After dinner. Philip, Don, Braham, Celia, Liz and Araminta are relaxing, talking, drinking coffee, brandy, etc., and smoking. Araminta, a rather large girl with a dramatically low-cut dress, sits on the floor, drinking crème de menthe. Liz, a quiet, reserved girl (she does not in fact speak during the course of the scene) is dressed more soberly and sits watching, smiling to herself from time to time.
Braham Tell me, what is the official line on Christ’s navel?
Araminta On what?
Braham Christ’s navel. When I went down to London on the train the other day, I fell into conversation with this priest, a very sprightly old gent, who told me that one of his proudest achievements was a polemic he’d written some years before against the view, which he said was widely held, that Christ had had no navel.
Celia Why shouldn’t he have had a navel?
Braham Oh, well, it’s all to do with the mysterious circumstances of his birth.
Celia Oh, I see.
Braham Anyway, he was a marvellous old boy. Marvellous. He said he lamented the passing of the closed compartment, no-corridor train and I asked him why and he told me that years and years ago, before he’d taken up the cloth and was sowing the occasional wild oat, he’d managed to strike up an acquaintance with a boy, seduce him and suck him off, all in the course of a journey between Bognor Regis and Littlehampton.
Don Really?
Braham Yes.
Araminta Wonderful.
Philip Er, shall we have the ten o’clock news?
Braham Why?
Philip Well, I was just wondering what’s happened about the Prime Minister and the government, you know …
Braham Oh, no, I think that would be unnecessarily depressing.
Philip I just thought …
Braham In the car on the way over I heard them say the Queen had sent for the Minister of Sport.
Araminta What for?
Celia Her trampoline needs restringing.
Araminta Who is the Minister of Sport, anyway?
Don Edith somebody, isn’t it?
Araminta Why’s she been sent for?
Braham Well, presumably she’s the senior uninjured Minister.
Araminta They’re not going to make her Prime Minister, are they?
Braham No, they can’t possibly. I don’t know, though, it might be rather diverting if they did. I must say, the great thing about all this is it shows we’re accepting our decadence with a certain stylishness.
Don What do you mean?
Braham Well, I think most people would agree that this has become a fairly sophisticated country. But I’ve always thought of sophistication as rather a feeble substitute for decadence. I mean I’m not saying everyone should go round assassinating people, but you must admit the way this man went about it did show a kind of rudimentary dramatic flair.
Don I’d say he was a lunatic.
Braham Oh, yes, very probably. But like a lot of lunatics he’s got one or two very shrewd ideas rattling around in his head.
Don Like what?
Braham Like accepting our decadence without trying to go on pretending we’re morally superior to the rest of the world. Like realizing that socialism is about as much use to this country as … a pogo-stick to a paraplegic.
Don That’s an extraordinarily repulsive image.
Braham What? Oh, yes, I suppose it is, really. Sorry, it just sprang to mind.
Araminta I thought it was very expressive.
Don Do you really think that? About socialism?
Braham My dear chap, what I think about socialism is neither here nor there. Listen, when I was younger, I was a passionate Lefty writing all kinds of turgid, earth-shaking stuff which was designed to set the world to rights and which no publisher would have touched with a pitchfork. But eventually I realized, and what a moment of five-star disillusionment that was, that it wasn’t going to work. Governments would not tumble at the scratch of my quill. I was just one little person in this enormous bloody world. God, in his infinite wisdom, had given me the ability to create essentially frivolous entertainments, which were enjoyed by enough essentially frivolous people for me to be able to amble comfortably through life. Naturally, it distresses me that people are wasting their energies killing each other all over the world, and of course I’m sorry thousands of Indians starve to death every year, but I mean that’s their problem, isn’t it, if they will go in for all this injudicious fucking. I actually used to think that in some obscure way it was my fault.
Don You’ve got over that now, have you?
Braham Well, I have, yes. Nowadays, if I get one of those things through my letter-box telling me I can feed an entire village for a week for the price of a prawn cocktail, I tear it up, throw it in my waste-paper basket, go out to my favourite restaurant and order a prawn cocktail.
Don And do you find that amusing?
Braham Oh, come now, the next thing you’re going to say is what if everybody was like me. Fortunately for the world and even more fortunately for me, not everybody is. Look, if I actually get a concrete chance to help people, then I do.
Araminta Yes, I saw that TV appeal you did a few weeks ago.
