Scene: The study of Wilde’s House in Chelsea. The room is seen in the light of early morning. Dust-sheets cover most of the furniture.
EUSTACE is arranging flowers in a vase on the desk, and DIJON is watching him. They wear overcoats, as the room is cold.
EUSTACE: [Standing back from the flowers] There! I think that makes the room a little less somber. We want it to look as gay as possible.
DIJON: These dust-sheets aren’t very gay. Hadn’t we better remove them?
EUSTACE: Yes, we had better. They look too ghostly. [As they talk they remove the dust-sheets, folding them with the proficiency of chambermaids.]
DIJON: Is Oscar coming by himself?
EUSTACE: No. Frank Harris has gone to the prison to meet him. They should be here quite soon.
DIJON: Harris has behaved very well. He went several times to Reading to see Oscar.
EUSTACE: I can’t help feeling that Harris did it more out of journalism than friendship. No doubt he’ll publish the whole story some day.
DIJON: Perhaps. [after a pause] Where do you think Oscar will go? To France?
EUSTACE: If he does, he’ll find simply heaps of his friends there. On the day after he was sentenced the continental express was packed with people who thought it advisable to leave England for a while.
DIJON: How do you know?
EUSTACE: My dear, I was on it myself.
DIJON: In France we were very shocked when Oscar was sent to prison. The newspapers said, “This is how the English behave to their poets.”
EUSTACE: The American papers said, “This is how the English poets behave.”
DIJON: I feel that this reunion is going to be rather awkward.
EUSTACE: That will depend upon Oscar. He used always to manage any situation with marvelous tact.
DIJON: In the old days, yes. But it won’t be too easy for him—taking up the threads again. By the way, where is Bosie?
EUSTACE: He’s abroad. Somewhere in Italy, I think.
DIJON: I thought he would have been the first to welcome his friend home.
EUSTACE: That is because you don’t know what has been going on since Oscar went away The disciples—as his so-called friends style themselves—have decided to keep him and Bosie apart. They say Bosie is a bad influence on Oscar. Really, of course, they’re desperately jealous of the friendship. And now they think their master’s body should belong entirely to them.
DIJON : You talk as if Oscar were dead.
EUSTACE: It’s a wonder he isn’t, after what he’s been through. [The front-door is heard closing] What’s that?
DIJON: It must be Oscar. [After a moment WILDE comes in with the dignity of a king returning from exile. He is smoking, and wears a flower in his buttonhole.]
EUSTACE and DIJON: Oscar!
WILDE: Louis! Eustace! [To EUSTACE] How marvelous of you to know exactly the right tie to wear at eight o’clock in the morning to meet a friend who has been—away.
DIJON: It’s wonderful to see you again, Oscar; and looking so well, too.
WILDE: Thank you, dear boy. It is charming of you both to be here to welcome me at such an early hour. You can’t possibly have got up.You must have sat up.
DIJON: [Laughing] Oscar!
WILDE: But you must not call me Oscar. I have chosen a new name for my new life. A beautiful name—because it is going to be a beautiful new life. Sebastian Melmoth.
EUSTACE: Oh, it’s a divine name, Oscar! I mean—Sebastian. [FRANK HARRIS comes in.]
HARRIS: I shan’t be more than a few minutes, Oscar. The place is quite near and the cab’s waiting. I shall deliver your note myself, and bring back an answer.
WILDE: Thank you, Frank. I shall be perfectly happy here with my friends until you return. I do hope there will be no difficulty about my admission.
HARRIS: You must not worry. [He goes out.]
WILDE: [Walking up and down, as he does throughout the scene] For a while, to collect my thoughts, I am going into a Catholic retreat. At least, I have written to ask them if they will receive me at once. I should like to remain there for quite six months.
DIJON: [Surprised] You are going to shut yourself away again—of your own free will?
EUSTACE: That doesn’t sound like you, Oscar. You were always so fond of life.
WILDE : You forget—prison has completely changed me. I am Sebastian Melmoth now. My life is like a work of art. An artist never begins the same work twice, or else it shows that he has not succeeded. My life before prison was as successful as possible. Now all that is finished and done with.
DIJON: But you are going to write again?
EUSTACE: You must write a new play. In Paris!
