.
LANG
(in tones of pompous injury): I stand corrected.
Voice, Vision and Verse. As
I was saying, Ezra Pound! John Starman! Giants of our literature. And now the question might be put—what is it about the obscure Canadian poet, because we must face the fact, ladies and gentlemen, that the seminal work of Mary Swann is not as widely known as it deserves—what is it about this woman, this writer, that attracted the attention of the world-famous biographer of Ezra Starman and John—(A murmur from the audience tells him he has stumbled again, and he quickly corrects himself.) Ezra Pound and John Starman. A little early in the morning, I’m afraid. What was it that drew—but perhaps it would be best if I let our honoured guest tell
you himself, (He gestures broadly). Mr. Morton Jimroy!
Jimroy rises and allows the applause to die as he stands at the lectern. He adjure his papers, loosens his tie, lowers the microphone. He is a man who enjoys teasing his audience, believing it sharpens their attention. But he manages to appear more fussy than in command, and the audience responds with restlessness. At last he speaks.
JIMROY:
Ladies and gentlemen, I must first ask your indulgence. Because of last night’s mishap … my briefcase caper … I am forced today to speak from the scantiest of notes, and may be even more rambling than is my usual way. (He breathes deeply and plunges into his talk.) Why, our honoured chairman asks, have devoted my attention for the last two years to the work and person of Mary Swann, a poet some have compared to Emily Dickinson, to Stevie Smith, and also, if it is not too extreme a comparison for so early in the morning (a sour glance at Lang) to the great romantic voice of the —
His voice fades to a murmur, rising and falling with a somewhat monotonous rhythm, but the words themselves are blurred. The
CAMERA
, as he speaks, wanders to various other faces in the audience, settles for a moment on Sarah Maloney, exceptionally alert and possessed of an expectant sparkle. She wears boots, pants, and a beautiful silk shirt, and is sitting boyishly with one leg drawn up, tuned to every word. Her look is one of critical appraisal. The
CAMERA
also falls on Rose Hindmarch sitting next to Sarah. Rose touches her hair repeatedly, scratches her neck, tries to remain alert, but is distracted by the excitement of the gathering. She
looks to right and left, over her shoulder, etc. Jimroy’s voice once again fades in.
JIMROY:
… always referred to as “a Canadian poet,” but I suggest the time has come to leave off this modifier and to spring her free of the bolted confines of regionalism. Hers is an international voice, which —
Jimroy’s voice again blurs. The
CAMERA
falls on the bright, skeptical face of Frederic Cruzzi, octogenarian, dressed this morning in a grey suit with a red sweater beneath. He strokes his chin, a little bored, somewhat disapproving of the tack Jimroy is taking. An instant later his eyes begin to close; in recent days he has withdrawn more and more into his memories, a province he likens to a low, raftered attic with insufficient air.
JIMROY
(voice fading in again): … and who would happily blow Mrs. Swann’s past to ashes and make her a comely country matron cheerfully secreting bits of egg money, as well as those who want to force on her a myth she is too frail to support. She was a seer and a celebrant, and in her 125 poems, 129 when Professor Lang agrees to publish the love poems —
MAN WITH OUTSIZE AFRO:
Hear, hear.
BLUE-SPOTTED
TIE: But when, when?
JIMROY
(turning to Lang): You see, Professor Lang, how eagerly we await publication. To continue, who really was Mary Swann?
His face dissolves again. The
CAMERA
travels across the faces of those in the audience; some take notes, some listen attentively, Cruzzi dozes, Rose fidgets.
JIMROY
(again becoming audible): May I suggest further that the real reason we have come here is the wish to travel (pause) that short but difficult distance (pause) between appearance and reality. Who, given what we know, was Mary Swann? A woman. A wife. A mother. Perhaps a lover. (He eyes Lang, who looks away.) She was poor. Badly educated. A woman who travelled only a few miles from her home. She had no social security card, no medical records. Her only official papers, in fact, consisted (dramatic pause) of a library card from the Nadeau Public Library.
The
CAMERA
lights on Rose Hindmarch, who blushes appropriately and nods.
CAMERA
follows the faces in the audience; interest quickens and even Cruzzi jerks awake.
JIMROY:
It is a mystery, just as our own lives are mysteries. Just as we don’t ever really know that person sitting to our right or left. (Rose and Sarah exchange small smiles at this.) Appearance and reality.
Jimroy ends his talk with a flourish, a crisp nod to the audience. He bows stiffly, and walks back to his chair.
Director’s Note: The repetition of the phrase “appearance and reality” must be framed with silence and intensity, since it can be said to define the submerged dichotomy of the film. The applause, when it comes, must be slightly delayed so that the words (and implications) will have time to register.
lang steps to the microphone and leads the applause, gleeful as a cheerleader; after a moment he gestures Jimroy back to the lectern.
* * *
LANG:
Our guest has kindly agreed to field a few questions. We have, I believe, just ten minutes before our coffee break. Questions? (Several hands go up at once. Lang, dancing like a marionette, pleased things are running smoothly, points to Dr. Buswell near the back of the room): Syd? You have a question for Mr. Jimroy?
Syd Buswell is a man of about forty, wearing blue jeans and a tweed jacket; he speaks with a nasal, aggrieved whine, employing truncated phrases that give the impression of self-importance.
BUSWELL:
The question of influences! Very important as we all know. You mention, Professor Jimroy, that Mrs. Swann was an avid reader. A great borrower of books from the local library. Now I have
been
to the local library in Nadeau, Ontario. I have made
a point
of going there. I am sure you have as well. And I feel sure that you will agree with me that there isn’t a great deal offered by the Nadeau Public Library. Pleasant it may be, but —
Director’s Note: Another sort of director, distrustful of his or her audience, might employ a flashback at this point. Buswell, clad in a ratty leather jacket, prowling through the innocent shelves of the Nadeau library, or something along those lines.
JIMROY:
Ah yes, but —
BUSWELL:
For example. There is
no
T.S. Eliot in the Nadeau library. Just an example. Enough said? (He sits down, believing he has scored magnificently with this point.)
JIMROY
(clearing his throat): Perhaps you’re aware, Professor Buswell, that the librarian of the Nadeau Public Library,
Rose Hindmarch, is in our midst today? (
CAMERA
close-up of Rose, who looks hideously alarmed.)
BUSWELL:
I am perfectly aware that Miss Hindmarch is present. And she would no doubt agree. With me. That this particular library was in no particular position to offer much. Much substance that is. To someone like Mary Swann. Now it is all very well —