Don What was that for?
Braham Twenty-five guineas.
Don I meant, on behalf of whom.
Braham I know you did.
Don Well?
Braham (playing up) Oh, I don’t know, it was an appeal on behalf of spavined children. Or something equally sordid.
Don And did it raise much money?
Braham Enough to cover my fee.
Don I’m sorry … I must say I find that rather disgusting.
Braham That’s perfectly all right. Most people do. (Pause. He turns sharply to Philip.) Do you think I’m disgusting?
Philip Er … no, I don’t think so, no.
Braham (to Araminta) Do you?
Araminta Oh, no.
Braham (to Liz) You?
Liz shakes her head.
Braham (to Celia) What about you?
Celia (smiling) No.
Braham (turning back to Don) There you are, you see, that’s quite a good average. Obviously, my living depends on disgusting a certain percentage of people. If I didn’t disgust at least a substantial minority, I wouldn’t be controversial, and if I wasn’t controversial, I wouldn’t be rich.
Don That’s the way it works, is it?
Braham More or less.
Don And that’s the purpose of it all, to be rich?
Braham I don’t know whether it’s the purpose or not, but it’s the result. I used to feel terribly shifty about all the money I was making, but then I realized I belonged to that small class of people who make exactly what they deserve. I’m a product. If the public stop wanting me, I stop earning.
Celia But you’re all right for the time being.
Braham Oh, yes.
Araminta What’s the best thing about being a writer?
Braham Ah, well, the real bonus comes when one actually discovers one or two moral precepts lurking about at the back of one’s head. Then one can base a book on them and enjoy the illusion that one has bought one’s E-type with a couple of really valuable insights, golden truths, you might say. (He laughs heartily.)
Don Well, at least no one could accuse you of being self-righteous.
Braham No, but I think one would be forced to admit I was pretty complacent. What I mean is there’s no point in feeling guilty about these things, there’s only two alternatives, keep it or give it all away, and that’s a very interesting proposition, as the rich man said to Christ, but don’t call me, I’ll call you.
Celia And egotistical too, I suppose that’s necessary.
Braham Oh, absolutely. Self-obsession combined with the ability to hold opposite points of view with equal conviction. The marvellous thing is that if the internal logic is coherent, I know that even if I’m wrong, I’m right. Makes me what you might call an existentialist’s nightmare.
Don Or a hypocritical creep, some might have it.
Braham Yes. (He shakes with laughter.) Oh, God, I did upset some poor little journalist the other day. ‘How would you describe your job?’ she said, and I said, ‘Well, I suppose you might describe it as a kind of subsidized masturbation.’
Don Don’t you really think any better of it than that?
Braham Certainly not. I hope you’re not implying there’s anything wrong with masturbation.
Don Well, I, no, not exactly …
Braham I should hope not. Masturbation is the thinking man’s television. Don’t you agree?
Don I can’t say I really remember.
Braham You shock me.
He turns to Philip.
You’re not like that, are you?
Philip No. I mean, well, occasionally, sometimes, I do.
Braham I’m pleased to hear it. It’s extremely good for you, you know. Ah, many’s the time I’ve had to lay down the pen and slip off to the bog for a quick one. Always remembering the Dunkirk spirit. Never forgetting that Waterloo was won in the dormitories of Eton. Any more brandy, is there?
Philip pours Braham a brandy, then sees to the other guests.
Celia (to Don) Wasn’t that your pupil’s problem?
Don Who?
Celia The one who’s just been sent down.
Don Who, Boot? No, no, no, I don’t think it was sexual fantasy that finished him off, it was the failure of his political fantasies.
Braham Ah, well, there you are, you see, that’s what I mean.
Don Very sad case, was Boot. James Boot. His first year he was very quiet, very shy, and all his work was carefully done and scrupulously on time. Good, solid, second-class stuff. Then, the beginning of this term, he didn’t turn up when we were fixing the schedules, and one of the others told me he was in bed. So I sent him a note telling him when to come for the first tutorial and what to do. But when the time arrived I got a note from him saying he couldn’t come, he was in bed. I naturally assumed he was ill, so when I was next in college I thought I’d call in on him to see how he was. He’s got one of those nasty new modern little rooms, and I knocked on the door and went in. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, he was in bed, the curtains were drawn, the fire was on and the stench was incredible. We talked for a bit. He offered me a biscuit. Then, anxious to beat a hasty retreat, I said I hoped he would be better soon. Then he told me there was nothing wrong with him.