WILDE: I don’t want to show myself until I have written a new play. So I must hide while I am writing it. The public is so dreadful that it knows a man only by the last thing he has done. If I were to go to Paris now, people would see in me only the convict. [After a pause] Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man. Now they crush him.
DIJON: You must not think about prison any more.
EUSTACE: Forget it, Sebastian.
WILDE: Even if I could forget what was done to me there, I could never forget the others. During the first six months I was dreadfully unhappy—so utterly miserable that I wanted to kill myself. But what prevented me from doing so was looking at the others, and seeing that they were as unhappy as I was, and feeling sorry for them. It’s a wonderful thing—pity. I never knew.
EUSTACE: You were allowed to read while you were...away?
WILDE: Yes, I have been reading. The governor was a charming man, and most considerate to me, You cannot imagine how much good it did me in prison that “Salome” was being played in Paris just then. In prison it had been entirely forgotten that I was a literary person; but when they saw that my play was a success in Paris, they said to one another, “Well, but this is strange; he has talent, then.” And from that moment they let me have all the books I wanted. At first I couldn’t think what to ask for. And suddenly I thought of Dante. His “Inferno.” I could read that. You see—I was in hell too.
DIJON: Poor Oscar.
EUSTACE: It must have been dreadful for you.
WILDE: It was—dreadful [in his story-telling voice] One day a warder came into my cell. “Take off your boots,” he said. Of course I began to obey him, then I asked: “What is it? Why must I take off my boots?” He would not answer me. As soon as he had my boots, he said: “Come out of your cell.” “Why?” I asked again. I was frightened. What had I done? I could not guess; but then I was often punished for nothing. As soon as we were in the corridor he ordered me to stand with my face to the wall, and went away. There I stood in my stocking feet waiting. The cold chilled me through; I began standing first on one foot and then on the other, racking my brains as to what they were going to do to me, wondering why I was being punished like this, and how long it would last. After what seemed an eternity, I heard him coming back. I did not dare to move or even look. He came up to me; stopped by me for a moment; my heart stopped; he threw down a pair of boots beside me, and said: “Go to your cell and put those on,” and I went into my cell shaking. That’s the way they give you a new pair of boots in prison. That’s the way they are kind to you.
DIJON: Everybody will be kind to you now, Oscar. In future you will be always amongst friends. You need never feel lonely again. [WILDE makes no response] Where is Bosie?
WILDE: He is in Italy, I think. [Regretfully] It seems we are not allowed to see each other. His mother threatens to cut off his allowance if he tries to see me, and my friends say they cannot help me if I go to him.
EUSTACE: Why should you be kept apart? I’m sure Bosie wants to see you as much as you want to see him.
WILDE: I am sure, too. It is jealousy on the part of certain people—that is all. But we shall come together again, I know. Bosie would never desert me.
DIJON: [Encouragingly] You will see him directly you come out of your retreat.
WILDE: I hope so. [Purposely changing the subject] Do you know one of the punishments that happen to people who have been “away”? They are not allowed to read “The Daily Chronicle”! Coming along I begged to be allowed to read it in the train. “No!” Then I suggested I might be allowed to read it upside down. This they consented to allow, and I read all the way “The Daily Chronicle” upside down, and never enjoyed it so much. [They laugh, Enter FRANK HARRIS. It is impossible to tell from his manner if the news he brings is good or bad,]
WILDE: [Seeing HARRIS] Oh, Frank, you are soon back. What did they say?
HARRIS: They said nothing to me, Oscar; but gave me this note for you. [Holds it out.]
WILDE: [Is about to take it, but changes his mind] No, you open it, and tell me what is in it, Frank. [HARRIS opens and reads the note to himself] Well, Frank, what do they say? Are we to start at once?
HARRIS: [Avoiding a direct answer] It seems, Oscar, that these matters take some time to decide. They would need—some months—in which to think it over.
WILDE: [Takes the letter and crumples it in his hand] They won’t receive me. Even they won’t receive me. [He sinks into a chair] I thought my punishment was ended. It has just begun ... [He buries his face in his hands and sobs.]
CURTAIN
An orchestra is playing inside the café. One or two tables are placed on either side of the café entrance, which is in the center. A WAITEIZ is cleaning one of the tables when FRANK HARRIS comes out of the café and looks up and down the street.
