Philip is sitting at his desk, working, later that day, A knock at the door. Celia walks in. Philip gets up quickly. They look at each other for a moment, distraught.
Philip Love.
Celia I just came back to tell you I wasn’t coming back.
Philip I’ve been trying to ’phone you all day.
Celia I’ve been out.
Philip Working?
Celia No, of course not, what do you think I am?
Philip I …
Celia I suppose you’ve been working.
Philip Yes.
Celia Typical.
Philip I thought it would take my mind off things.
Celia And did it?
Philip No.
Celia Even more typical.
Philip Why?
Celia Did you hear what I said?
Philip What?
Celia When I came in.
Celia If you say ‘I can explain everything’, I’ll punch your bloody teeth in.
Philip But I can.
Celia I suppose you were discussing morphology all night Or checking her vowel sounds.
Philip No.
Celia It’s so insulting, Philip. I mean you deliberately got rid of me.
Philip What do you mean?
Celia Well, I did ask you to let me stay.
Philip You didn’t.
Celia Of course I did. I couldn’t have made it much clearer if I’d started unbuttoning myself.
Philip But I thought you just wanted to help with the washing-up.
Celia You amaze me. You really do.
Philip Christ, I wish you had stayed.
Celia Why?
Philip I didn’t realize you wanted to stay the night. Oh, God, I wish you had.
Silence.
Celia You’re being cunning.
Philip I’m not.
Celia Don’t. It’s most unlike you.
Philip I’m not.
Philip What?
Celia Why did you ask her to stay?
Philip I didn’t. It’s just she offered to help with the washing-up.
Celia If you didn’t let me stay because you thought I wanted to do the washing-up, why did you let her stay when you thought she wanted to do the washing-up?
Philip She insisted.
Celia And more to the point, why did you let her stay when you realized she didn’t want to do the washing-up?
Philip She insisted.
Celia And you gave in.
Philip Yes.
Celia Well, why?
Philip Because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Celia What about my feelings?
Philip You weren’t there.
Celia If you go on saying things like that to me, do you really expect I’m going to marry you?
Philip I hope so.
Celia You’re so incredibly … bland. You just sit there like a pudding, wobbling gently.
Philip Do I?
Celia You’re about as emotional as a pin-cushion.
Philip I don’t think that’s true.
Philip No, I don’t think so.
Celia Only you would sit there pondering the pros and cons of a fairly conventional simile.
Philip It’s more of a hyperbole really, isn’t it?
Celia It’s more of a fucking insult, that’s what it really is, I think you’ll find. Seeking a response, not a bloody inquest.
Philip Oh, well …
Celia Inviting a retort, not a sodding debate.
Philip I …
Celia You’re talking about last night as if it were a conference on the future of the phoneme.
Philip Am I?
Celia You’re not even sorry!
Philip Of course I am. Of course I am.
By now, Celia is angry and upset.
Celia I’m going.
Philip No, don’t.
Celia I’ve said what I came to say.
Philip Don’t go before I tell you what happened.
Celia I know what happened, I don’t want to hear the squalid details. I don’t want to listen to your pathetic attempts at self-justification.
Philip I’m not trying to justify myself. I just want to explain to you exactly what happened. Then you can make your mind up.
Celia All right, go on, tell me. (Pause.) Try to make it as entertaining as possible.
Philip Well … well … she asked me to go to bed with her, just like that. It took me so much by surprise, I could think of no delicate way to refuse. So I accepted. The whole thing was a complete fiasco. No good at all. Then, this morning she suggested we try again, and I had to tell her it was no use, because I quite honestly didn’t find her attractive.
Celia Not many laughs in that.
Philip No. No, I suppose there weren’t.
Celia What happened next?
Philip She left.
Celia Immediately?
Philip Yes. She seemed very angry.
Celia Fancy that.
Philip I handled it badly.
Celia You might say so. Sounds to me like a triumph of emotional incompetence.
Philip Well, that’s how it happened.
Celia And I suppose you think that makes it all right, do you?
Philip What do you mean?
Celia I suppose you think because you were bullied into doing something you then failed to do anyway, it’s as if the whole thing didn’t happen.
Philip No.
Celia Did it never occur to you that I might prefer it if you brazened the whole thing out and said, yes, it was all planned, it was your final fling before we got married, or something like that?
Philip But it wasn’t.