It seems he’d spent the long vacation studying various political and economic works which had plunged him into such a state of total despair, that he had decided to devise some kind of final solution. At the beginning of term he had laid in enormous supplies of soup, cornflakes, biscuits, coffee and sugar – and then gone to bed. Since then, he’d been in bed twenty-two hours a day, brooding, only getting up to fix himself a meal, and never leaving the room except for the odd trip to the lavatory. ‘But, Boot,’ I said, ‘but Boot, why this sudden interest in politics? It’s not even your faculty. Can’t you, don’t you think it would really be better, to turn your attention back to Wordsworth?’ Wordsworth, he said, with some passion, had nothing to do with anything, and his work, like all art, was a lot of self-indulgent shit which had no relevance to our problems and was no help at all to man or beast. I must say, the way he put it, it sounded quite convincing. I said to him: ‘Look, it’s not necessary to upset yourself like this. No one’s expecting you to come up with an answer to all the problems of Western democracy.’ ‘Yes, they are,’ he said, ‘I am.’ Further discussion seemed pointless. So I left him.
Celia And what happened?
Don Well, he stayed in bed for the next six weeks, sending polite notes whenever he was supposed to be turning up somewhere, and I did nothing about it, because, because I rather admired him. And finally he reached a decision. He arrived at a conclusion.
He got out of bed one afternoon, took all his books down from the shelves, and piled them up in the middle of the room. Then he added all his papers and notes, wrapped the whole bundle up in his gown and set fire to it. He also set fire to the curtains, and turned the gas on. Then he put his dressing-gown on and left the building. A couple of his friends saw him wandering about and asked him jovially what he was doing up at that time of day. He told them he’d just set fire to the college. They carried on their way with much merry laughter. A moment later his windows blew out.
Braham Was there much damage done?
Don His room was gutted. A little later they came to take him away. He’s been formally sent down, which I think was quite unnecessary. I understand that since he’s been admitted, he’s been quite unable to move.
Celia I think that’s very sad.
Braham I’d say he has a promising career ahead of him.
Araminta What as?
Braham A literary critic.
Don I should think that’s highly unlikely.
Braham I don’t know. He sounds ideal. Do you know, I was actually forced to write a letter to some wretch a few weeks ago. He said my novel was too clever by half. So I wrote and said judging by the prose style of your review, I am forced to conclude, sir, that on the contrary, you are too stupid by half. (He laughs.)
Don I really don’t see what that has to do with Boot.
Braham Now you come to mention it, I suppose there is no logical connection. I forgot we were subject to the austere disciplines of academic tradition. I hope you’re not going to give me fifty lines.
He makes a mock appeal to Celia.
Are they all like this?
Celia No, Don is in a class of his own. He’s the only one of my tutors who hasn’t made a pass at me.
Braham Really?
Celia Yes. I don’t count Philip, of course. Anyway, he doesn’t teach me.
Philip You’re not going to tell me Professor Burrows made a pass at you?
Celia Ah, no, well I’ve made an interesting discovery about Professor Burrows. Professor Burrows is actually dead.
Philip What do you mean?
Celia Well, I happened to see him with his wife just before one of those lectures he’s been giving for decades, and she had her hand up inside his gown. Strange, I thought, and it was only later that it dawned on me what she was doing: she was winding him up. After that everything became clear – his voice, his colouring, the fact that he never takes any notice of what anyone says in seminars. He’s been dead for years. They’ve installed a tape-recorder between his ears, and Mrs B. stacks him away in the ’fridge every night. That’s it. It explains everything, the syllabus, everything. He’s a contemporary of Beowulf.
Don Who does that leave?
Philip Johnson.
Don Oh, inevitably.
Celia (to Braham) Johnson is the Young Lion. He’s a six-before-breakfast man. He lectures on Keats with such vigour and verve that the sticky young girls in the front row believe he is Keats. He’s your typical Establishment misfit.
Don And was he stylish about it?
Celia Stylish? It was one of the clumsiest gropes I’ve undergone for a long time. At the beginning of the tutorial, he poured me a drink and came and sat next to me on the sofa, and I thought this is it, fasten your seat belts. But he was just terribly nervous, he sat there looking strained and burbling on about the Romantics for three-quarters of an hour, and then suddenly he grabbed my further shoulder and wrenched me round so abruptly I emptied my sherry all over his camel-hair trousers. That threw him for a second. But he obviously had the sentence all worked out and he told me he thought I was very beautiful, and would I have dinner with him. I said I thought he’d better go and change his trousers before the next tutorial or his pupils would think he’d been at the Swinburne again.