WAITER: Is monsieur looking for somebody?
HARRIS: I had expected to meet a gentleman here. But he is either late, or has forgotten the appointment.
WAITER: An English gentleman, monsieur?
HARRIS: Yes. Man by the name of Melmoth, know him at all?
WAITER: [Shaking his head] I have not heard the name. [Pause] At first, when you said English gentleman, I thought you meant Monsieur Oscar Wilde. Excuse my mistake. He often meets his friends here.
HARRIS: [Embarrassed] Really? Then you know him?
WAITER: I know him very well. [Smiling] Too well! Perhaps that is why he does not come here this evening.
HARRIS: I don’t follow. Speak plainly, man.
WAITER: Monsieur Wilde drinks much. But he has not much money Because of what he owes me, he stays away. When he can pay, he will come back.
HARRIS: [Shocked] Mr. Wilde owes you money?
WAITER: But yes. For myself, I do not mind. Mr. Wilde is a nice gentleman. But I have a wife, and three little ...
HARRIS: [Taking out his purse] How much is the debt?
WAITER: [After calculation] Twenty francs.
HARRIS: [Holding out the money] The debt is paid!
WAITER: Many thanks, monsieur.
HARRIS: [Brushing the thanks aside] How is Mr. Wilde these days? I have not seen him for some months.
WAITER: He is always the same. He talks. And he drinks. He is a nice gentleman. But some people—the English tourists—do not like to see him here. When he sits down, they get up and go.
HARRIS: Indeed! And what does Mr. Wilde do then?
WAITER: He does not mind. So long as he can pay for something to drink, he is quite happy I think.
HARRIS: Yes, yes. Bring me a bock.
WAITER: Certainly, monsieur. [Exit. HARRIS has just sat down, when LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS enters from the right. As he is about to sit at another table he notices HARRIS and goes over to him.]
LORD ALFRED: That’s curious, Harris, meeting you here!
HARRIS: [Distantly] May I ask, Lord Alfred Douglas, why my presence here should seem curious to you?
LORD ALFRED: Because I came here to look for somebody you know. [Pause] I came to look for Oscar.
HARRIS: Indeed!
LORD ALFRED: Is that very surprising?
HARRIS: [Dramatically] When Oscar came out of prison there were familiar faces to greet him. The faces of his friends. I do not remember yours amongst them, Lord Alfred.
LORD ALFRED: How could I have been there? You know quite well why it was impossible for me to be present.
HARRIS: I have been told several stories by friends of Oscar’s.
LORD ALFRED: Friends of Oscar’s. I’ve no doubt you’ve been told a lot of lies. I can hear the shrill little voices—denouncing me as the man who left a friend in his hour of need. But Oscar won’t tell you that. It is for his sake that we are not living under the same roof now. The allowance made him by his wife carries with it the condition that we shall not do that. But we meet each other constantly. You wouldn’t know of our meetings. What business is it of yours, or anybody else?
HARRIS: Strictly speaking, I suppose it is not my business. But, unfortunately, circumstances have made your friendship with Oscar a piece of public property. It will remain that now, I’m afraid.
LORD ALFRED: You’re right there. A friendship is something between two people which belongs only to them. It cannot be understood by others. Nor have others the right to try and understand it. People won’t leave Oscar and me alone. When he came out of prison he stayed with me at my villa in Naples and we could have remained there perfectly happy, if his family and mine hadn’t separated us. But of course they had to interfere. Lately, though, I’ve come into some money and I’m able to help Oscar. I have always been his friend and I shall remain his friend so long as he needs me.
HARRIS: [Changing his attitude] Well spoken, young man. Oscar has need of friends to stand by him. He knows he can count on me.
LORD ALFRED: Are you meeting Oscar here?
HARRIS: Yes, by appointment. We have some business to discuss. [Looking at his watch] He’s very late.
LORD ALFRED: I won’t interrupt you then.
HARRIS: But isn’t your business with Oscar important?
LORD ALFRED: Not important. Oscar still loves talking, to me, and I still love listening to him. He talks as wonderfully as ever. And tonight I have a surprise for him—a present.
HARRIS: Tell me, in confidence, how badly is Oscar in need of money?
