The Spinster Scribe

By Mette Winge

The action takes place in a room with two windows; the windows are located stage right. In the middle of the room an 18th-century wing-back chair stands next to a small table with writing materials and piles of paper. Up against the back wall there is a bureau. Papers, books etc are spread in disarray on the open flap. The room looks messy and shabby, but aesthetically designed. The spinster is standing by the window with her back to the room. She leans her forehead against the pane. She coughs. Then she turns round, grasping her stomach. She is obviously ill. She is wearing a shabby dressing gown, her hair is thin and grey, carelessly drawn together in the nape of her neck. Her nightshift is sticking out from under her dressing gown. It does not look too clean. She supports herself on the furniture as she walks across to sink into the chair.

The Spinster:

Not today either... nor yesterday ... nor last week ... nor.

    (She coughs violently)

Oh shut up, be silent ... Is it not enough that the fish is lurking and grumbling down there.

    (she clutches at her abdomen)

Yes, I know what you look like. Black and bald with long yellow teeth. Your teeth are the worst, because they tear and tug. And when you are not tearing and tugging, you just stay there, lurking. Like a pike under a river bank. One day you´ll manage to bite your way through ... But I have lived with you for a long time now. I have followed you since you were quite small, nothing more than a twinge. Then you turned into a painful spasm, coming in and swimming away. And now you have grown big, you are my only child. A fish with long pointed teeth. But him now -

    (she beats her breast)

He is new. I hate him, the Reverend Mr Cough, M le Toux. Be silent, will you.

    (She coughs at length)

Pitch black darkness, with painful bright stars, cough stars; those are the only stars I have seen for long time. And one day they will shatter me.

    (She gasps for air and spits into a spitting mug. The coughing gradually dies down)

Oh, thank you. Do you really intend to take a break, sir? In which case I am extremely grateful to you. Your respectful servant thanks you, humbly kisses your claw of a hand ...

    (She looks down at herself)

Ye gods. And then there are distinguished and wealthy people who travel to Rome to study ruins. They could content themselves with studying me ...

    (She sits quietly picking threads out of the worn sleeves of her robe)

It will have to last. It will not be long now, the hour glass has been turned for the last time, the sand is running thinner and thinner.

    (She clutches at her abdomen again)

If you saw me now, what would you say? Nothing, because you are polite. You learned all that politeness down in Sorø, at the academy for young noblemen. But you would think, I know you, and you do think. That is why you stay away. You cannot bear to see me. You cannot stand me. You will not come tomorrow either, or ... I know ... When did I last hear from you? I wrote it down.

    (She searches amongst the papers on the table)
I wrote it down ... Where is it now ...

    (She pulls out a piece of paper)

Here ... It was in the middle of January. You did not come yourself. No.

The Lord Chamberlain lacks the time. Court duties take up so much of the Lord Chamberlain´s time. But the Lord Chamberlain wishes kindly to inform you that he will be driving across the square at four o´clock precisely. If Madam is free, it may please Madam ... " Yes, Madam was free, so that in the middle of January, I could delight my seeing his white hand with the lace cuff falling softly over his wrist as he waved to me. Yes, he waved, waved to his Dorothea. And she saw it and she delighted in this favour ...

    (she begins to weep, heaving and ungracefufly)

The middle of January. And now the lightis soft, andwe are well into spring. Le printemps, Der Frühling. La primavera. And he does not come. He detests me. He can smell the worms.

    (She is silent for a moment, and looks around the room).

Extract from Skriverjomfruen. En Jomfru Biehl monolog. (Folketeatret, Sæson 1993/94)

Translated by Vivien Andersen