Celia You’re so damn literal-minded. I mean you might have just said you’d done it and you were sorry and it wouldn’t happen again – instead of saying all right, not to worry, I was an abject failure, so that doesn’t count.
Philip I didn’t say that.
Celia No, you didn’t even say that.
Philip All I can do is tell you what happened and leave it up to you.
Celia Well, if you leave it up to me, I shall have to say I can’t possibly undertake to spend my life with someone so hopelessly weak and indecisive, he’s going to leave every major issue up to me.
Philip That’s not very fair.
Celia We’re not playing croquet, you know.
Philip No, but in this case I’ve made my half of the decision. I want to marry you. So it’s only up to you in the sense that you haven’t decided yet.
Celia Oh, you do make me so angry.
Philip Why?
Celia You never understand what I’m trying to say.
Philip Maybe not, but I think I usually understand what you do say.
Celia God, you’re completely impossible.
Philip (bewildered) I’m sorry. (Pause,) I suppose I am indecisive. (Pause.) My trouble is, I’m a man of no convictions. (Longish pause.) At least, I think I am.
What’s the joke?
Celia I am fond of you.
Philip (lost) Are you?
Silence.
Celia I’m afraid my plan didn’t work at all.
Philip Plan?
Celia I was going to use it as an excuse. I mean it seemed like a perfectly good excuse.
Philip Use what as an excuse? What for?
Celia For … finishing.
Philip I don’t understand.
Celia Well, I’ve been thinking, you see, really, for a long time, that we aren’t really compatible.
Philip Oh.
Celia I always used to think you were just the sort of person I’d been looking for. Someone fairly intelligent and reliable and kind and safe and a little bit dull. Somebody who admired me and thought what I said was worth listening to, not just worth tolerating.
Philip But you were wrong.
Celia Yes, I think perhaps I was wrong.
Philip I see.
Celia And after what happened last night, I thought I’d better come over to discuss things with you. And when I found Araminta here, I thought that gives me an excuse not to discuss things with you, I can just leave you, and make you think it’s your fault.
Philip (confused) How do you mean, what happened last night? You didn’t know about it, did you?
Celia I mean what happened to me.
Philip Oh. What did happen to you?
Celia Braham took me back to his hotel.
Philip Oh.
Celia And I stayed the night there.
Philip But … why?
Celia I don’t know, he went on at me. And I finally thought oh well, why not, I was still very angry about your not letting me stay. I don’t know why. I felt dreadful this morning. He kept saying that creative artists had a much more consuming sexual urge than ordinary people. He told me that’s why Bach had thirty children.
Philip And were you convinced by this argument?
Celia No.
Philip But you still …?
Celia Yes.
Philip Why? I don’t see why.
Celia Well, he’s so confident and self-assured, I don’t know why. I just suddenly felt like it, don’t go on about it.
Philip And is that what you want?
Celia I don’t know, I suppose so. Not him, I don’t mean him, he’s awful, but something like that.
Philip What makes you think he’s awful?
Celia Well, it was this morning, the way he behaved this morning, that really turned me off him. For one thing, he was so nasty about you.
Philip Was he?
Celia Yes, he really hates you. All the time yesterday evening, he thought you were taking the piss in a particularly subtle way.
Philip Really?
Celia And then when I’d argued with him a bit and told him that wasn’t in your nature, he finally agreed and said, yes, come to think of it, he supposed you were far too boring to do anything as enterprising as that.
Philip Well, he’s right there, isn’t he?
Celia What do you mean?
Philip Isn’t that what you think?
Celia Of course not, don’t be so rude.
Philip I’m sorry, I thought that’s what you just said.
Celia I think you get a perverse kick out of running yourself down.
Philip No, I don’t. I don’t think I do.
Celia Anyway, I defended you, even though I knew you wouldn’t have defended yourself.
Philip Why did he hate me, I don’t know, I didn’t hate him.
Celia Didn’t you?
Philip No, I thought he was quite amusing.
Celia And do you hate him now?
Philip No.
Celia Not even after everything I’ve told you?
Philip I don’t suppose he’s very happy.
Celia (angrily) And are you happy?
Philip No.
Celia Well then.
Philip Not at the moment.
Celia (offended) Oh, I see.
Philip I mean … I mean, I hope to be. I have been. I hope I will be. (He moves over to the window.) Look. The tide’s in. It’s a lovely day, look. (Pause.) It’s very rare to have a day as fine as this in November.
Celia Yes.