LORD ALFRED: So long as I’m alive he’ll be provided for. I have made up my mind on that. But Oscar was always extravagant, and after what he has suffered it is a pleasure for me to give him what luxuries I can. A horse of mine has won a race this afternoon. That is why there is a special present for Oscar. I will leave you now, and return later.
HARRIS: Shall I tell him you’ve been here?
LORD ALFRED: Please say nothing. But if your business with him won’t take too long, I’ll look in again later.
HARRIS: I shan’t keep him long. It’s just a little matter of business that... [Seeing OSCAR in the distance] Why, that is Oscar, getting out of the cab. He’s grown much stouter. [LORD ALFRED glances in the direction indicated, then goes quickly out. The WAITER brings HARRIS’ drink.]
WAITER: Your bock, monsieur. [Enter WILDE.] .
HARRIS: Ah, here you are at last, Melmoth.
WILDE: My dear Frank!
HARRIS: What will you drink?
WAITER: Absinthe, monsieur? [WILDE nods and the WAITER goes into the cafe.]
HARRIS: I have settled your little account with the waiter, Melmoth.
WILDE: That is very kind of you, Frank. But please do not call me Melmoth. Oscar Wilde is not a name of which to be ashamed.
HARRIS: I thought you preferred to be known as Melmoth now.
WILDE: I only use that name to spare the blushes of the postman. To my friends, and to posterity, I am always Oscar Wilde. Tell me, Frank, how do you think I am looking?
HARRIS: Oh, very well, Oscar; very well, indeed.
WILDE: Honestly, Frank?
HARRIS: No. To be honest, I think you looked far better when you came out of prison.
WILDE: [Reproachfully] You always say what you think.
HARRIS: [Pompously] I hope I do. To say what we think is the nearest we mortals can attain to truth.
WILDE: Truth can be dangerous and so cruel. We should never tell people the truth. It is kinder to tell them the little lies which they would like to believe. That is the highest form of charity.
HARRIS: I have a great deal to discuss with you, Oscar. And I haven’t much time.
WILDE: I am sorry I am so late, Frank. But what could you expect? In your letter you told me you wanted to see me on business. Now if you had said pleasure ... [The WAITER brings WILDE’s drink.]
WAITER: Absinthe, monsieur. [He pours the absinthe out and puts the perforated spoon on the glass. WILDE removes the spoon and pours water into the glass.]
WILDE: But, even then, I fear I should have been late today. You see, today is Thursday.
HARRIS: What has that got to do with it?
WILDE: Thursday is the one day of the week for which I live. You don’t know, Frank, what a great romantic passion is.
HARRIS: Is that what you are suffering from?
WILDE: The suffering hasn’t begun yet. That comes ... afterwards. Such an ugly word—afterwards. Do you remember once in the summer you wired me from Calais to meet you at Maire’s restaurant and I was very late?
HARRIS: You’re always late, Oscar.
WILDE: I drove up to the restaurant, in time, and I was just getting out of the cab when a little soldier passed, and our eyes met. He had great dark eyes and an exquisite olive-dark face—a Florentine bronze, Frank, by a great master. I got out hypnotized and followed him down the boulevard as in a dream. I overtook him and asked him to come and have a drink; and he said to me in his quaint French way: “Ce n’est pas de refus!” [He beckons to the WAITER, who brings the absinthe bottle and refills WILDE’S glass.]
We went into a café, and we began to talk. I was in a hurry to meet you, but I had to make friends with him first. He began by telling me all about his mother, Frank— [Smiling] —yes, his mother. But at last I got from him that he was always free on Thursdays. And I found out that the thing he desired most in the world was a bicycle; he talked of nickel-plated handle-bars—and finally I told him it might be arranged. He was very grateful, and so we made a rendezvous for the next Thursday, and I came on at once to dine with you.
HARRIS: Good heavens! A soldier, a nickel-plated bicycle, and a great romantic passion!
WILDE: If I had said a brooch, or a necklace, or some trinket which would have cost ten times as much, you would have found it quite natural.
HARRIS: Yes; but I don’t think I’d have introduced the necklace the first evening, if there had been any romance in the affair. And as for a nickel-plated bicycle. [He laughs.]