Braham How did he handle that?
Celia Badly. Poor man, he was desperately embarrassed. He’s never stopped apologizing ever since. I quite like him now. Rather him than Noakes any day.
Don Noakes? (He is amused at the thought.)
Celia (to Braham) Noakes, I must tell you, is not one of the world’s ten best. In fact, he looks as if he’s escaped off the side of Notre Dame. His face is enormous. And he sweats profusely, which makes him a very … shiny man. Ice-hockey matches could be played on his forehead. He’s also kind of Neanderthal, I mean his knuckles scrape along the pavement as he walks. I must say, though, his grope was a great deal more thorough than Johnson’s. Fortunately, his palms are so slimy, he wasn’t able to get a proper purchase, as they say. But it was very nasty. He is, in every sense, oleaginous.
Araminta I think he’s rather sweet.
Celia Chacun à son goût.
Araminta What do you mean?
Celia (feigning innocence) Nothing.
Braham He certainly sounds extraordinarily repulsive.
Araminta I think she’s exaggerating.
Braham No, no, he sounds very familiar to me. (to Philip) What do you think about all this?
Philip What?
Braham All your colleagues leching after your fiancée.
Philip Oh, well, I think it’s quite understandable. I don’t really mind.
Braham Don’t you? I’m sure I would.
Philip I don’t know, you know …
Braham How come you don’t teach her? Is there some fifteenth-century statute against seeing your betrothed in school hours?
Philip No, the thing is, I teach philology, which is sort of optional, and old texts and things like that, which she doesn’t do because she’s a graduate.
Braham Philology?
Philip Yes.
Braham My God, I thought that went out years ago.
Philip No.
Braham I seem to remember it as the only subject which cunningly combined the boredom of the science faculties with the uselessness of the arts faculties.
Philip Well …
Braham The worst of both cultures.
Philip Most people seem to think that way. But I … find it interesting.
Braham Why? How?
Philip Words. Words as objects. The development of words. Abuse of words. Words illustrating civilization. I mean, I can’t go into it now, but all this new work that’s being done in structural linguistics, I find absolutely fascinating.
Braham Structural linguistics, what’s that, a yet more complicated method of over-simplification?
Philip You might say so.
Braham You say you can’t go into it now. Does that mean you don’t think I could grasp it?
Philip I’m sure you could grasp it, I just don’t think it would interest you very much.
Braham Yes, you may be right.
Philip But it does make me notice things. For instance, you’re supposed to be, I mean you are, a successful writer, you make your living out of stringing words together. So it’s very interesting for me to try to see how your language is formed.
Braham And how is it formed?
Philip Well, I noticed just now you said something was extraordinarily repulsive, and I thought that was very revealing because it was a phrase Don used a few minutes ago.
Braham What are you getting at?
Philip Well, it shows your ability for picking out and retaining striking phrases, subconsciously of course, but …
Braham Actually, as a matter of fact …
Philip (enthusiastically) See, that’s another thing, the word ‘actually’, you use it a great deal.
Braham Why shouldn’t I?
Philip No reason why you shouldn’t, you just do.
Braham I think you’re being subtly insulting.
Braham Yes, you are, go on, why don’t you admit it?
Philip I’m not.
Braham I think there’s nothing cruder than an excess of subtlety.
Philip No, look, I’m only making an observation. Like what you just said. That’s something else. Your use of paradox. You’ve got it down to a fine art, it’s a reflex action. You’ve digested that it’s an extremely simple and extremely effective technique.
Braham You are being insulting!
Silence. Braham is angry, Philip somewhat upset. The others are becoming embarrassed.
Philip No.
Silence.
Celia He’s not. He’s just obsessed with the way people talk, that’s all. Sometimes I think he’s more interested in that than in what they actually say.
Braham What they what?
Celia Actually say.
Braham (triumphantly, to Philip) See, I’m not the only one.
Philip No, I know. Celia uses it quite often as well.
Braham (to Celia) You’re obviously my kind of person.