Philip (smiling) Just when one was getting used to the idea of winter. (Pause.) I’m glad you defended me. I don’t see what he has against me.
Celia That was only the beginning. He got far worse.
Philip In what way?
Celia It was when he read about R. J. Morris in the paper.
Philip What about him?
Celia Haven’t you looked at the paper today?
Philip No, I couldn’t, it was all full of stuff about the Prime Minister, I thought it would be too upsetting.
Celia Well, R. J. Morris was murdered yesterday as well.
Philip He wasn’t!
Celia Yes, apparently there’s some gang of lunatics about, whose intention is to knock off twenty-five of the most eminent English writers.
Philip What do they want to do that for?
Celia I don’t know. They’ve formed this organization called the Fellowship of Allied Terrorists Against Literature – F.A.T.A.L. It seems R. J. Morris was their first victim. But they’ve sent copies of this letter to twenty-four others saying they’re going to kill them off, one by one.
Philip How horrible!
Celia Yes. Anyway, Braham was transfixed by it.
Philip Was he?
Celia He wasn’t one of the twenty-five. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.
Philip Oh, I see.
Silence.
Celia He’s asked me to go back and see him again this evening.
Philip And will you?
Celia Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of it.
Philip Come back, then. (He smiles.) All is forgiven.
Celia (bristling) What do you mean?
Philip I don’t know. Joke, really.
Celia Oh.
Philip But, I mean, I mean it.
Celia I’ve thought about it a lot.
Philip I know …
Celia I’ve made up my mind.
Philip Why?
Celia I think we’d probably make each other very unhappy.
Philip Why?
Celia Because I don’t think you’d be able to control me.
Philip Does that matter?
Celia I didn’t think so at first. In fact, to begin with, I thought that was the great advantage. But I don’t any more.
Philip Perhaps you’re right.
Celia You see, that’s the thing, you’re so unassertive. Perhaps you’re right! Is that the best you can do?
Philip All right, I’m not going to let you leave me!
Celia It’s no good doing it now, is it, it’s supposed to be spontaneous.
Philip Well, I only said perhaps you’re right because I was trying to look at it from your point of view. I mean, it’s quite obvious what I see in you, isn’t it? It’s much more of a mystery what you see in me, and if you don’t see what you did see any more, then perhaps you are right. If you see what I mean.
Celia No.
Philip I’m not surprised you’re having second thoughts, if all these people keep making passes at you all the time.
Celia What are you talking about?
Philip Well, you know, Noakes and Johnson and all those people you were talking about last night.
Celia Oh, that.
Philip Yes.
Celia None of that was true.
Celia You know I’m always making things up.
Philip Why?
Celia Well, you’ve got to say something, haven’t you? Can’t just sit there like a statue all evening. Like Liz. And lies are usually that much more interesting than the truth, that’s all.
Philip Oh. (Pause, Philip considers this.) Well, if that’s the case, can’t we try to come to some arrangement? I mean, I could try – or pretend – to be firmer, and you could pretend not to mind my weakness so much.
Celia No. Of course not.
Philip Why not?
Celia What a monstrous suggestion.
Philip Why?
Celia Well, it’s … it’s so deceitful.
Philip laughs.
No, look, it’s different telling a few stories to liven up the party, from basing your whole life on a lie.
Philip You just said lies were more interesting than the truth.
Celia You’re being literal-minded again.
Silence.
Philip I don’t know. I’ve always been a failure with women.
Celia Oh, please.
Philip But it’s true. I remember, I remember the first girl I was ever in love with, Carol her name was, and I made the mistake, just as we were about to go to bed together for the first time, of telling her I was a virgin. Oh, well, then, she said, that was that, she wasn’t going to be a guinea-pig for anyone. It was that phrase that did it. She became so entranced and horrified by the idea represented by her own quite fortuitous image, that I gave up, there was obviously no hope. Guinea-pig, ‘I’m not going to be a guinea-pig’, she kept on saying. So there it was. A whole relationship doomed by a random word-association. This is the same thing. You think I’m being sentimental and self-pitying just because I say I’m a failure with women. But I’m not. I’m just telling the simple truth, which is that I’ve never managed to give a woman satisfaction. I hope to. I hoped to with you. Given a bit of time. But in itself it’s just a perfectly neutral fact. Like the fact I was a virgin when I was with Carol. (He breaks off for a moment.) She was very cruel. I adored her.
Celia You probably adored her because she was cruel.