WILDE: Only the handle-bars were nickel-plated. He comes to see me on it! Rides to and fro from the barracks. You have no idea how intelligent he is. I lend him books, and his mind is opening like a flower. Once, when you were in Paris, you asked me to a dinner-party one Thursday night—you always seem to choose Thursday, Frank.
HARRIS: [Laughingly] I’ll remember to make it another day next time!
WILDE: Don’t laugh at me; I am quite serious. I told him I had to go and dine with you. He didn’t mind. He was glad when I said that I had an English editor for a friend, glad that I should have someone to talk to about London and the people I used to know. If it had been a woman, she would have been jealous of my past. He asked me if he might come and leave his bicycle outside and look through the window of the restaurant, just to see us at dinner. He would be so happy to see me in dress-clothes talking to gentlemen and ladies. He came, but I never saw him. The next time we met he told me all about it; how he had picked you out from my description; he was delightful about it all. Such unselfish devotion ... [Harris looks at WILDE for a moment with tolerant amusement.]
HARRIS: Oscar, have you been writing anything lately?
WILDE: Oh, Frank, I cannot. You know my rooms; how can I write in such miserable poverty? [He beckons to the WAITER, who again replenishes his glass.]
HARRIS: You could easily gain thousands, and live like a prince again. Why not make the effort?
WILDE: If I had pleasant, sunny rooms, I’d try... It’s harder than you think.
HARRIS: Nonsense, it’s easy for you. Your punishment has made your name known in every country in the world. A book of yours would sell like wildfire; a play would draw in any capital.
WILDE: When I take up my pen all the past comes back. I cannot bear the thoughts... did you know that when I was arrested the police let the reporters come to the cell and stare at me? As if I had been a monster on show.
HARRIS: I think it would be finer, instead of taking the punishment lying down, to trample it under your feet, and make it a rung of the ladder. That is what you were going to do when you came out of prison.
WILDE: That talk about reformation, Frank, was all nonsense. No one ever really reforms or changes. I am what I always was.
HARRIS: The only thing that will ever make you write is absolute, blank poverty. That’s the sharpest spur of all—necessity.
WILDE: You don’t know me. I would kill myself.
HARRIS: Suicide is the natural end of the world-weary. You love life as much as you ever did.
WILDE: Yes, that’s true. Life delights me, still. The people passing on the boulevards, the play of the sunshine in the trees; the noise, the quick movement of the cabs, the costumes of the cochers and sergents-de-ville; workers and beggars, pimps and prostitutes—all please me to the soul, charm me—and if you would only let me talk instead of bothering me to write, I should be quite happy. Why should I write any more? I have done enough for fame.
HARRIS: You ought to work, Oscar. After all, why should anyone help you, if you will not help yourself?
WILDE: I was born to sing the joy and pride of life, the pleasure of living, the delight in everything beautiful in this most beautiful world, and they took me and tortured me till I learned pity and sorrow. Now I cannot sing the joy, because I know the suffering, and I was never made to sing of suffering.
HARRIS: We must get down to business.
WILDE: Ah ... business ...
HARRIS: It is not going to be pleasant.
WILDE: Business never is.
HARRIS: I wrote and told you that I had sold the play “Mr. and Mrs. Daventry” to Mrs. Patrick Campbell.
WILDE: Really, Frank, I never thought you would take my scenario; you had no right to touch it!
HARRIS: But, Oscar, you refused to write the play yourself, or to collaborate with me, and you accepted my £50 for the story.
WILDE: No man could write a play on another’s scenario! C’est ridicule.
HARRIS: I told you that if I made anything out of the play, I would send you some more money.
WILDE: It is sure to be a failure. Plays cannot be written by amateurs. It’s quite absurd of you, Frank, who hardly ever go to the theater, to think you can write a successful play straight off. [Complete change of tone] You ought to get a good sum down in advance of royalties from Mrs. Patrick Campbell, and at once send me half of it.
HARRIS: You have already had £50, Oscar. And immediately the play was announced Mrs. Brown Potter wrote to tell me that she paid you £100 for this scenario some years ago. Is it true?
WILDE: I am a dramatist and you are not. How can you meddle with my scenario! C’est ridicule!
HARRIS: And now it appears that Horace Sedger, Beerbohm Tree, George Alexander, Ada Rehan and Olga Nethersole have all bought the same scenario! What does it mean, Oscar?