Don Actually … (He stops dead.) Er, no, I mean, shit, yes, why not, actually … God, fuckit, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say now. (Pause.) Oh, yes, I was going to say Philip is quite remarkable with words. He can give you an anagram of any word or phrase, if there is one, in about two minutes, working it out in his head.
Braham Really?
Don Yes.
Celia Try him.
Philip No, I don’t think …
Braham Ah, no, you’re not going to get away with it as easy as that. I want an example of this. Give me an anagram of … give me an anagram of ‘La Comédie Française’.
Silence. Philip concentrates.
Philip In French?
Braham (magnanimously) No, no, English will do. (Pause. He returns his attention to the others.) I always go there when I’m in Paris. God knows why. All that French classical theatre. Terrible camp old rubbish.
Araminta It’s so stylized, isn’t it?
Braham (ignoring her) Mind you, the French never go there. Wouldn’t go near it. It’s full of Americans and Germans. Last time I went, I had this enormous American lady sitting next to me, and just as the lights went down, mark you, and they were banging that thing on the stage, she leant across and said, ‘Excuse me, I haven’t had time to read my programme, would you mind telling me what the play is about, because I just can’t understand a word they’re saying.’ So I said, ‘Well, madam, it’s about a man who hates humanity so much that he would undoubtedly refuse to explain the plot of a world-famous play to an ignorant tourist.’
Araminta You didn’t really?
Braham She thanked me. Profusely.
Braham (coldly) Three guesses. (He broods for a moment.) Anyway, I hate the Frogs.
Philip A defence o’ racialism.
Braham What?
Philip A defence o’ racialism. It doesn’t quite work. There’s an f missing. But it’s the best I can do.
Braham (sourly) Wonderful.
Philip Thank you.
Braham Now perhaps you’ll oblige us with a fart.
Don It’s exceptionally difficult to do, that. You should try it sometime.
Braham What?
Don That anagram game.
Braham Oh, no, if we must play games, for God’s sake let them be simple.
Don Shall we play a game?
Araminta Oo, yes, let’s. What about murder?
Celia (maliciously) Postman’s knock.
Braham I think it’s a bit late for all that. I’m for a quick hand of Emptying the Brandy Bottle, and then I must be on my way.
Philip (vaguely) I’ve got some carpet bowls somewhere.
Braham (handing Philip his glass) Some other time, perhaps.
Silence. Philip pours brandy for Braham, Celia and Don, crème de menthe for Araminta. Liz covers her glass with her hand.
Araminta Are you writing a new novel?
Braham Yes, I am. It’s nearly finished.
Araminta What’s it about?
Braham It’s about a social worker, who, after years of unremitting toil, finally sees the light, and renounces everything to become a merchant banker. I’m going to give it a really unfashionable happy ending. It’s going to finish with his marriage to a sensitive film star.
Araminta Sounds intriguing.
Braham If it does as well as the last one, I’m going to have to leave the country.
Araminta Why?
Braham Tax. The tax system is absolutely iniquitous. What do they do with it all, I don’t know. You’d think they’d make some sort of reasonable allowance. After all, I am a dollar-earner.
Araminta But the system’s always been weighted against artists, hasn’t it?
Braham Yes, all that’s in the book. Although it’s mainly, as I say, about this self-sacrificing character who gives up the comforts of moral superiority for the harsh realities of high finance. Should bring foam to the lips of the progressives. It’ll be one up the noses of all the self-appointed salt of the earth who preach the revolution in the happy and comfortable knowledge that it’ll never come.
Don There are some people who believe in it, you know.
Braham (acidly) There are some people who believe in God.
Don I don’t really see what that has to do with it.
Braham No, well, never mind, perhaps you’re right. (He empties his glass.) In any case, I must be getting along. It’s been a delightful evening. (He looks over to Celia.) Can I give anyone a lift? Only one of you, I’m afraid, because it’s only a two-seater.
Araminta Yes, please.
Braham Er, right, OK, where do you live?
Araminta Just round the corner, actually.
Braham Oh, well, that’s all right, if it’s very nearby, you can squeeze in the back, and I can take someone else. (To Celia) Where do you live?
Celia Bradley Road.
Braham Is that far?
Celia About half an hour’s walk.
Braham OK, fine.
Celia I think perhaps I should stay and clear up a bit.
Philip No, that’s all right, love, I’ll do it.
Celia (meaningfully) But I’d like to stay.
Philip No, it’ll be quite all right, you’ve done enough work for this evening.