Philip On the contrary, it was when she became really cruel that I stopped adoring her. Your interpretation is both perverse and banal.
Celia Oh, don’t be so pompous.
Philip Sorry.
Celia You know something, you apologize far too often. You really oughtn’t to, it’s not very attractive.
Philip Yes, I know, I’m sorry.
Celia laughs, briefly, and Philip smiles as he realizes what he has said.
Celia What made you want to get married?
Philip You.
Celia Yes, I know, but apart from that.
Philip What do you mean?
Celia Well, you’ve been a comfortable bachelor for so long, I think you must have made some kind of abstract decision to get married, I mean quite apart from wanting to marry me.
Philip I suppose that might be true.
Celia Well, why?
Philip Perhaps it was because I’m beginning to get lonely.
Celia Go on.
Philip I don’t know, I’ve been doing this job for about twelve or thirteen years now, and I’m beginning to realize that I’m not immortal. Another thing is, when I sit and remember the past, you know, involuntary memories, what I remember most is certain rooms, rooms I’ve lived and worked in, at different times, in different countries. I was thinking about some of them the other day, and I suddenly realized something that had never occurred to me before. They were all empty. I mean I remember them as if I’m sitting in them, furniture, ceiling angles, street noises, clock ticking, all very vivid. But never anyone else. It gave me rather a shock.
Celia Don’t you like being alone?
Philip No, you know how gregarious I am. Look, who’s the most boring person you know?
Celia I don’t know. If you wait a few minutes, I could probably give you quite an impressive list.
Philip Well, whoever it is, I’d quite willingly spend an hour a day with him for the rest of my life. Rather than being alone.
Celia Do you think you want to get married because you’re unhappy?
Philip I’m not unhappy. I mean, I am at the moment, but in general I’ve got no reason to be unhappy. In fact, I’ve got no right to be unhappy.
Celia That’s never stopped anyone.
Philip I know, I know that, but when you consider how pleasant my job is, how well-fed and privileged and comfortable I am and how easy it is for me to be tolerant and compassionate, it does seem perverse to be unhappy as well, doesn’t it? I mean, to be unhappy on top of all that does seem unreasonably self-indulgent, don’t you think? It’s not as if my life was a struggle. I sit in my study and read the latest journal, and occasionally I get up and change the record on my player, and sometimes I go abroad for a few weeks and wander round the galleries, and I play with words and make my anagrams and read the arts pages. And books, I must have read thousands of books, and seen hundreds of films and plays in my life. Not that many of them stay with me longer than an evening, but I’m grateful to all those people for whiling away my time. And that’s all. Oh, yes, and I teach, and lecture, and write rather boring and pedantic articles, and from time to time, I suffer. Not often, I wouldn’t like to exaggerate, but from time to time. A full life and an empty one.
He smiles. Celia assesses this for a moment.
Celia Sympathy, is it, you’re after?
Philip Well, yes, perhaps, yes, I suppose so. I don’t know. Perhaps not sympathy. Liking.
Celia At least you like everyone, that’s half the battle anyway.
Philip Yes, that’s half the battle. The wrong half, hut there we go.
Celia And you’re an optimist, that makes life pleasanter, doesn’t it?
Philip I don’t think I am. What makes you think that? You can like people without being an optimist. For instance, it’s easier to like people if it occurs to you that they’re going to die. It’s difficult not to like a man if you can envisage his flesh falling from his bones.
Celia Oh dear, oh dear.
Philip What?
Celia Let us grow amorous, you and I,
Knowing that both of us must die.
Philip Who said that?
Celia Somebody must have.
Silence, Then, from the playing fields outside, a long, mournful whistle.
Philip Full time.
Celia What?
Philip Nothing.
Celia Not being lyrical, are you?
Philip (shaking his head) I …
Celia Let us eschew lyricism. Don’t you think? I think lyricism should at all costs be eschewed.
Philip Stop it.
Celia Well, you started it. I never realized you had a morbid streak in you.
Philip Oh, yes, I suppose … (He pauses, before deciding to go on with what he is saying.) All my life, you know, I’ve been in a state of perpetual terror.
Celia Terror?
Philip I think that’s more accurate than the word I normally use for it, which is concern.
Celia What do you mean?
Philip I mean, I mean that the basic feature of my character is an anxiety to please people and to do what they want, which leads to, that is, which amounts to a passion, and which is, in fact, so advanced that I can only describe it as … terror.