WILDE: It means that you have deprived me of a steady income.
HARRIS: What?
WILDE: I was just about to start selling that play to the French managers, and when I had exhausted them, I should have tried the German managers. Now your interference has ruined everything! Therefore, you owe me more than you will ever get from the play, which in any case is bound to fall flat!
HARRIS: Oscar, I don’t know what to say! We have been friends...
WILDE: [Almost in tears] I thought you were my friend. When you gave me that paltry £50 I thought you were taking the scenario as a—as a formality. So that it shouldn’t seem like charity. In order not to hurt my feelings.
HARRIS: I don’t think I need ever have any fear of hurting your feelings. You are obviously not in a condition to discuss the matter any further at present. [He turns to go.]
WILDE: Frank!
HARRIS: What is it?
WILDE: The waiter... the drinks... [HARRIS gives the WAITER a coin and goes. With a sigh of relief, WILDE opens his newspaper. The WAITER is sprinkling the sawdust with water. LORD ALFRED appears and watches WILDE, who does not see him.]
WILDE: [After looking at the WAITER for a few moments] What beautiful flowers you are watering. Tulips, lilies, and roses ... [The WAITER looks mystified] Don’t you see them?
WAITER: Yes, monsieur; they are beautiful flowers. [WILDE pushes his empty glass across the table to the WAITER, who refills it.]
WILDE: Beautiful flowers! [LORD ALFRED remains in the background looking at WILDE.]
WILDE: [Holding the glass] Absinthe ... it helps you to see things as you wish they were. Then you see them as they are not. Finally, you see them as they really are. And that is the most horrible thing in the world. [the WAITER goes into the café. LORD ALFRED comes up to WILDE’s, table. Seeing him] Things as you wish they were.
LORD ALFRED: Oscar. [Lord ALFRED sits at the table.]
WILDE: Sh! This is a dream. I am telling one of my stories, and all the stars have come out to listen.
When Jesus returned to Nazareth, Nazareth was so changed that He no longer recognized His own city.
The Nazareth where He had lived was full of lamentations and tears; this city was filled with outbursts of laughter and song...
In the street He saw a woman whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls, and behind her came slowly, as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colors. The face of the woman was the face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust. And Jesus followed swiftly, and touched the hand of the young man, and said to him: “Why do you look at this woman in such-wise?” And the young man turned round, and recognized Him, and said: “But I was blind once and you gave me my sight. At what else should I look?”
And Jesus ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman, and said to her: “Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?” And the woman turned round and recognized Him, and laughed, and said: “But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.”
When Jesus had passed out of the city, He saw, seated by the roadside, a young man who was weeping. He went towards him, touched the long locks of his hair, and said to him: “Why are you weeping?” The young man looked up, recognized Him, and made answer: “But I was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?” [He makes an attempt to get up, finds that he is too unsteady, and sinks back into his chair. He speaks without looking at LORD ALFRED.]
I perceive that I am drunk! I find that alcohol, taken persistently, and in sufficiently large quantities, produces all the effects of intoxication! [After a pause] I have had my hand on the moon. What is the use of trying to rise a little way from the ground! [WILDE is apparently no longer conscious of LORD ALFRED’s presence. LORD ALFRED goes to the door of the café and beckons to the WAITER, who comes out.]
LORD ALFRED: [Gives the WAITER a roll of notes] When I have gone, I want you to give this to Mr. Wilde. It’s some money I won on a horse for him this afternoon.
WAITER: [Glances at the notes, very respectfully] Certainly, monsieur. [LORD ALFRED goes. The WAITER looks after him, and at the notes in his hand. WILDE beckons to the WAITER]
WILDE: Will you ask the orchestra to play something gay?
WAITER: Something gay? Yes, monsieur. [He goes into the café, The orchestra plays “See Me Dance the Polka,” the tune Which was played at the end of the scene when WILDE dined with CHARLIE PARKER. As he hears it, WILDE bursts into a horrible laugh, which ceases abruptly as the WAITER returns.]
WAITER: The gentleman who was here asked me to give monsieur this—your winnings from the race. [Gives him the notes.]
WILDE: [Looks at the notes; then he turns to the chair in Which LORD ALFRED has been sitting and speaks as though he is still there] Thank you, Bosie. Thank you.
CURTAIN