Don Come to think of it, Araminta, it’d probably be easier if you come with me. I shall be driving Liz back.
Philip I’m sorry I haven’t got my car. I lent it to a friend this evening.
Braham Right, good, that’s all settled then. (He gets up, turns to Celia.) Shall we be off?
Celia (to Philip) Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
Philip Quite sure.
Celia Right then.
Braham and Celia move over to the door.
Braham Thanks again. Lovely to meet you. And may all your troubles be lexicological ones.
Philip I’ll show you out.
Braham Good night.
Araminta Good night.
Don (charming) Good-bye.
Philip shows them out amid general salutations.
Don Miserable bugger. (Pause. He gets up.) Are we all ready, then?
Liz gets up, Araminta remains seated.
Araminta Perhaps … it’s a terrible mess. Perhaps I’ll stay and give him a hand.
Don It’s a kind thought. I don’t suppose he’d let you.
Araminta I don’t know, I might be able to persuade him.
Philip re-enters.
Philip You going as well?
Don Yes, I think we’d better.
Araminta I’m going to stay and help you clear up.
Philip Oh, no, that’s all right.
Araminta Then you can walk me home. How’s that for a bargain?
Philip Well …
Araminta Fresh air will do you good.
Philip Well, all right, that’s very kind.
Don and Liz are by the door. Philip goes over and shows them out. Sounds of leave-taking from the hall. Araminta starts piling plates in a fairly desultory way. Philip returns.
Philip It’s very good of you, this.
Araminta Nonsense. You just sit down.
Philip sinks down on to the sofa, sighing.
Philip Just stick them in the kitchen. My man will do them tomorrow.
Araminta Tired?
Philip Exhausted.
Araminta It was a great success.
Philip smiles wanly. Silence. Araminta pauses in her work.
Araminta What time does he come in?
Philip Who?
Araminta Your man.
Philip (uneasily) About eleven, usually.
Silence. Araminta leaves the table and moves round behind the sofa to look out of the window. Philip seems anxious. After some hesitation, he steals a glance at her.
Philip Not raining, is it?
Philip Oh, good.
Araminta wanders across until she is directly behind Philip. Then, she leans forward and begins to massage his temples gently. This has the effect of making him seem even less relaxed. After a time, she moves round and sits on his knee.
Araminta Hello.
Philip Erm, hello.
She kisses him.
Araminta Is that nice?
Philip Very. Could you, could you just move down a bit?
She does so, and Philip’s look of intense pain changes to one of acute anxiety.
Araminta Better?
Philip Yes.
She kisses him again.
Araminta Shall we go to bed?
Brief silence.
Philip I’ll … just go and get my coat.
Araminta stares at him for a moment in blank incomprehension, then realizes what he means. She stands up.
Araminta I meant together.
Philip Oh, I wasn’t quite sure.
Panic overcomes him. He looks at his watch, stares fixedly at it for a moment.
Philip Well …
Araminta Don’t be too enthusiastic.
Philip It’s just … it’s just …
Araminta What?
Philip (clutching at a straw) I haven’t any, haven’t got any …
Araminta Not necessary.
Philip Oh.
Araminta If you don’t want to, just say so …
Philip No, no, I do, I do.
Araminta … and I’ll go home …
Philip No.
Araminta … it’s not a matter of life or death to me, you know.
Philip stands up.
Philip I know, I’m sorry, it just took me a bit by surprise, that’s all.
He kisses her.
Araminta Didn’t look like a very pleasant surprise.
Philip Please. (He kisses her again.) It’s just that I’m shy, that’s all.
Araminta I know. I love shy men.
Philip All right now?
Araminta Yes.
Araminta Is that the bedroom, through there?
Philip Yes.
She moves across to it, turns at the door.
Araminta Don’t be long.
Philip smiles weakly at her, as she exits, then sinks down on to the sofa again. A moment later he gets up, moves over to the table, takes a cigarette from the cigarette box, and puts it in his mouth, where it hangs limply for a moment. Then he returns it to the box, and sighs deeply.
Philip God help us all.
He exits wearily and reluctantly into the bedroom, leaving the stage empty.
Curtain.
Aria: ‘O wie ängstlich’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Entführung aus dem Serail’, followed, during the interval, by the aria: ‘Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön’ from ‘Die Zauberflöte’, and the aria: ‘Wenn der Freude Tränen fliessen’ from ‘Die Entführung’.