Celia In other words, it’s not that you like people, it’s just that you’re afraid of them.
Philip No, there’s no contradiction in that, the one is a consequence of the other.
Celia I don’t believe that.
Silence.
Philip I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone before, it’s one of the most humiliating things that ever happened to me. When I was teaching in Hong Kong, I used to, walking from the lecture-hall to the car-park, I used to pass a hunchback, a, a cripple with an enormous head, who used to sit on the pavement and beg. After a time, I got into the habit of giving him a little money, every day, when I passed him. This went on for a bit, and then, to my great embarrassment, he started to clean my car. I tried to tell him not to bother one day when I found him at it, but he didn’t understand, so I just left it, it seemed to be what he wanted to do. So every day, I would come out of my lecture, walk past him, press a little money into his hand, shamefully little, now I come to think of it, get into my beautiful, shiny car and drive off.
I used to keep a cache of small change handy to pay him, but one day, for some reason, I found I had none left, in fact, as I was leaving the building I found I had nothing smaller than a ten-dollar note, which was obviously, I thought to myself, far too much to give him. So, on this particular day I walked hurriedly past on the other side of the street, hoping he wouldn’t see me, and crossed into the car-park as quickly as I could. But I’d just got into the car and put the key in the ignition, when I saw him hobbling towards the entrance of the car-park on his crutches at great speed, stopping occasionally to wave his duster at me. No, I thought, I can’t face this, so I started up, and put my foot down, and raced out of the car-park. Now, I don’t know about this, I mean, I’m sure I wasn’t anywhere near him, but for some reason he panicked, and tried to jump backwards – and I just had this appalling glimpse of his crutches going up in the air as he overbalanced and fell on to his back. Needless to say, I didn’t stop.
After that, whenever he saw me coming, he used to get up, move down the road a bit and go indoors. I hoped I’d be able to make it up with him, but I never got a chance, he never, he never let me get near him again.
No wonder they want our blood.
Celia Why are you telling me all this? I can’t ever remember you talking so much.
Philip I don’t want you to go.
Silence.
Celia My problem is, all the men I fall in love with turn out to be such terrible people.
Philip Oh. Do you think so?
Celia Not you, I don’t mean you. That’s what I’m trying to say. I was never really in love with you because you aren’t firm enough. I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone as weak as you.
Philip Do you prefer to be bullied then?
Celia I prefer to know where I stand.
Silence.
Philip Can’t we … isn’t there …?
Celia I don’t think so.
Philip Are you sure?
Celia Yes. Yes, now I’ve made up my mind, I honestly don’t know what it is I ever saw in you.
Philip Oh, well. Oh, well, then.
Celia No, don’t misunderstand me. I’ll always like you, I’ll always be fond of you. It’s just that we’re not compatible.
Philip So you already said. I still can’t see it myself, but I suppose I shall just have to take your word for it.
Celia Now I think it would be best if I went. (She gets up.)
Philip Don’t.
Celia Yes.
Philip Please.
Celia I think it would be best.
Philip Stay and talk to me. I feel a bit suicidal.
Celia Oh, don’t exaggerate.
Philip Well, you know. Stay and talk for a bit.
Celia Look, what have we got to talk about now? What could we possibly talk about?
Philip Anything.
Celia bursts into tears. Philip is amazed, he takes her in his arms and she sobs uncontrollably for a minute, then slowly recovers.
Celia Sorry.
Philip Are you all right, love?
Celia Yes. All right now.
Philip What’s the matter?
Celia What do you think?
Philip But I mean … I mean, it’s your decision.
Celia What difference does that make?
Philip All right, now, are you?
Celia Yes, thanks.
Philip Would you like a glass of water or anything?
Celia No, no. I really must go now. Good-bye.
Philip Good-bye. (He takes her face in his hands and kisses her on the eyes and on the mouth.) What now? Death, hell, destruction, madness, suicide, or will he come through smiling?
Celia Yes.
Philip When will I see you again?
Celia Not for a bit. Not until we’ve got over it.
Philip Soon.
Celia I expect so. (She moves quickly to the door.) Goodbye. (Celia exits.)
He stands for a moment in the centre of the stage, disconsolate. Then he sits at his desk, picks up a book, and reads. He breaks off for a moment and stares into the distance, then returns to his book. He makes a note.
Blackout.
The second movement of Albinoni’s Concerto in D minor for oboe and strings, Op. 9, No. 2.